Machine

She struggled to open her eyes, her blurred vision catching a faint glimmer of light on the ceiling, as if a hatch had been pushed aside.

Moments later, a dark silhouette leaped down with fluid, silent grace.

Yun Xian tried to make out who it was, but everything before her seemed veiled in thick fog. She could only discern a vague outline—a lean man, appearing to hold something in his hand.

"I thought we’d make it to the top floor, but we ended up here instead. This is practically crawling through a dog hole!" a raspy voice came from above.

"Stop whining and get down here," the first figure urged in a low voice.

Immediately after, another person dropped from the ceiling, their landing significantly heavier.

"Is that her?" the newcomer seemed to notice Yun Xian lying on the ground. She felt someone crouch down and touch her neck.

"Still alive."

"Leave her. It’s a waste of time."

"Take her. Saving a life is a great merit."

"Since when did you become a philanthropist?"

Before the argument could escalate, Yun Xian felt a stream of cold liquid slide down her throat. She swallowed instinctively, but as the faint chill took hold, her consciousness plunged into total darkness.

An eccentric old man in a Taoist robe hoisted Yun Xian up roughly, glancing at the man standing nearby. "The girl is light as a piece of firewood; what could she possibly delay? You may be clever, but your heart is truly cold."

The man in black-rimmed glasses and a plaid shirt did not reply. He adjusted his glasses and cast a cold look at the iron door ahead. "Let’s focus on the task."

He pulled a small explosive device from his pocket and quickly secured it to the lock. As he adjusted the detonator, he whispered, "Get back. Preparing to blow the door."

Hearing this, the old man hurried to a corner, setting Yun Xian down against the wall.

"BOOM!"

The explosion echoed through the narrow corridor. As smoke billowed and the iron door collapsed, the old man fanned the air and coughed. The guards appeared through the dust. Before they could react, the man in the plaid shirt raised his modified gun and fired twice, striking both guards squarely in the chest.

The guards’ bodies fell with a heavy thud. The man walked over to the corpses and crouched to inspect their gear.

"Strange..." he murmured, grabbing a guard by the shoulder. With a forceful tug, he tore away the damaged protective suit.

What was revealed was not a human face, but a cold, metallic shell. Beneath the suit, the guard’s "skull" contained orderly circuits and faint, flickering electrical currents. The red light in its eyes pulsed a few times before fading into darkness.

The old man’s eyes widened, and he gasped, "What... what is this thing?"

The man in the plaid shirt frowned deeper, pulling open the guard’s chest where the bullet had torn through. Inside lay a complex mechanical structure—hardly the anatomy of a human being.

"They’re machines. It seems the technology here is far more advanced than we imagined," the man said, standing up with a somber tone.

"Are you kidding me? We’ve been guarded and oppressed by these things, and we didn't even know they weren't human?" The old man kicked the fallen guard in anger. "Who is controlling them? The people upstairs?"

"We’ll only know that when we reach the top," the man replied coldly, his gaze as still as water.

The explosion had drawn the attention of nearby residents. They peeked cautiously out of their rooms, their eyes filled with fear and confusion as a crowd began to gather in the hall.

When they saw the downed "guards," some gasped, and the crowd began to stir.

The man picked up one of the guards' weapons from the floor and fired a shot into the ceiling.

The restless crowd fell silent at the sound of the gunshot, all eyes turning toward him.

He pointed his gun at the robot’s corpse. "Look closely. It has always been these machines guarding you, keeping you imprisoned here."

Whispers rippled through the crowd.

The man continued, "And who is behind them, controlling it all? Without a doubt, it’s those who hold the most resources. Where are those people?"

"That’s right—on the top floor. They have clean food, water, medicine, and fresh air. And you? You live on the bottom level, surviving alongside rotting corpses, all while being enslaved by machines they’ve set upon you!"

"But..." someone in the crowd spoke up timidly, "what can we do? Every floor is sealed off. We can’t even get out of this one."

"As long as we stand together, there is nothing we cannot break." The man raised his head, looking directly at the crowd. "The guards' equipment, the resources here, even the most insignificant items in your rooms—everything can be used to fight them!"

He picked up a jagged piece of metal from the floor and held it up. "You think these are trash? They are weapons."

"What can this junk do?" someone asked skeptically.

"It can cut through the iron mesh blocking the corridors and build weapons for our resistance! Once we cut the mesh, we can go upstairs. With weapons, we have a chance to survive." His gaze was sharp. "I need your help. Strip this floor of everything useful—light tubes, cables, scrap metal, even discarded furniture. As long as I have the materials, I can build something useful."

A deathly silence fell over the crowd.

Suddenly, a boy who looked to be in his teens spoke up: "You’re right. We’re going to die here sooner or later anyway."

He pulled a length of wire from his pocket. "Is this useful?" His voice held a trace of fear, but his eyes burned with stubborn defiance.

The man nodded and took the wire. "The more material, the better."

Hearing this, a few people in the crowd began to search for usable items, though many others retreated into their rooms and locked their doors.

The man adjusted his glasses, his gaze falling on the locked iron door beside the exit. He walked over, pulled a copper strand from the wire he had just received, and poked it into the keyhole.

With a "click," the door popped open.

The old man followed him inside. "What’s in this room? Why all the secrecy?"

The man pushed the door open, and the scene inside left both of them stunned. A dozen guards were arranged neatly in the room, standing motionless with dull eyes, as if in a state of "sleep."

On the wall was a complex control panel, with a countdown displayed on the screen.

"Are these things... in standby?" the old man asked, squinting at the guards.

The man stepped forward, scanning the robots' faces, his brow furrowed. "Not standby—scheduled wake-ups." He pointed to the countdown on the panel. "These things wake up at fixed intervals to take turns executing commands, all to minimize energy consumption."

The old man paused, then sneered. "Whoever designed this is quite the talent. Really knows how to save on electricity."

"That’s only one aspect. The other is their utter contempt for the people," the man said, his expression grim. "Whoever it is, they are highly skilled at psychological manipulation. They don't need to waste many resources on the populace; the people will enforce the rules themselves. That’s why only two guards are awake most of the time—and why the explosion didn't alert the rest."

The old man gritted his teeth. "What do we do now? Take them all out?"

The man shook his head. "Waste of time." He raised his gun and pulled the trigger. A single shot struck the screen, shattering it into pieces. "Destroying the main console is enough."

He turned to leave, then paused. "Their contempt for us is our greatest advantage."

His gaze drifted upward, landing on the countdown timer above:

108:36:45

"Time is running out. We must find the truth as soon as possible." With that, he tugged at his sleeve, subtly covering the faint, spreading mold spots visible on his wrist.