The caverns sprawled in chaos—shattered stone, shifting sand, and poisonous pools collecting in the hollows. Unnamed fungi cast a sickly green glow, the kind that would make first-time visitors recoil in horror.

  Sand rats rarely ventured here. Most of the fungi were lethally toxic. Worse, predators lurked in the shadows: diamond-shaped scorpions that fed on the poison itself.

  Scorpions ruled these depths. A single adult could slaughter a hundred rats. Fortunately, they hunted alone—except during mating season. If they ever swarmed, Wreck Village would starve.

  Rex pulled on his respirator. Invisible spores drifted through the air; a millennium of natural selection had granted villagers partial immunity, but caution was still wise.

  He checked his map against his compass, muttering to himself. "Men die for wealth, birds for food. The Chief will stop at nothing for that special mycelium. Just wait. Give me a few more years, and I’ll challenge him directly. Where to now? The tuning lasts half a month—Lightbrain uses stellar calendars, so that’s fifteen and a half local days."

  His finger traced the map, and a grin spread across his face. "There. The spot where I found the special mycelium. It was too dangerous before, but my new equipment changes everything."

  He stowed the map, picked his way through the field of broken stone, avoided the shifting sand flows, and pressed onward.

  This was endurance. Sixteen hours later, he reached the cliff face. Luminescence was sparse here, giving way to absolute darkness.

  Few noticed the east-west fissure beneath the cliff—poison mist pooled at its base, obscuring everything below.

  He pulled on the oversized sand-rat hide boots. The path ahead was treacherous: marshes and sinkholes that could swallow a man whole. Even having walked it once before, his stomach tightened with unease.

  These were his father’s boots—durable, worn, patched repeatedly but never discarded. Every time he wore them, a warmth spread through his chest, as if his parents were walking beside him. No setback felt insurmountable with them on his feet.

  No one knew how many ravines these boots had crossed. They were more than footwear—they were a reminder.

  He descended the slope carefully, choosing detours over risks. Cavern marshes meant certain death: sink in, and you’d never emerge. Young as he was, Rex read the terrain like an expert; a single glance was enough to spot the safest routes. This place was remote enough, he thought. The Chief should be helpless to find him here.

  "Should"—because this era had powerful trackers: wide-range laser scanning, molecular scent analysis, miraculous tools for hunting. Whether the Chief possessed such technology was unknown, but caution prevailed. He’d added twenty kilometers to his route, passing through scorpion nests—knowledge bought with blood over years. Trespass there, and fate would be swift and cruel.

  His steps faltered. Exhaustion hit him like a wave. He reached his previous campsite and collapsed onto a flat stone, gasping for breath.

  Travelers know this well: fatigue on the road turns to paralysis at rest—lethargy, oxygen deprivation, a heavy weariness that clings to the bones. Scent molecules dissipate quickly, so despite the pain, Rex had kept moving rather than stopping sooner.

  It took fifteen minutes to pitch his tent and perform a quick decontamination. Inside, he stripped off his sweat-soaked clothes and wiped himself down with a damp cloth.

  He stared at the dark fabric, astonished. "This stench—it’s like crawling out of a cesspit. These clothes are done for. Typical cursed luck."

  In truth, he’d been lucky. The reek came from toxins purged from his body. Wreck Villagers already had strong poison resistance; now, it was enhanced. Chronic ailments he’d lived with for years were gone—he felt reborn in flesh.

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  Haste had cut short the Lightbrain’s briefing, but Rex had caught the key point: extreme exertion during the tuning period could further elevate his constitution. Nobles? They sipped tea in climate-controlled gardens and walked pets through fitness centers. They never hauled heavy loads through hellish caverns.

  Unknowingly, Rex’s physical capacity was surging. The Lightbrain, isolated for a millennium, knew nothing of the present. A thousand years ago, gene-tuning had been the highest honor at academies—granted a maximum of three times in a lifetime. But times had changed. Governments and conglomerates had monetized the technology: pay in Blue Gold, and receive an enhancement.

  Ten thousand credits equaled one Blue Gold coin; ten thousand coins equaled one Blue Gold card. Black markets inflated prices to astronomical heights. Compared to that, his trade with Brax was trivial. His persistence in studying had yielded returns that would shape the rest of his life.

  A sudden hunger struck—unprecedented in its intensity. He remembered the Lightbrain’s final warning: adequate exercise and nutrition for fifteen days.

  He devoured his preserved rations and fruit, most of which had been crushed while crossing the rat colony. It didn’t matter; he ate everything, seeds and all.

  Earth Ring offered nothing easily. Anything that filled the stomach was a treasure.

  Colonial propaganda had painted the planet as a paradise. The reality was government land seizures—immigration transports dumped the poor here, then departed without a second thought. For centuries, many had tried to escape. Some succeeded. More died in sandstorms, their bones bleaching in the sun.

  Rex didn’t dwell on any of this. Sleep was paramount. He rigged traps and alarms outside the tent, then crawled inside.

  He lay back, smiling faintly. "Heaven and earth, sleep is the greatest luxury. Night has fallen above. I’m truly worn out."

  While Rex snored without a care, two men waited anxiously: Elder Brax of the Green Ark caravan, and the Chief of Wreck Village.

  Brax’s eyes were bloodshot as he waited for the mycelium collection, quietly dispatching men to settle the black-haired boy’s debts. In Wreck Village, the Chief was emperor—Brax dared not reveal their private trade. Discovery would mean losing next year’s quota to rival caravans. Beyond his dreams of immigration, he couldn’t abandon his people to starvation.

  Five hours earlier, the Chief’s men had searched the wreck’s depths and found no sign of Rex—only heavy casualties. The Chief’s face had darkened to iron. His son had purchased tracking equipment from the caravan at inflated prices, his intent obvious: to search the caverns.

  Brax, ever self-interested, had wished the Chief to fail. He’d tampered with the trackers, introducing a hundred-meter margin of error—enough to give Rex warning. The boy’s wits should be enough to evade them.

  Morning light filtered into the tent, and Rex stirred. "Ah, magnificent. I’ve never slept so well in my life."

  Stretching, he sat up—and his stomach growled loudly, inconveniently.

  "Strange. I just ate before sleeping. Two meals a day used to seem extravagant. No matter—it’s the tuning period. No one’s been here; there must be edible fungi around."

  He ate freely, his metabolism accelerated by the gene-tuning. Donning his respirator, he stepped outside to relieve himself, whooping with satisfaction half an hour later.

  "Gene-tuning really works. Even my scars are fading. No more taboos with shit and piss—next year, poison mushrooms will bloom here, mark my words."

  Back in the tent, he prepared his equipment for the mist zone. The special mycelium lay half a kilometer from camp; beyond the boulder to the left, a relatively clean hot spring offered a place to rest and plant the medical specimen. Survival was uncertain, but perhaps the nutrient solution would help it take root.

  He was ready. Lantern set to maximum brightness, he stepped into the fog.

  The mist was dense. Proximity to subterranean volcanoes must have raised the temperature—the ground was firm, no treacherous mud to sink into.

  Soon, bizarre silhouettes emerged: honey-fungi, millennia-old growths that spanned dozens of kilometers. Each fungus was a forest unto itself.

  Spores from ancient honey-fungi were reportedly delicious, though Rex had never tasted them. They only fruited once every few decades—hardly worth imagining.

  He fired the tractor beam, anchoring it to a honey-fungus cap, then vaulted upward. Leaping from cap to cap, he moved ten times faster than his previous, bramble-strewn route.

  Special mycelium grew symbiotically with honey-fungi: the fungus allocated territory, and the mycelium’s intoxicating fragrance repelled the poison mist. They were partners, intertwined.

  Deeper in the fungal forest, more mycelium surely waited—but scorpion droppings nearby sent a shiver of terror down his spine.

  He circled the area, found nothing new, and headed for the water.

  Clean water was rare on Earth Ring; hot springs were rarer still. Rex climbed a boulder in anticipation—then froze, astonished.

  He recovered quickly, doused the lantern, and retreated silently. The spring was occupied.

  He’d never seen such massive scorpions. Fortunately, their subterranean existence had weakened their vision—otherwise, the lantern’s light would have meant annihilation.

  Two of them, entwined, enjoying conjugal bliss. Mating, plain and simple.

  Rex dared another glance, his expression shifting to confusion. These two were different—profoundly so.