Children were the weak ones in this equation, yet some among them erupted with unique combat prowess, dealing devastating blows to their opponents.

  Some families in the oasis practiced close-quarters combat arts. Their children had wrestled since they could walk—nothing like the hothouse flowers from the wealthy planets. But that only made the fighting fiercer. Once you went down, boots found your head and ribs. You'd rise bloodied, only to face a storm of fists. Lost teeth were trivial; brain hemorrhages and death hung over every exchange.

  Rex wasn't spared. Three, four youths spotted his corner position and closed in. The first lashed out with a vicious kick, eyes gleaming with murder.

  Thud.

  A body flew backward, crashing through the cluster behind him. How Rex had done it? No one had seen.

  Those who witnessed it retreated instinctively. Such speed and power meant suicide to challenge.

  Rex fished a mycelial strand from his pocket and chewed. The stuff sharpened the mind, limbered the limbs—good enough for a warm-up. If anyone else felt stupid enough to test him, he'd let his fists do the talking.

  Brutality ruled. No method was too low. Many of the youths became killers, and while Turquoise Ring had always been contentious, this bloodletting shocked even the hardened survivors. Three hours of hell. Fifty-three bodies cooling in their own blood, faces frozen in agony.

  Beyond the dead, the injured massed—staring through swollen eyes, too exhausted to continue, gasping as they hoarded strength for the next explosion of violence.

  The warehouse filled with ragged breathing. Rex held advantageous ground, and his fists weren't decorative. He remained unscathed, conserving energy while others bled.

  Keeping a low profile had become impossible. Only by crushing opponents decisively—demonstrating overwhelming capability—could he inspire fear.

  The forty-eight-hour deadline haunted them like a curse. A brutal equation: live or die, solved within two days.

  Blood congealed on the floor. Despair spread like contagion. Some teetered on breaking—eyes bulging, choosing suicide or murder-suicide against whoever stood nearest. The varieties of madness were endless.

  Skirmishes followed, culling the weak and grievously wounded. The corpse pile grew; space opened. Some burly youths grabbed bodies as weapons, indistinguishable from primitives.

  Rex watched it all with cold detachment, helplessness gnawing at his gut.

  Twenty-four hours stretched eternal yet vanished too quickly. The pirates delivered food on schedule—new fuel for the fire. They tore into each other like animals, trampling, mauling, enacting fresh horrors.

  Lemon Oasis had fewer than seventy remaining. Pure Water fared better, barely eighty. Both factions systematically eliminated weak individuals and isolated groups, maximizing collective strength.

  Surviving the crushing pressure of the two oases required genuine skill. Rex had consumed two honey-spore caps during the chaos to maintain his reserves. They don't touch me, I don't touch them—his operating principle. He only wanted this nightmare to end.

  With seven hours remaining, the warehouse crystallized into three camps: Pure Water, Lemon Oasis, and Rex.

  No alternative existed. His intact stamina and demonstrated lethality had drawn forty-odd parasites clinging to his shadow.

  One hundred seventy-one survivors remained. Seventy-one excess.

  "Boss, please! Lead us! Pure Water and Lemon are running rampant, especially that Blue-Eyes bastard—protecting women and kids with no fight in them. The hell? Barely human."

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  The speaker stood medium height, missing a chunk of ear, half his face inked with gaudy peacock patterns. Probably from distant Peacock Oasis.

  Rex dismissed the complaint. Protecting your own demonstrated capability; surrendering the weak to slaughter indicated brain damage. He considered, then spoke: "Maintain defensive positions. The two oases will clash—time's running short. Hold on. Victory's within reach."

  The forty-odd "followers" surrounded him like a threat wearing friendly masks. He fed them promises, strategic hope. Could mere endurance guarantee survival? Absurd. Proper defense meant one-in-two odds; poor defense, one-in-five or worse. Since conserving energy remained possible, Rex embraced their "wisdom."

  "Peacock-Face, organize them. Triad formations. Young or wounded, cluster near me. Use the terrain to minimize contact. Both oases secured food supplies, but their expenditure matches their gains. Look around—their stamina and focus must be near collapse. That's our opening."

  "Right, boss is right! We have hope..."

  The forty-odd reignited, cohesion forged by Rex's manufactured optimism. They pressed together, bolstering courage through proximity.

  The red-haired youth from Pure Water glanced over, finishing his bread. He dusted his hands. "Seems Blue-Eyes and I overlooked someone interesting. Lemon Oasis first? Or the black-haired mystery? Decisions, decisions."

  Stalemate. Then Pure Water detached ten scouts. Peacock-Face repelled them with several others.

  Rex analyzed clearly: Peacock-Face's technique was mediocre, but his theatrical timing created illusions of competence. He relied entirely on his clansmen's actual combat ability.

  Soon both oases advanced simultaneously, intention obvious—big fish devouring small. Death meant nothing but bad luck.

  The grinding engagement consumed them. Most had hit physical limits. Rex's people rotated, the exhausted becoming human shields for their replacements.

  As "leader," he needed visible contribution or become universal target.

  Confined space negated his speed advantage, but Rex possessed strength. He booted two opponents aside, slipped past incoming strikes, targeting joints specifically. Years of village bullying had driven him to the local AI for solutions—three military combat forms.

  Truthfully, Rex's forms were sloppy. His current skill came from brawling and sand-rat hunting. Superior technique meant nothing against advanced weaponry, but with equivalent arms, close-quarters proficiency provided decisive edges.

  The redhead hammered toward him. Rex refused engagement, sidestepping to expose Peacock-Face to the front. Whatever waited beyond these walls—pirate comments suggested further trials—demanded preserved reserves.

  Sudden screaming from his flank: "No, don't—!"

  Sand scattered easily. Some cracked under pressure, turning on neighbors during chaos. Too many unstable elements, zero trust—how could backs be given to so-called allies?

  Rex trusted none of them. Peacock-Face withdrew his clansmen to the wings, and the formation shattered under assault.

  "You idiots better learn fast, or die faster. Contract formation. Disengage."

  Forty-odd became fewer than twenty, clearing space. Lemon and Pure Water surged forward, collision unavoidable. Time expiring—now or never. No hesitation. Final reserves unleashed against each other.

  Rex felt his circle shrink: seventeen, fifteen, eleven. At six, a ragged scream cut through: "Stop! Stop! One hundred! One hundred slots! Finally—finally done!"

  Everyone froze. Then collapse—weeping, catatonia, some lying down never to rise again.

  The count: ninety-one survivors. Blood-blind combatants couldn't track numbers. Hardly surprising.

  The stench of copper and bile. Many vomited. Rex fought his own nausea, face pale, forcing composure.

  Time blurred. The warehouse doors exploded inward, sunlight piercing through. They helped each other out into twilight.

  An oasis—his first glimpse of true expanse. A hundred vessels hung overhead, the largest half a kilometer long. From surrounding structures, countless exhausted figures emerged. The warehouse slaughter echoed everywhere.

  "You pigs. Cosmic parasites. Stop gawking and move to Central Plaza. Food waits there. Thank our chieftain—some of you vermin might actually touch the stars."

  Rex moved silently. Pirates cradled laser rifles, some weapons unidentifiable. Any suspicious movement meant execution.

  Five, six minutes to the fountain plaza. Food mountains. Earlier arrivals already eating.

  City scale revealed the name.

  Yes. Green Ark. Turquoise Ring's largest oasis—now saturated with blood. Could it ever recover its former glory?

  His warehouse companions scattered seeking their own. Rex stood alone again, pocketing cheese, locating a waterskin and drinking deep.

  Desert travel had prevented proper hydration. Though his sleeve concealed reserves, drinking before witnesses in the warehouse meant death. His throat ached from deprivation—the water arrived perfectly.

  "Listen. Two and a half hours until boarding. First stop: SK937, Western Rift Valley. Ten days survival there. Only the worthy remain. Resisters die immediately. Behave."

  Wind roared. "Iron cans" descended with thunder—the vessels Rex would board. Escape pods, barely functional scrap.