Free Web NovelThe manic laughter was like a sudden thunderstorm—it came fast and went just as quickly.
As the last echoes dissipated in the empty, cold hangar, a deathly silence descended once more.
Pavel lay flat on the cold floor, her chest heaving violently. Every breath felt like pulling on an old, broken bellows, accompanied by a turbid wheezing in her throat.
That strange box now lay quietly by her side. The heart-stopping red light and flowing iridescent halos had completely vanished, reverting into a dull, lifeless stone.
It was as if what had just happened was merely a hallucination before she died. freewёbnoνel.com
"Ha... cough, cough..."
Pavel struggled to turn over, attempting to push herself up, but as soon as she exerted force with her arms, a dizzying wave of weakness swept over her.
It wasn't just pain.
It was a feeling of being hollowed out.
That short "contact" just now had not only torn through her mental defenses but also seemed to have drained the last of her remaining stamina.
She felt like a lemon that had been squeezed dry—shriveled, sour, and worthless.
With trembling hands, she groped toward the medical kit that had been kicked over earlier.
Her fingertips touched the cold metal bottom.
Empty.
That single Punishment Camp-issued medical agent had been her last supply.
Earlier, to suppress the excruciating pain after her spinal nerves disconnected, she hadn't hesitated to inject herself. Now, as the effects wore off, that bone-deep phantom pain was returning, even more fiercely than before.
It was her nervous system protesting, screaming.
If she didn't get some supplies to soothe these volatile nerves, never mind fighting the next battle; she probably wouldn't even survive the moment of reconnecting to the mech.
"Damn it..."
Pavel cursed under her breath, her gaze sweeping over the mess scattered on the floor.
Aside from that nameless broken box, her trophies from today were scattered on the ground—a Victoriana officer's sidearm, a silver pocket watch, and those blood-stained medals.
These things couldn't save her life, but they could be traded for things that could.
She gathered her remaining strength and crawled up from the floor.
Next came the hardest step.
She looked up at the thug-iv type mech standing silently in the shadows.
The open cockpit was like a giant maw waiting to devour a sacrifice, the sharp neural probes inside glinting in the dim light.
To survive, she had to go to the black market.
To go to the black market, she had to wear this shell of iron.
To wear this shell of iron, she had to let those needles pierce her spine once more.
It was a vicious cycle.
A vicious cycle filled with the stench of blood and engine oil.
"Fuck this world."
Pavel spat out a mouthful of blood, grabbed the bundle of loot, and staggered toward the mech.
...
Hiss—click!
With the sound of hydraulic locks closing, the heavy armor of the cockpit swallowed the small girl once again.
Immediately after, a muffled groan was suppressed deep in her throat.
Dozens of probes pierced her skin, precisely inserting into the gaps of her spine.
The pain arrived as °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° expected, but this time, Pavel didn't even have the strength to tremble.
She expertly bit down on the gag, letting cold sweat instantly soak through her pilot suit, waiting for the moment the neural signal connected.
Hum—
The boiler re-ignited, and steam surged through the pipes.
The panoramic monitors lit up, and her blurry vision instantly became clear.
That false pleasure of controlling power filled her body again, temporarily masking the brokenness of her flesh.
The hangar doors swung open with a boom.
The massive steam mech took heavy steps, breaking through the mist before dawn.
The scenery behind the front lines was actually no different from the front.
It was the same fields plowed by artillery fire, the same abandoned farmhouses requisitioned for use, the same gray, lifeless tones.
The only difference was that the corpses here had been cleared away—or rather, buried where they couldn't be seen.
Pavel piloted the mech, its mechanical feet stomping a series of deep pits into the muddy road.
Her current state was terrible; it felt like hundreds of flies were buzzing in her brain—the aftereffect of mental overload.
But she had to stay awake.
The village ahead, surrounded by a low wall, was marked on the map as "Third Logistics Supply Station Auxiliary Facility."
And beneath these pretentious official titles, the largest barn hid the busiest and filthiest black market in this war zone.
Only there could she trade the blood-stained junk in her hands for the capital to live a few more days.
...
The interior of the barn was far larger than it looked from the outside.
The space originally used for storing grain had been replanned and divided into dozens of stalls, with all sorts of goods piled high: rusted weapon parts, moldy military rations, medical supplies of unknown origin, and even several mech wrecks stripped down to their skeletons.
The air was filled with a mix of engine oil, rotting grain, and low-quality tobacco.
This didn't feel like a black market; it felt more like a dumping ground for war trash.
But that was precisely its purpose.
War creates trash, and trash can be recycled, provided you can pay the price.
Pavel walked straight toward the depths of the barn.
At the very back of the warehouse, behind a makeshift table cobbled together from ammunition crates, sat a figure with their head buried in accounting.
"Welcome, customer."
The person didn't even look up, the tip of their pen scratching on the paper.
"What can I get you? Medical supplies? Weapon parts? Or maybe you want something else? Fair prices, no swindling."
He had probably repeated this spiel hundreds of times, skilled as if it were an instinct carved into his bones.
Pavel did not answer.
She just piloted the mech forward another step, the heavy metal foot stepping onto the wooden floor with a dull "thud."
The person finally looked up.
"I'm telling you, customer, what exactly do you—"
The words stopped abruptly halfway through.
Pavel watched as the other person's expression completed a magnificent transformation from "professional smile" to "what the hell" in a mere second, and a hint of pleasure couldn't help but rise in her heart.
"..."
"..."
"Holy shit, how the fuck are you still alive?!"
The man jumped up from his chair violently, the pen in his hand nearly flying away.
"Comrade Sergei." Pavel's voice came from the loudspeaker, carrying a teeth-gritting sense of friendliness. "Long time no see, you look like you're in good spirits."
"No, no, no, no, no—"
The man called Sergei waved his hands repeatedly, as if he had seen something unclean.
"Stay away from me! I am not your 'good comrade,' and I haven't even settled the score with you for last time!"
Pavel tilted the mech's head, putting on an innocent pose.
"Which score?"
"Which score?!" Sergei's voice rose by an octave. "A week ago, you took a box of broken shell casings and traded them for twenty rifle rounds from me!"
"Oh, that."
"And two weeks ago! You said you wanted to 'borrow' two cans of medical alcohol, and what happened?!"
"I did intend to return them."
"Bullshit! You never intended to return them at all!"
"I just haven't found the right opportunity yet."
"And two months ago—"
"Alright, alright, Comrade Sergei."
Pavel interrupted his accusation.
"Let bygones be bygones. Today, I'm here to do business in good faith. Look, I even brought goods."
Sergei looked at her with the eyes of someone looking at a con artist.
"You? Good faith?"
"Someone from 404 talking to me about good faith?"
"That's hurtful."
Pavel sighed. "We in the Punishment Camp are all about reputation."
Sergei almost laughed out loud.
But he soon couldn't laugh, because Pavel opened the storage compartment on the side of the mech's waist, pulled out a bulging canvas bag, and tossed it onto the table.
The goods made a clanking sound; it looked quite heavy.
"Count it."
Sergei gave Pavel a suspicious look, then slowly untied the knot of the bag.
Then his expression changed.
"This is... a Victoriana officer's sidearm?"
He took out a finely crafted revolver from the bag. The gun body was engraved with intricate patterns, and the grip was made of premium peach wood. "And there are... seven of them?"
"Eight."
Pavel corrected. "There's one more at the bottom, a custom model for officers above the rank of major, with the owner's family crest engraved on the body. I originally thought about digging that crest out to sell separately, but then I thought, it's worth more kept intact."
Sergei continued to dig through it, the expression on his face becoming increasingly colorful.
"Silver pocket watches... two of them... are these real silver?"
"Only the case is real silver; the movement is standard stuff. But I guess you don't care about that—they're all getting melted down in the end anyway."
"And... medals? Victorian Empire Iron Cross medals? Three of them?"
"Four. Oh, and a viscount's seal, the kind with enamel trim."
Sergei gasped.
"Where the fuck did you get this stuff?"
"Found it."
"Found it?!"
"Some were given by others, like this seal—that viscount said he didn't want it anymore."
Pavel said nonchalantly. "I just took it while I was at it."
"It's just a bit scorched by fire, but that shouldn't affect anything, right?"
Sergei was silent for a few seconds.
He looked at the loot again, then at Pavel's expressionless mech visor, and finally accepted reality.
"You..."
He shook his head. "You're absolutely insane."
"Thanks for the compliment."
Sergei didn't respond, instead starting to count carefully.
His movements were fast; his fingers flew over the loot, occasionally biting them or holding them up to the light.
A few minutes later, he looked up, his expression complex.
These goods were genuinely quite valuable.
But why did he so not want to do this business...
After a long while, he finally managed to squeeze out a sentence.
"These things of yours... they aren't very clean, are they?"
"Bullshit, are you clean?"
Pavel rolled her eyes and retorted.
"The military supplies you sell are 'borrowed' from rear warehouses, and the loot you acquire is stripped off dead people. Which part of your business is clean?"
