In the distance, massive steam pipes coiled like steel serpents, hissing plumes of scorching white vapor between towering structures that pierced the clouds.
The deafening clatter of interlocking gears formed an unceasing, roaring elegy.
This was a small world—one without cultivators.
And now, a figure stood in the shadows of an elevated iron bridge within this steel metropolis.
His black and purple hair stood out starkly against the greasy filth surrounding him.
It was Xu Qing.
His gaze pierced through the billowing steam and spinning flywheels, locking onto a minuscule anomaly deep within an enormous difference engine.
There, amidst billions of tiny brass gears madly meshing and rotating—calculating every breath of this steel city—one gear's edge bore an almost imperceptible layer of white residue.
It moved with unnatural smoothness, carrying a sinister fluidity beyond mere machinery.
