I spent what was left of that afternoon on the Old Man’s island.
His dreamscape had crystallized into that single island, and it now lived permanently in my database. If I wanted, I could visit anytime—sit with him, talk for a while. Nothing more.
Those conversations finally answered questions that had been haunting me.
There are two ways to convert a biological brain into digital code.
The first is relatively simple, but the result is closer to an AI simulation—an intelligence built from a person’s memories and personality, not the person in full.
The second requires mapping and programming every single neuron. A human brain has more than ten billion neurons. That makes the process vast, intricate—and dangerous. A minor mistake doesn’t just mean failure. It can cause lethal damage to the original brain.
But if it succeeds, a human’s memory and mind can be transferred completely—another kind of immortality.
That second technique was used—crudely—back when Plando was at its peak. Fewer than ten people ever survived the conversion. Lord Blin was one of them.
The Tower Clan tried to master the same technology. Nomi was their only successful test subject, and even with only a little over five hundred million neurons, the conversion took three months. Before they could attempt human trials, the war had already pushed humanity to the brink.
So they built a third approach—strictly speaking, not digitization at all: a living brain directly networked into an information system. That had been the Old Man’s previous state.
And yet the Old Man standing in front of me now had somehow become a first-method digital life—right under Phantom Forge’s nose.
So our conversations weren’t as smooth as they used to be. He often answered the wrong question, or answered in stiff, limited fragments. But I could still see him. I could still speak to him. That was enough.
***
The Blackstone Wasteland had been quiet for a long time. Wrecks were rare.
These weren’t old.
I slowed my ground-effect bike and rolled up to three ruined Enforcers. A quick inspection told me they’d been terminated less than half a day ago. There were no bullet holes, no scorch marks, no signs of weapons at all—just a carpet of scattered parts.
The way they’d been destroyed was wrong. One Enforcer had its arm twisted off and jammed into its own head. Another had its head torn free and used like a hammer to smash the third.
Who did this?
I had never seen an attack that savage—so blunt, so confident.
The Shadow Falcon found nothing else. In the end, I could only move on.
By midnight the horizon began to swell. The Sunset Mountains had arrived.
At the border between the Blackstone Wasteland and the Sunset Mountains lay a colossal cave system—tunnels braided so densely it was easy to get lost, but also easy to shake pursuers. That was why Efa had tried to take the Old Man into them back then.
Phantom Forge had carved a route through the caves. I’d been ordered to use it once. Cutting through would save at least a full day on the way to the DorianKen Armory, so I aimed for that entrance.
Ten minutes later, I changed my mind.
At the mouth of the caves I found more wreckage—more than a dozen bodies strewn across the ground. Limbs had been ripped off and twisted apart. Skulls had been smashed by raw force, just like the earlier kills.
Someone had stationed those units at the cave entrance to stop whatever was out there.
They failed.
There were still no signs of weapons, and the attacker hadn’t even taken the weapons from the dead. It was almost as if it trusted its own brutality more than any tool.
Enemy or ally?
I couldn’t tell. But if I entered the caves, it might mistake me for a pursuer.
My mission was too important to invite that kind of complication. I turned my bike and climbed into the mountains instead.
The rest of the night passed without incident. I rode until dawn through rolling, broken terrain.
The second day was another cloudless furnace. Before my systems could start throwing heat warnings, I found shade beneath a rock column, pulled the Shadow Falcon back in, and entered the dreamscape.
***
This time I didn’t build anything elaborate. Using the Old Man’s island as a reference, I created a massive square platform over calm water. It took less than a minute.
That day I focused—fully—on fighting him. Lord Blin moved like a ghost, slipping through my guard in the smallest openings and beating me down again and again.
But I was learning. Rapidly.
By noon I could more or less keep him outside my range with a wooden sword. My head took far fewer hits.
In the afternoon, he made me discard the sword and fight barehanded.
So I went right back to being pummeled.
“Too slow,” Lord Blin snapped. “A scale-tortoise moves faster than you, Mr. Slow Motion. And your reactions? Like a busted toy.”
“Your techniques are too fast—too precise,” I protested. “When you hit me, I can’t even see what you did.”
“Heels off the ground. Keep your weight between your legs. Knees bent. Stay mobile.” His voice cooled. “I’ll slow down. Record the changes. Watch carefully. I’ll teach you like I’m teaching a human child.”
I kept getting hit, but at least I could finally see the transitions.
After that, I learned how to bleed force, how to evade, how to control, and how to apply joint locks.
I devoured everything.
At sunset, Lord Blin ended the session.
I returned to the real world and resumed traveling immediately. With the Shadow Falcon’s overhead view, patrol units posed almost no threat. That left more of my processing power to replay those techniques again and again.
Lord Blin claimed an ancient human warrior needed ten years to master those arts. My advantage was that I didn’t need to spend time building strength, speed, flexibility, reflexes, or power generation the way humans did.
I only needed to think. And think again.
***
For the next three days, that became my rhythm: traveling at night, then sinking into the dreamscape during the day. I learned not only standing combat, but throws and ground work as well.
During that time I visited the Old Man’s island twice—talked with him, read in his cabin for a while.
The cabin’s four walls were covered in books, part of the human treasures he had rescued. I would preserve them carefully until humanity revived, then return them so civilization’s spark could be carried forward.
The night roads stayed smooth. I didn’t run into any more wreckage, or that unsettling unknown presence.
By the fourth day’s early dawn, after a full night of hard riding, the DorianKen Armory finally rose into view—its steel bulwark towering beyond a canyon I’d just crossed.