Chapter 42: Tears of Youth – You Know Nothing of Talent

Time: The seventh day, 6:15 p.m.

Place: The slums, northern outer district, near the city wall.

This was a rather desolate alley, with only half the houses built; the other half consisted of empty lots or the ruins of collapsed old buildings.

The impoverished outcasts who had just finished their monotonous and tedious day were eating dinners mostly comprised of cheap synthetic food, caught in that time of evening when nothing felt quite right and everything seemed meaningless.

Some of the outcasts sat idly at their doorsteps, calculating whether it was time to head off and compete for a spot in the sleeping pods; others gathered in small groups, chatting about trivial matters devoid of nourishment or significance.

In front of a shop that both repaired home appliances and sold second-hand electronics, a crowd of men, women, and children was gathered—some as old as seventy or eighty, others as young as eleven or twelve.

They craned their necks, peering inside with intense focus, eyes shining with a rare gleam of excitement.

Witnessing this, Ren Zhong felt a surge of curiosity.

He had spent many days in this town, and it was rare to see such light in the eyes of the outcasts, a look that reminded him of the first time he opened a popular science book on quantum mechanics in middle school.

He quickened his pace toward the shop.

“Hm…”

“Oh—”

“Mm, ah—”

Shrill, fervent moans blared from a cheap speaker, polluting the air with noise.

Ren Zhong’s steps halted abruptly.

His gaze toward the assembled crowd now carried a hint of amusement.

No wonder these people, whose eyes were usually so dull, suddenly seemed so eager to learn.

To study life skills so openly, regardless of age or gender, was truly liberal.

He slipped away quietly.

Alas—once again, truly out of place.

Elsewhere, seven or eight ragged children, like a flock of startled ducks, scrambled chaotically through the street, chased by a handful of plainly dressed women who hurled curses as they ran.

Ren Zhong noticed with keen eyes that the women’s clothing was loose and slovenly, most barely wearing anything underneath.

These people might as well have stamped the word “poverty” on their faces.

Even among slums, the alley where Mending Hands operated and the one where Zheng Tian’s team resided were far more prosperous and affluent than this one before Ren Zhong.

Even those who worked in the special service trades disdained coming here to solicit clients.

Anyone living near the city wall was, without question, the lowest of the low.

There was simply no business to be had here, only freeloaders.

…

“Young man. I have a job for you. Help me build a five meter by five meter prefab next to your house, and I’ll pay you three contribution points. Interested?”

Ren Zhong smiled at the youth before him, his expression genial.

The boy looked up in utter confusion.

There was a young man astride a luxurious motorcycle.

He wore a Grade 1 balanced exoskeleton—obviously a powerful and elite professional scavenger.

At this moment, the man had removed his full-coverage helmet and gazed down at him kindly.

The boy had no idea what was happening.

Out of nowhere, this man had driven up in a supply truck from the co-op and unloaded a pile of top-quality alloy panels onto the vacant lot next door—materials that would make anyone drool.

Then, he had walked straight to the boy, who was watching the commotion, and offered him a job.

This made sense. Many outcasts unable to hunt earned extra income through odd jobs.

But when the man named his price, the boy was stunned.

Three contribution points! Exorbitant!

Usually, when the underclass helped each other repair buildings, the most anyone gave was 0.2 points—a dime’s worth at most, often paid in canteen food of equivalent value.

After all, everyone was broke; nobody had any surplus.

Even the professional scavengers hired from the lowest ranks only paid market rates, never a cent more.

Why would anyone pay three points in one go?

The surprise was so overwhelming, the boy wondered if he was hallucinating.

He studied the man again and, not recognizing him, grew even more puzzled.

“Hey, don’t just stand there. Are you taking the job or not?” Ren Zhong asked again.

“Sir, are you serious?”

Ren Zhong shrugged. “Of course. Why would I joke about something like this?”

The confusion in the boy’s eyes faded, replaced by a burst of excitement.

He lunged forward, falling to his knees beneath Ren Zhong’s motorcycle.

Lying prone on the ground, his voice trembling and choked with tears, he dared not speak too loudly.

“Sir! Thank you! I’ll do it! I swear I’ll do a good job! I swear!”

Tears streamed uncontrollably down his face.

He dreamed of buying a second-hand rapid-fire rifle, which cost ten contribution points. He and his mother had saved only seven.

In eight days, he would turn sixteen.

Fifty-three days remained until the census. There was no way he could save enough for the gun in time.

He would have to say goodbye to his mother and head into the wilderness, empty-handed, before the census came.

Now, hope for a changed fate seemed to glimmer before him.

With a gun in his hands, at least he would have hope.

Ren Zhong looked at the boy, and his mind drifted back to his first night in Spark Town—the boy standing guard for someone else, rushing toward a skirmish with a gun in hand, the determination in his eyes when he promised to leave the town together.

He never imagined that a young man already resigned to death would be moved to tears over three contribution points.

Though both outcasts, Ren Zhong now saw an unbridgeable gulf between himself and the boy.

If the chasm between outcasts was so vast, how unimaginably distant must it be between citizens and outcasts?

Farther than the distance between the sun and Origin Star?

“Good. I’ll leave the materials here. Start right away. Try to finish the first room by 9:30 tonight, then lock the rest of the materials inside. Tomorrow at 9:30 p.m., meet me at the stairs by Sleep Pod No. 13 and give me the key.”

He had purchased top-tier modular materials. No need to plaster walls or pour concrete—just assemble them like building blocks.

A few hours tonight and a whole day tomorrow would be enough for the boy.

“Yes!” the boy replied, nodding vigorously.

Before Ren Zhong could even take his leave, the boy cheerfully ran to his door, calling out, “Mom! Mom, come out! I’m helping this gentleman build a house! Come give me a hand with the tools!”

Before the “old lady,” aged thirty-eight, could step out, Ren Zhong had already vanished.

Instinctively, he did not want to interact too much with her.

He feared exposure.

Riding his motorcycle through alley and street, Ren Zhong returned to Zheng Tian’s team’s residence at exactly 6:30.

After dinner with the group, he officially began his apprenticeship.

Chen Hanyu began her lecture.

Unlike mech warriors, who focused on combat, a dismantler not only required dexterous and precise hands but also needed a vast accumulation of knowledge.

To become a competent dismantler, one had to memorize the physiological structures of many Ruin Beasts.

Only with the skill of a master butcher could one peel away the myriad shells and protective tissues of these diverse creatures in five minutes, extracting the chips intact.

Fortunately, Ren Zhong had been a favorite of his chemistry and biology teachers since middle school, renowned for his experimental skills. He had personally conducted many of the experiments for his undergraduate, master’s, and doctoral theses.

He possessed hands with the potential of a surgeon.

Many had said that, had he studied medicine, he would have excelled on the operating table.

As for the other requirements of a dismantler—remarkable memory, broad knowledge, and analytical ability—

Chen Hanyu asked, “Mr. Ren, my previous advice was not without reason. Those with extraordinary aptitude for mech combat, like you, usually find it difficult to settle down and memorize these dull facts. There are countless types of Ruin Beasts, with new variants emerging constantly. Each chip extraction has unique challenges. Only by perfectly combining experience and analysis can we avoid mistakes. Sometimes a tiny error can damage the chip or even cause an explosion. Can you really do this?”

Ren Zhong smiled for once. “When I said my favorite thing is reading, I wasn’t joking. Besides, you may have misunderstood my talents.”

Friend, you have no idea what it means to be a PhD published in SCI at twenty-three.

He thought, if survival had not forced him to pursue combat power, perhaps being a dismantler would have been his true calling.