Night had fallen over the agricultural basin of District 4, but for the first time in five days, it was a night lit up by the clean, golden radiance of restored high-pressure sun-lamps.
Inside Biodome 01, the vast rice terraces stood tall, green, and vibrant. Their water clear and reflected the amber glow of the ceiling panels. The thick, choking mats of purple cordyceps mold had fully vanished, dissolved into a harmless white stone ash that settled into the soil as a rich, bitter-salt fertilizer. From Domes Two through Six, the self-running misting lines were pumping the Vance reversion broth through thousands of overhead nozzles, purging the last lingering fungal spores from forty million square meters of crops.
In the center of the service yard beside Pump House Alpha, an open campfire crackled with dry, seasoned birch logs scavenged from an old irrigation windbreak.
Arthur sat on an overturned wooden grain crate beside the fire. He held an enamel mug of hot chicory tea. He had scrubbed the agricultural mud and sulfur crust from his hands, bandaged a minor jagged cut on his left forearm. Then he replaced the torn shoulder seam of his field coat with neat, nylon razor-sharp stitches.
