The air inside the Grand Diamond Arena of Planet #77 was thick with the reek of chemical smoke, expensive cigars, and chilled vintage wine.
Fifty thousand seats in the circular amphitheater were filled with the wealthiest oligarchs of the Silk Road. Corrupt corporate delegates, alchemical weapons contractors, and Blood-Tax envoys in velvet robes sat laughing, their fingers dripping with gold rings.
In the center of the black-steel stage, forced onto his knees on cold iron plating, knelt eighty-year-old Elder Mo.
His wild white hair was matted with machine oil and dried blood. His round spectacles were cracked, his canvas work coat torn to shreds. Heavy titanium chains bound his wrists and ankles to iron rings set into the floor.
Behind Elder Mo, thirty armed mercenaries held three thousand ragged, soot-covered scientists and apprentices at gunpoint.
For ten long years, these researchers had lived in rusted shipping containers in the chemical slums, eating thin cabbage soup while working on clean-energy inventions.
Above Elder Mo’s knees hovered a massive, ten-ton industrial hydraulic press. Its steam pistons hissed with lethal pressure, ready to descend.
Elder Mo lifted his battered chin, staring up at the auction podium with defiant, unbroken eyes:
