The supply convoy was exactly as the datapad had described: a line of five massive, six-wheeled armored trucks, rumbling through the jungle.
They were ugly, functional things, built like giant metal shoeboxes with wheels.
Each one looked less like a military vehicle and more like something you'd use to move a very large, very angry refrigerator.
The rhythmic thump-thump-thump of their heavy-duty tires on the packed dirt road was a monotonous drumbeat, a countdown to the operation's start.
From a ridge overlooking the route, hidden by a curtain of thick, emerald-green leaves, Lin Ming watched them approach. Beside him, Pham Tuan and Quynh Nhu were shadows, perfectly still.
"Alright," Lin Ming whispered into his comms, his voice a low murmur that barely disturbed the air.
"You both know the plan. Find a defensible position five klicks from the fortress. Stay hidden. The moment you hear my signal, you attack the main gate with everything you've got. The chaos is your cover."
"And your signal?" Quynh Nhu's voice came back, a whisper laced with amusement. "Are you still sure about that? It's... unconventional. Even for you."
A wicked grin touched Lin Ming's lips. "It's memorable. It has flair. Just listen for something loud, round, and aggressively Japanese."
"Going in alone is still a bad idea, Leader," Pham Tuan's concerned voice rumbled, the sound deep and earthy. "What if you're discovered? We won't be there to back you up."
"That's the point, Tuan," Lin Ming countered firmly, his gaze fixed on the approaching trucks. "One person is a ghost. A team is a target. If I'm discovered, the mission is a failure anyway. This way, the only one at risk is me." He clapped his massive teammate on the shoulder. "I'm relying on you two to be my cavalry when the signal comes. Be ready to charge."
He didn't wait for more arguments. He slid down the muddy ridge, his movements silent and fluid. He was a shadow detaching itself from the jungle, a predator closing in on its oblivious prey.
The last truck in the convoy, Cargo Hauler 734, rumbled past. Its automated systems hummed along, completely unaware of the human-shaped threat now sprinting alongside it.
Lin Ming matched the truck's speed, his feet barely seeming to touch the ground. This was a test of pure physical prowess, a dance with a ten-ton metal beast. He leaped.
His hands found a purchase on a grimy access ladder on the truck's rear. With the raw power of a Foundation Establishment cultivator, he pulled himself up and under the vehicle's chassis, wedging himself between the massive drive shaft and a fuel tank.
The ride was hell. The roar of the engine was deafening. The stench of diesel and hot metal filled his nostrils. Mud and rocks kicked up from the tires, peppering his body. He clung on, his muscles straining, as the truck bounced and swayed over the rough terrain. This was the unglamorous reality of infiltration. No high-tech gadgets, just grit and a high tolerance for smelling like a mechanic's rag.
Soon, the rumble of the road changed. A smooth, metallic vibration replaced the jarring bumps of the dirt track. They were on the reinforced steel of the main gate drawbridge. He could hear the deafening screech of the colossal gates grinding open above him, a sound that vibrated through his very bones.
He risked a peek from under the chassis. He caught a glimpse of a massive, three-headed creature lounging on a rock. Gary. The beast sniffed the air, its three heads turning with a confused expression, as if catching a faint, unfamiliar scent on the wind. Lin Ming held his breath, his heart pounding. But the convoy kept moving, and the moment was lost. The beast, apparently deciding the scent wasn't interesting enough to warrant getting up, went back to its nap.
The gates slammed shut behind them with a final, booming clang.
Lin Ming was inside.
He stayed hidden under the truck as it navigated the fortress's internal roads. He saw rows of identical, brutalist barracks, watchtowers manned by bored-looking guards, and the sprawling, utilitarian architecture of a military base that valued function over any form of beauty. Finally, his ride came to a stop in a vast, cavernous loading bay. The air hummed with the sound of machinery.
Automated cranes and robotic arms, like giant metal insects, descended upon the convoy, beginning the process of unloading the crates of minerals and pulsating purple potatoes.
This was his chance.
Under the cover of a massive crane lifting a palette of potatoes, he dropped from his hiding spot. He landed in a crouch, a phantom in the shadows of the loading bay. No alarms went off. No one shouted. He was in.
He moved with purpose, a living ghost in the machine. Following the facility map Minerva had procured and uploaded to his HUD, he navigated the labyrinthine corridors of the logistics sector. The fortress was a maze of grey metal and harsh fluorescent lights.
His Spiritual Sense was his greatest asset, a perfect 3D radar sweeping out before him. He felt a patrol of four guards approaching a cross-section ahead. He didn't confront them. He simply ducked into a small maintenance closet, holding his breath as they marched past, their heavy boots echoing on the metal floor, complaining about the quality of the latest nutrient paste.
He bypassed another security checkpoint by climbing into a ceiling conduit, crawling through a space filled with thick cables and dust bunnies the size of small animals. He dropped down into a deserted hallway on the other side. Finally, after ten minutes of tense, silent navigation, he arrived at his destination.
The Central Food Storage and Processing Facility.
The sign on the door, written in the blocky Madakaros script, read: "Where Flavor Goes to Die."
He slipped inside. The chamber was immense, warehouse-sized, and filled with the low hum of industrial refrigeration units. It was cold and sterile. Huge, cylindrical vats, each the size of a small swimming pool, were lined up in neat rows. They were filled with thousands of gallons of a grey, unappetizing "Nutrient Paste" that likely served as the primary food source for the fortress's thousands of soldiers. On the other side of the room, conveyor belts carried trays of the raw, purple space-potatoes towards a series of industrial-sized ovens and steamers.
This was the heart of the army's stomach. And he was about to give it a severe, unforgettable case of indigestion.
The chamber was not unguarded. It was run by a skeleton crew of five Madakaros cooks. They were low-level, Foundation Establishment grunts who had likely drawn the short straw. They moved with a profound sense of boredom, listlessly stirring the giant vats and shoveling potatoes onto the belts. One of them was even trying to juggle three of the smaller purple potatoes, and failing spectacularly.
Dealing with them was almost an insult to his skills.
He moved from the shadows. The first cook, the juggler, never saw him coming. A single, silent chop to the back of the neck. He collapsed in a heap, the potatoes bouncing around him. The second was stirring a vat. Lin Ming grabbed him from behind, covering his mouth and applying a sleeper hold. The alien struggled for a moment, then went limp. Three more to go. It was a silent, methodical cleanup. In less than a minute, all five cooks were unconscious and piled neatly in a dry storage pantry. He now had the entire kitchen to himself.
"Showtime," he whispered, a grimly satisfied smirk on his face.
He pulled a small, heavy pouch from his belt. It was filled with a fine, white powder. This wasn't some high-tech serum or alien poison. This was a custom-ordered, industrial-grade laxative, the kind used in veterinary medicine for constipated space-cows. He had commissioned Minerva to synthesize a kilogram of it, just for this occasion. It was tasteless, odorless, and, according to Minerva's projections, "capable of producing gastrointestinal results best described as biblical."
He felt a pang of guilt. Not for the Madakaros, but for the poor, overworked sewer system of this fortress. It was about to have a very, very bad day.
He moved with the efficiency of a master chef preparing a feast. He climbed the catwalks above the vats of nutrient paste and, like a malevolent god sprinkling salt upon the earth, generously emptied a third of the pouch's contents into each one. He then used a long-handled paddle, and a wisp of his Qi, to stir the mixture thoroughly, ensuring every last scoop would be... extra potent.
Next, the potatoes. He found the water reservoir that fed the industrial steamers. He dumped another large portion of the powder into the tank. The potatoes would be steamed not just to perfection, but to... purgation.
For good measure, he found the central water purification tank that supplied the barracks' drinking fountains. The rest of the bag went in there.
He wasn't just spiking a single meal. He was launching a full-scale, multi-pronged chemical warfare assault on their digestive systems.
His work done, he needed a place to hide and wait. He spotted a network of ventilation shafts high up near the ceiling. With a single, powerful leap, he landed silently on a catwalk, pried open a grate, and slipped inside. It offered a perfect, out-of-the-way vantage point overlooking the entire storage facility. He could see everything, but no one could see him. He was a patient predator, a spider in its web, waiting for the poison to circulate.
He settled in, the cold metal of the vent pressed against his back. He checked the chronometer on his HUD. The fortress's main evening mealtime was in less than an hour. The first wave of soldiers would soon be lining up at the mess hall, completely unaware that their dinner was about to declare war on their insides.
The show was about to begin.