Inmates walked in pairs, two meters apart, like ants through the corridor and up the continuously "folding" stairs. They successively arrived at the prison's upper plaza under the watchful eyes of semi-automated weapons and guards.
Yang Ming constantly observed his surroundings, imprinting the prison's three-dimensional structure in his mind like a sandbox model.
The view from the top deck was indeed nice.
This must be right above Cole Port; outside the prison was the profound starry sky, and a half-solidified transparent dome perfectly enclosed the upper plaza.
"What if this dome shatters? Wouldn't people be sucked out into the vacuum?"
Yang Ming couldn't help but worry.
That M-type dwarf star hung in the deep starry sky, its orange-red light slightly subdued—a characteristic of such stars, sluggishly burning themselves, sustaining their stellar dignity with just a little hydrogen.
Several mechanical guards stood at the corners, a sight Yang Ming rarely encountered.
The Milky Way had three taboos:
The first was Natural Disasters, civilizations invading from outside the galaxy;
The second was the Insect Race, returning periodically to the Milky Way to breed;
The third was the Intelligent Mechanical Crisis.
Intelligent Machines referred to automated weapon systems with intelligent machinery that developed quasi-human consciousness and broke away from human society's control, achieving a closed-loop automation in their own production, maintenance, design, and development.
Not just any one or two robots that developed self-awareness could be called an Intelligent Mechanical Crisis.
In the current stage of the Galaxy's civilization, there had been more than a dozen Intelligent Mechanical Crises of various scales. The rise and fall of several great empires in the Galaxy's history were closely connected to the outbreaks of Intelligent Mechanical Crises.
—What Yang Ming understood was only from the game background of "Abyss," which might differ somewhat from the actual information in this world.
He carefully observed the mechanical guards for a while and realized they were just 'responding machines' following instructions, which left him somewhat disappointed.
In a corner, several burly men glared fiercely at Yang Ming.
Yang Ming's gaze swept over them, and as if in agreement, the burly men drew their legs together, averted their gaze, and whistled a few times.
Is that it?
Is this how the prison gang is?
Yang Ming had thought that today he would have a big fight with several dozen burly men, but he had subdued them in one wave.
"Have I become more violent lately?"
However, the feeling of his physical strength continuously growing was really exhilarating.
In the corner, there was a sunshade, behind which several burly men in prison uniforms lined up, blocking Yang Ming's view; behind these men, there was faintly a reclining chair and the rising swirls of smoke.
What was that?
A special existence in this prison?
Yang Ming walked towards the corner with his hands clasped behind his back, like an officer inspecting the work.
The guards were chatting and laughing not far away, only glancing at Yang Ming briefly before quickly looking away.
Clearly, the guards would not stop anyone from approaching this 'special existence.'
As Yang Ming, dressed in a Sherman Empire military uniform, approached, the burly men acting as bodyguards became noticeably tense. They had heard about Yang Ming, who had fought against six opponents unscathed.
A large hand blocked Yang Ming's chest.
The burly man stopping Yang Ming had a wary look in his eyes and said gravely, "Sorry, Mr. Bailin doesn't want to be disturbed."
Bailin?
Yang Ming, new to this place, didn't know what the name represented.
He wasn't interested in finding out, either.
"Is that so?" Yang Ming said with a smile, "Then why don't you ask Bailin himself?"
An elderly laughter came from behind the burly man: "Let the Empire officer come over. He's an interesting young man."
This Mr. Bailin had a receding hairline typical of a Mediterranean hairstyle and his face was lined with wrinkles. In a Galaxy where the average human life span in the Galaxy was over a hundred and twenty Galaxy Years, it was hard to tell how old Bailin really was.
When Yang Ming approached, Mr. Bailin was puffing on an e-cigarette of unknown composition and sipping frothy soda, wearing a loose bathrobe that revealed his vigorous light-colored chest hair.
"Hello, Empire officer."
Bailin greeted him cheerfully:
"Forgive my impoliteness, I'm old and always too lazy to move."
Yang Ming flashed a slight smile: "If it's a respected elder, there's no need to be so courteous to a young man like me."
"Oh, is that so?"
Bailin's smile grew more pronounced, and he gestured to the side. A burly man brought over a 'plastic' chair and placed it beside Bailin's reclining chair.
"Have a seat, young man," Bailin said with a smile, "I was going to deal with you quickly, but you're trouble. I don't need to look at your file. Just by looking at you, I realize you're definitely a big trouble."
Yang Ming internally reminded himself to maintain the demeanor of an Empire soldier and sat down on the plastic chair.
He smiled and said, "I might be a troublemaker to my enemies, but for my friends, I am inevitably a trustworthy companion."
"Hahaha," Bailin laughed heartily, his wrinkly face blossoming like a chrysanthemum, "They say you're a cold-blooded killing machine, a heartless assassin trained by the Empire. Surprisingly, you can also be quite witty, hahaha."
Yang Ming shrugged, his mind already making judgments.
This Bailin must be the 'Dragon Head' of the prison, the type who held sway over both the underworld and the establishment.
What could he offer me?
Ah, intelligence.
What Yang Ming needed most now was intelligence.
Yang Ming steered the conversation back on track, "I've heard from my cellmate that there's nothing Mr. Bailin can't do in this prison?"
"That's certainly an exaggeration," Bailin said with a smile, "Of course, if you're willing to pay the price, I could find a way to get you some rare and exotic items. I have my connections, and the guards show me some respect."
Yang Ming asked, "Is everything measured by currency?"
"No, no, no," Bailin chuckled, "For these mediocre wretches, the currency they had before entering is now their only worth, with all prices clearly marked. But you're different... the salary of an Imperial officer is not much."
Yang Ming revealed a wry smile that bespoke poverty.
Actually, Hanton still had quite a lot saved up—marrying a noblewoman was not cheap.
Bailin said, "You took down six by yourself, did you? Without a scratch on you?"
"I've learned many killing techniques," Yang Ming said, "if you're looking for me to do that kind of work for you, I'm afraid I'll have to decline. Teaching others a lesson doesn't bring me any pleasure."
"Oh, young man, don't be hasty. Business here is all about mutual compromise."
Bailin squinted, smiling, "First, tell me what you want, and then I'll give you my price."
"A map of Cole Port, the more detailed the better," Yang Ming whispered.
Bailin's expression suddenly changed, he frowned at Yang Ming and said in a low voice, "That's a bit taboo, young man."
"But you can do it, right?" Yang Ming's gaze became sharp.
"Today alone, three different factions have sent their intelligence officers looking for you, I'm aware of this," Bailin stared at Yang Ming, "You just need to wait for your Empire to fetch you, no need to make waves."
"Do you know which one is really sent by my motherland?" Yang Ming asked.
"I'm afraid I can't assist you there," Bailin said with a wry smile, "I'm just a merchant; I don't want trouble. This is well beyond my capabilities."
"That's why I can't trust them," Yang Ming said, "I must find my own way back to the Empire. I'm willing to pay any price that does not involve betraying the Empire or sacrificing myself."
"You're actually aware of this issue, yes, indeed, at least two of those three parties mean you no good."
Bailin took a puff of his electronic cigarette, and he sat there dumbfounded for a while, as if his system had crashed.
Bailin said, "I may not be able to give you a map, but I do know someone who certainly can help you. However, I can't share this information for free; you'll have to do something for me. That's the rule I've set."
"Time, place, target."
Yang Ming calmly stood up, "You should be able to tell me these through my cellmate."
"Hey, Hanton," Bailin squinted and smiled, "do you trust me that much?"
"You will keep your promise," Yang Ming said with utmost certainty, and, on his way out, he winked at Bailin.
Elderly Bailin did not read any carnal suggestion in that wink.
He read the young man's confidence, as well as an unmistakable threat.
'Youngsters these days have no manners.'
Old Bailin shook his head in lament and continued puffing away against the starry sky.
An hour and a half later, as the group of prisoners including Yang Ming finished their recreational time, old Bailin remained there to enjoy the lazy afternoon until two meticulous guards appeared beside him.
"Mr. Bailin, the warden wants to see you."
...
Of course, Yang Ming had no idea who Bailin's referred person was, but he was willing to give it a limited try.
After waiting in his cell for two days, his obese roommate suddenly sidled over, nervously whispering in Yang Ming's ear an exact time in the middle of the night, the number of a cell on the same floor, and about an arm.
Yang Ming nodded to show he understood.
When the time came, a yawning guard passed by and swiped a card over the electronic lock of Yang Ming's cell; the lock clicked open.
Once the guard left, Yang Ming slipped out, entering the similarly unlocked cell not far away.
A few muffled groans later, he left the cell after less than half a minute, walking briskly back to his own, and lay down in his place.
Click, the electronic lock shut by itself.
Half an hour later, a succession of screams came from that cell, and scores of guards rushed over; the fifth floor was bustling for a while.
The arm with the crushed bones became the next day's hot topic throughout Cole Port Prison.
The next day, Yang Ming found a slip of paper in his breakfast.
[Sixth level, cell 625, Kolev.]