A farewell atmosphere had settled over the day without anyone announcing it.

Wang Yingying came, said her piece, left. Zhang Youhai came, said his piece, left. Zhu Haifeng came after them, watched Shen Cong work on the Dog-Croc skeleton for a while, said a few words about the road ahead, and headed back to camp.

Shen Cong gave each of them enough response to be polite and kept most of his attention on the skeleton. There wasn’t much to feel about goodbyes when the people saying them were pieces on a board rather than people in your life.

The next day.

After a full day and night of assembly work, the Dog-Croc skeleton was finally lifted onto Vajra’s roof. Six two-metre telescoping poles, fixed to the skull, four limbs, and tail respectively, held the skeleton in its posed configuration above the roofline. The tail — which would have been the Activity core if the animal were alive — had been replaced with a high-pressure water cannon, fed by a hose running back to the fire truck’s water system. A quick nozzle swap could convert it to oil delivery, and from there to a flamethrower.

The assembled skeleton ran 9.3 metres from jaw to tail. Nearly as long as Vajra itself. When the poles extended and the skeleton rose above the roof, it cast the suggestion of a canopy — an enormous predator suspended in mid-lunge over the truck. Genuinely striking.

Shen Cong named it the Dog-Croc Battle Standard.

It would serve as a deterrence display on the road to Hefei — a visual warning to lower-level evolved beasts that something dangerous was operating in this territory. Practically speaking, its structural integrity was limited even after Vajra amalgamated the bones. It would hold up against weather. An actual fight would damage it. It wasn’t armour; it was a flag.

The Battle Standard going up produced a visible effect on the camp. Guards at the perimeter stood and stared. Survivors clustered in small groups, gesturing. Even the Provisional Government’s leadership found themselves at a loss for words.

“He really is…” Xu Wanxian searched for the phrase. “His own person.”

“Different generation,” Li Weijun said. “Different way of thinking.”

Fu Jianguo watched the skeleton sway slightly in the breeze and said, more thoughtfully: “I haven’t spent much time with him, but I keep getting this feeling — is he a bit… off? He’s so guarded it’s almost inhuman. Isn’t there a condition, what’s it called—”

“Persecution complex,” Zhao Yalan supplied.

“Right. That. He fits the profile pretty well.”

Zhu Haifeng turned away from the view — he’d been watching longer than the others — and when he turned back his expression was composed. The beard was coming in now, filling out the jaw line. “Enough. Don’t talk about Boss Huang behind his back. Everyone has their own way of surviving. Focus on your own work and think about what the camp needs next.”

“Almost forgot the District Chief was here,” Fu Jianguo said with a grin that conveyed nothing in particular.

Li Weijun gave him a measured look. “Drop the attitude. Discipline has been slipping in camp lately. You’re the Director of Discipline — tighten it up.”

Fu Jianguo nodded quickly. “On it.”

Zhu Haifeng registered the exchange without reacting. He was noticing, more clearly each day, the gap between himself and Li Weijun — not in intelligence, but in the kind of natural authority that came from thirty years of practise rather than three months of necessity. He’d expected to ride in on the momentum of Shen Cong’s backing and consolidate quickly. Instead Li Weijun kept borrowing that same momentum and using it more gracefully than he did.

Fu Jianguo and the others showed him the surface of respect. The underneath was still being decided.

The camp was outwardly harmonious and inwardly divided into three loose groupings. Zhu Haifeng, Wang Yingying, Zhang Youhai, and the fire brigade members who’d come back with him. Li Weijun, Zhao Yalan, and the camp’s original core. Xu Wanxian, Chen Song, and Fu Jianguo — a floating bloc, nominally independent, tilting toward Li Weijun more often than not.

The latter group hadn’t forgiven or forgotten how Zhu Haifeng had arrived, or how the transition had been conducted. They expressed it carefully, given that Shen Cong was still parked fifty metres away.

Now that Shen Cong’s departure was clearly imminent, the pressure Zhu Haifeng was feeling had sharpened into something specific. He was watching Li Weijun more carefully. Studying how a man kept his face still when he didn’t like what was happening. Learning to project calm authority instead of reacting to the room.

He had a lot of work ahead of him.

Shen Cong had no particular thoughts about any of it.

He’d moved against the fire brigade to neutralise the disruption of Liu Zheng’s death on local order. That objective had been achieved — Liu Zheng’s name came up less and less, and the transition had held. Wang Yingying, Zhang Youhai, and Zhu Haifeng were embedded in the camp’s structure now. Even if power shifted internally, even if his pieces lost ground, they’d still be present and functional when he needed them. The camp would remain a viable fallback.

Deeper involvement wasn’t necessary. It also wasn’t compatible with how he operated.

Past noon.

The Dog-Croc Battle Standard was up. That meant it was time to go.

He hadn’t crossed into Lv1 yet. But continuing to develop at the Vineyard Camp had hit a ceiling — not a hard wall, but a felt constraint, a sense of diminishing returns that told him the inputs available here were no longer sufficient for the next stage. Amalgamating the fire truck alone to force Lv1 wasn’t the outcome he wanted. He had no way to predict what Lv1 would do to his amalgamation and extension capabilities — whether they’d persist, whether they’d transform, whether the crossing would produce something he couldn’t anticipate. He wanted Vajra in the best possible configuration before making that jump.

Leaving was the only way to find better inputs.

Before departure, he had one last piece of work to complete.

The failed metal life form was going to become armour.

He’d settled on a new name for the material: half-activated metal. Distinct from vehicle activation metal on one side and primary activation metal on the other. Half-activated: it had the extension and amalgamation properties but no self-direction, no autonomous will. Completely shapeable. Ideal armour stock.

He spent a day and a night cutting, shaping, and fitting.

The half-activated metal bent to his will more readily than any material he’d worked with — more responsive than Vajra’s own structure, more compliant than any alloy. He removed the Activity cores from the existing Super Baogai Armor that were underperforming, kept the queen ant chest plate and the Dog-Croc back plate, and integrated them into the new structure. The Sharp Eagle beak went on the left forearm as a bracer. The Melancholy Bird’s broad beak was mounted at the back of the helmet, covering the neck and base of skull.

Joints — everywhere articulation was required — were bridged with amalgamated Dog-Croc hide. Flexible, strong, already integrated into the Activity system.

The gloves had been Dog-Croc hide. He replaced them with Venom Duke snakeskin — thinner, lighter, almost no barrier to tactile feedback. No sacrifice in durability at his Activity level, and his hands needed sensitivity more than thickness.

The helmet’s face section switched to layered mesh: one layer of snakeskin, one layer of metal mesh. Double protection with airflow. The eye apertures were glazed with glass amalgamated from the Hummer — not tempered glass, slightly lower ballistic resistance than ideal, but the clear field of view was a meaningful trade. The old metal grid had been functional. This was actually transparent.

September 15th, morning.

The armour was finished.

He put it on. Five minutes for the half-activated metal to conform fully to his body through the extension interface — every seam closing, every joint settling. No gaps.

The weight was comparable to the Super Baogai Armor. The fit was considerably better. The craftsmanship was in a different category entirely.

He moved through a combination sequence. Everything tracked perfectly — no binding, no restriction at the joints, full range of motion throughout.

He took photographs with his phone.

The profile was streamlined — something like a military-grade exosuit, with slightly rougher surface texture and a helmet that leaned into the aggressive aesthetic rather than away from it. No tail feathers this time; for stylistic consistency he’d mounted several Dog-Croc teeth along the helmet’s crown instead. The overall finish was dark silver, the half-activated metal’s natural colour — not flashy, not subdued. Just present.

Defence, comfort, and combat capability: all meaningfully improved.

The Super Baogai Armor had been the 1.0 iteration — assembled from whatever worked, bolted together under field conditions. This was something that had been designed. Built with intention.

Baogai Armor 2.0. Half-Activated Metal Armor. Call it the Half-Activated Armor.

“Time to go,” Shen Cong said, to no one in particular, looking west.

Liu Changming, still sorting through the scrap camera components in the fire truck, seemed to feel the shift. He walked over. “Leaving, Boss Huang?”

“Yes.”

Shen Cong retrieved the prepared payment from Vajra and handed it across. “For your work.”

Liu Changming took the package and held it for a moment. “More than two weeks, working over here. I’m not sure what to say, honestly.” He paused. “Safe travels, Boss Huang. I mean it.”

Liu Yangyang had appeared at his father’s side, holding Liu Changming’s sleeve. He looked up at Shen Cong with the particular combination of shyness and directness that small children managed better than adults. “Is Uncle Huang coming back?”

Shen Cong stood where he was. The question seemed to occupy him for a moment.

Twenty seconds passed. Then he turned and climbed back into Vajra.

Liu Changming read the silence as the end of it. He put his hand on Liu Yangyang’s head — the boy hadn’t gotten his answer and his expression showed it — and steered him gently toward home.

They’d taken two steps when Shen Cong’s voice came from behind them. Flat, as always.

“Hey.”

He was standing at the cab door with his arms full. He walked to Liu Yangyang and transferred the items one by one into the boy’s hands: a tablet computer, a charging cable, a stack of writing notebooks, pencils, a calligraphy brush, ink, and a USB drive.

“The drive has the complete standard twelve-year curriculum. The tablet has my mechanical reference materials.” He turned to Liu Changming. “Give the tablet to Wang Yingying.” Then he pointed at Liu Yangyang. “The paper and pens are for him. Teach him to read. Teach him to write.”

He was already walking back before Liu Changming could respond. The cab door closed. The armour panels sealed.

The engine turned over.

Vajra had been still for two weeks. Now it woke up — a deep, rolling roar, incomplete combustion in the diesel sending a plume of black smoke from the exhaust. The sound built, the drivetrain engaged, and the truck began to move. North Ring Road, heading toward the Hefei-Chaohu-Wuhu Expressway.

No ceremony. No gathering of people to watch it leave.

Liu Changming and Liu Yangyang, standing in the road behind it, were as close to a send-off as there was.

The wind moved through the empty street.

Vajra grew smaller, and smaller, and disappeared at the end of the road.

(End of Chapter 115)