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The black sand destroyed civilization, and the new god "Imperial Management Council" even taxed breathing. The Fuxi ship crashed six hundred years ahead of schedule, and the ghost, the only defective product of the Dragon Blood Project, woke up with the "legacy" sponsored by three best friends: Zhu Rong's ax, Hou Tu's propeller, and Gong Gong's gloves. AI Lingxuan complained venomously, "Dear, your resurrection package is overdue," while navigating to send him to the Cactus Arena - the goal was to recapture the Nuwa ship, the ark that was supposed to spread hope but now filters out human lives. The clones were all on his face, and photos of him when he was twelve were plastered all over the bounty wall. Each death battle is just to collect three quantum cooling cores so that the tampered AI can recognize its master again. The whole city started betting that he wouldn't survive the next round. The ghost grinned, his heart beat every seven seconds, but the drumbeat was accelerating-- "Lingxuan, play some BGM." "Dear, is it a funeral march or a celebration song?" "All of them." The seeds have been returned to the warehouse. Now, unboxing!