Please Die for High-Dimensional Civilization

Gray Tiecheng doesn't believe in tears, only the weight of scrap metal. Lu Chen, a low-level F-class man, was wearing scrap iron armor and was counting every breath of filtered air in the mud of engine oil and rust. It wasn't until eighteen years ago that his father's mining accident files were taken away by the military overnight, and he touched a hot spar in the waste pile. There is no system prompt, no divine gift. There is only the dull pain of liquid metal biting bone cavities, and the unquenchable physiological hunger for rusty scrap iron. When flesh and blood begin to metamorphose, when the dark lights in the culvert light up. Lu Chen swallowed the smell of blood in his throat and looked at the neon lights of the plutocratic district hanging high above. In the wasteland, if you want to live like a human being, you must first become a monster.