The journey from Planet KQ-03 to the asteroid belt took thirteen hours. Even with the Ore-Tyrant MK-II's heavy-duty engines, the void was a vast, time-consuming barrier.
The route had been cleared of debris and was maintained regularly. Vance didn't need to stay glued to the pilot's seat for the transit.
He locked the destination to Entrance No. 2 and engaged the autopilot. The ship's computer hummed, taking over the helm with a mechanical drone.
Vance stepped away from the console. He started with deep stretches, followed by a grueling core activation routine. He finished with advanced upper-body calisthenics.
An hour later, he was drenched in sweat. His muscles burned, but his brow was furrowed in frustration.
"Without Body Tempering Arts, this body is still too weak," he muttered, wiping sweat from his eyes.
In this backwater sector, the requirements for entry-level cultivation were gatekept by the elite. It was a barrier designed to keep the dregs in the dirt.
Class warfare hadn't died in the space age; it had just become more efficient. The gap between the masters of the stars and the miners in the mud was a canyon most could never cross.
But Vance wasn't worried.
The date was June 1st, Star Year 10103. He was exactly ten days away from the moment destiny would shatter.
In ten days, he would reach for the stars.
Thirteen hours passed in a blur of meditation and planning. The Ore-Tyrant finally slowed as it approached the jagged horizon of the belt.
"Arriving at Asteroid Belt Entrance No. 2. Autopilot disengaging. Switch to manual mode immediately."
The ship's computer was a cheap, outdated model. It lacked the sleek, AI personalities found on modern cruisers.
The procurement officer, a penny-pincher named Bull, had clearly skimped on the software package.
Vance was already in the pilot's seat. He grabbed the flight sticks and yanked the ship into manual control.
In the chaotic dance of an asteroid belt, relying on a "486-era" computer was a death sentence. The belt was a living, moving thing—a lethal orbital ballet of spinning rock.
Entrance No. 2 wasn't a physical hole in space. It was a forward base—a massive, spindle-shaped hunk of steel anchored near the belt's edge.
It hung in the dark, its navigation lights blinking in a rhythmic, comforting pulse. To a miner, it was the only lighthouse in a sea of shadow.
Vance patched into the local frequency as he brought the ship alongside the docking pylon.
"What's the status?" he asked, his eyes scanning the sensor feed.
"Flow rate is stable. Next window opens in an hour. Welcome back, Vance."
The voice was warm, vibrant, and full of life. Vance blinked, a ghost of a memory surfacing.
"Rhea? You're on shift today?"
"First week of the month, honey. Don't tell me you forgot about your favorite girl already. My heart is breaking."
Her voice dripped with mock sadness. Vance could almost see her—a sturdy, six-foot powerhouse with a smile that could light up a dark sector.
Rhea was the guardian angel of the miners. In the soul-crushing silence of deep space, her warmth was a lifeline.
"My bad," Vance chuckled. "A lot on my mind lately."
They talked shop for a few minutes. He needed to know if the belt had shifted. In this business, a single lapse in judgment meant becoming stardust.
"One more thing," Rhea's voice dropped, turning serious. "Old Stan picked Entrance No. 2 today. Watch your six."
"Old Stan?"
Vance leaned back, the name triggering a dormant memory.
Because of his System, Vance always picked the best ships. He could push his engines to 110% because he knew exactly when they would blow.
That meant he went deeper into the belt than anyone else. It meant he came back with holds bursting with high-grade ore.
Success breeds envy. And Old Stan was a man who lived and breathed spite.