One month later.
Brooklyn Industrial Zone, Skylark Unmanned Equipment Co.
At six in the morning, Shane Grintel switched off his soldering iron.
He finished inspecting the final weld through a magnifying glass and slowly exhaled a cloud of white vapor scented with rosin.
Ten silver-gray drones were lined up neatly on the workbench.
They featured streamlined fuselages, four pairs of foldable carbon-fiber rotors, and detachable payload bays mounted to their undercarriages.
Under the overhead lights, they gleamed with a cold, industrial luster.
The Skylark IV Agricultural Drone—mass production verification models, ten units.
Over the past thirty days, Shane had practically lived in the factory.
He ate takeout, slept in a sleeping bag, and worked over sixteen hours a day.
He had transformed the technology from his memories into blueprints compatible with the 2007 supply chain, wrote the flight control systems, debugged the hardware, and tested battery life and payload capacity.
He had torn everything down and started over countless times, working through one night after another.
His body was exhausted to the limit, but his spirit was in a state of strange euphoria, fueled by the intensity of the work and the passive bonuses granted by his “Flash of Inspiration.”
His learning efficiency was terrifying.
Knowledge the original owner of his body had studied but never mastered was rapidly absorbed, integrated, and applied.
He had even begun using his spare moments to gnaw away at the 17% of parsed data from the “Hummingbird Drone.”
Bionics, micro-motor drives, low-power image transmission…
he was painstakingly conquering one unfamiliar field after another.
Each time he understood a principle, his mastery of the Hummingbird technology deepened.
Although he was still far from creating a physical prototype, the direction was becoming increasingly clear.
Shane stood up, stretched his stiff neck, and walked to a simple sink in the corner of the factory.
He splashed his face aggressively with cold water.
The man in the mirror had sunken eyes and a messy beard, but his gaze was sharp, like a polished blade.
Today was the day of the Skylark drone’s first field demonstration.
He had made an appointment with John Oak, the owner of “Oak Farm” on the outskirts of Brooklyn, to film a product demonstration video.
This was the critical material needed for potential investors, customers, and applications for government agricultural technology subsidies.
The demonstration had to be a success.
He carefully boxed up one drone and loaded it into his used Dodge Ram pickup truck along with the remote controller, spare batteries, simulated fertilizer granules (which were actually dyed sand), and rented professional camera equipment.
He started the engine and drove out of the industrial zone.
The sky was just beginning to brighten, and the streets were empty.
In the truck’s rearview mirror, the factory faded into the distance.
Forty minutes later, the pickup entered the suburbs.
The air turned crisp, and the fields on both sides of the road were covered in a thin layer of frost.
Following the road signs, Shane turned onto a gravel path that led to a sprawling farm.
A wooden sign read: “Oak Farm.”
A stout, red-faced man in a denim jacket stood in front of the barn, puffing on a pipe.
Seeing the pickup, he waved.
“John Oak.”
The man stepped forward and shook Shane’s hand; his palm was rough and powerful.
“You’re the kid with the flying seeder?”
“Shane Grintel.
It’s a drone, Mr.
Oak.”
Shane corrected him with a smile as he opened the tailgate to reveal the Skylark IV.
John leaned in for a closer look and grunted.
“Looks the part, I suppose.
You say this thing can do the work of three of my men?
It better be true; my time is valuable.”
“The demo will give you your answer.”
Shane said no more and began his preparations.
He selected a flat patch of land that had already been harvested and was awaiting spring planting as the demonstration area.
He set up the camera, turned it on, and adjusted the angle.
Then, he powered up the drone, connected the control program on his tablet, and loaded the “fertilizer.”
The morning farm was quiet, save for the sound of the wind and the occasional distant lowing of livestock.
John stood to the side with his arms crossed, his expression skeptical.
Shane took a deep breath and tapped “Start Operation” on the tablet.
The Skylark IV emitted a low hum.
Its four pairs of rotors spun at high speed, and it lifted off the ground smoothly, ascending to a height of three meters.
It hovered there, as steady as if it were nailed to the air.
Then, under the control of the preset program, it began to fly automatically along the planned route.
Reaching the designated coordinates, the bottom hatch opened.
The dyed sand was scattered evenly, forming a clear strip on the ground.
It turned, flew to the next set of coordinates, and spread again.
Precise, efficient, and tireless.
Shane kept his eyes glued to the data and video feed on the tablet.
The flight altitude was stable, the route deviation was less than 0.5 meters, and the spreading uniformity exceeded 95%.
Every parameter was perfect.
Ten minutes later, the operation on the first demo field was complete.
The drone automatically returned to its home point, landed precisely on the plastic sheet where it had started, and the rotors stopped.
Silence fell over the field.
Only the camera continued to record silently.
John’s mouth hung open; his pipe nearly fell out.
He walked quickly to the edge of the field, crouched down to examine the evenly “fertilized” lines of sand, and then looked up at the silent, stationary drone.
His rugged face was filled with disbelief.
“My God…” he muttered.
“This thing…
it actually works.”
“It doesn’t just spread fertilizer.
It can sow seeds, spray pesticides, and perform field mapping,” Shane said calmly as he walked over.
“It’s precise, efficient, and saves at least 60% in labor and 30% in materials.
It can even operate at night or in poor weather.”
John stood up, his eyes burning with interest.
“How much for one of these machines?
No, I mean, what’s the rental rate?
Or are you selling them?”
Shane felt a surge of confidence.
The farmer’s reaction was the best advertisement he could ask for.
He was about to answer when the roar of aggressive engines approached from the distance.
Two modified pickup trucks painted with gaudy flame decals kicked up dust as they barreled into the farm, screeching to a halt right at the edge of the demonstration field.
The doors slammed open, and half a dozen burly men jumped out.
They wore tight tank tops that revealed arms covered in tattoos, and their expressions were hostile.
At their head was a bald man with a nose ring.
His fierce gaze swept over Shane and John before finally settling on the Skylark drone.
“Hey!
Old John!”
The bald man sneered, his voice raspy.
“I heard you found a kid playing with RC planes.
What kind of new trick is this?
Did you get permission from ‘The Brotherhood’?”
John’s expression changed.
He took a step forward, shielding Shane and the drone.
He lowered his voice and whispered to Shane, “It’s a local gang.
The leader’s nickname is ‘Razor.’ They monopolize ‘security’ and part of the agricultural supplies for several farms in this area.
It’s basically a protection racket.
I…
I didn’t pay them this year’s ‘membership fee’.”
Razor swaggered over and kicked the drone’s transport case, making it wobble.
“What is this junk?
Trying to steal The Brotherhood’s business?
Huh?”
The thugs behind him burst into laughter, closing in with ill intent.
Shane’s heart sank.
He hadn’t expected his first product test to run into this kind of local trouble.
The camera was still running, recording everything.
He shot a quick glance at his pickup; the remote and spare batteries were inside, but the other side had the numbers.
A physical confrontation would surely end badly for him.
John tried to negotiate.
“Razor, this has nothing to do with this gentleman.
Let’s talk about our business privately…”
“Privately?” Razor spat.
“This pretty boy made something that can replace labor.
He’s messing with The Brotherhood’s rice bowl!
Either he pays a ‘technology licensing fee’ right now, or this pile of scrap stays here as junk!”
One of the thugs reached out to grab the drone, which had just landed and hadn’t been packed away yet.
Shane’s eyes turned cold.
This was the result of a month of his hard work, the starting point of his career.
He couldn’t let it be destroyed here.
“Stop!”
His voice wasn’t loud, but it carried a peculiar, hard edge.
The thug paused.
Razor squinted at him.
Shane stepped forward, ignoring the other thugs and looking Razor straight in the eye.
“This drone is equipped with a high-definition camera.
It has been recording the entire time, including your trespassing on a private farm and your threats to destroy property.
The data is being uploaded to the cloud in real-time.
If you touch it, or if you touch me, this footage will be in the inboxes of the police department and several media outlets I’m in contact with by the next second.”
His speaking pace was steady, and his gaze never wavered.
“‘The Brotherhood’?
I’ve looked into you.
You have quite the record at the precinct.
Gathering a crowd to cause trouble, destruction of property, attempted extortion…
Add this clear footage to that, and how many years do you think you’ll be spending inside?”
Razor’s face darkened as he stared intensely at Shane, trying to determine if he was bluffing.
The indicator light on the drone’s camera was indeed blinking slightly.
Shane continued to apply pressure, lowering his voice so only the few men in front of him could hear.
“Also, your trucks.
I’ve already noted the license plates.
Modified vehicles—neither the noise levels nor the emissions are legal, are they?
I know a few friends at the DMV and the EPA who would be very happy to give you some special attention.”
It was a bluff, but Shane spoke with absolute certainty.
He was betting that these local thugs were just bullies who would crumble when faced with the threat of authority and bureaucracy.
The atmosphere turned tense.
Razor’s eyes were fierce, his fists clenched.
The thugs behind him were itching for a fight.
John was sweating profusely from tension.
Shane’s hand reached quietly into his pocket, gripping a small, high-strength alloy wrench he used for maintenance.
It felt cold and hard.
Seconds ticked by.
Finally, Razor spat on the ground and glared at Shane.
“Kid, you’ve got guts.
We’re leaving!”
With a wave of his hand, he led his grumbling men back to the trucks.
The two pickups roared to life, kicking up dust as they drove away from the farm in a pathetic exit.
Only after the engine noise had completely vanished did John let out a long breath, wiping cold sweat from his brow.
“Good heavens, Mr.
Grintel, you really went for it…
They aren’t people you want to mess with.”
Shane released the wrench; his hand was slick with sweat, and his back was damp.
But his face remained calm as he went over to check the drone, confirming it was undamaged.
“Sometimes, if you act more dangerous than they are, they’re the ones who get scared.”
He turned off the drone’s recording—which was actually just standard operational footage without any real-time cloud upload capabilities—and packed up his equipment.
“Mr.
Oak, I’m sorry about today.
I’ll send you the detailed proposal for the drone rental or purchase later.
I’ll handle the footage from today’s shoot carefully to ensure the farm’s location isn’t exposed.”
John nodded.
He was still shaken, but his view of Shane had completely changed.
“Right, right…
Thanks to you today.
Those bastards…
sigh.
Your machine is really something.
Let’s stay in touch.”
On the way back, Shane drove slowly.
The fading adrenaline left him deeply fatigued, but his mind was exceptionally clear.
Today’s demonstration was a success; the product’s performance had been verified.
But the appearance of Razor’s gang had been a bucket of cold water.
This world didn’t just have distant supervillains and cosmic crises; it had immediate, mundane malice and trouble.
If he wanted to develop technology and accumulate capital in peace, he needed more than just good products.
He needed the power to protect himself.