The wind whipped up sand, which pelted against his propulsion suit, making a soft, crackling sound. Chen Hao felt as if his bones had been removed, and he could only move forward with the support of the metal braces under his armpits. His feet dragged on the ground, leaving two broken tracks on the soles of his shoes, like two threads about to snap.

Nana walked slightly ahead of him, her right arm brace firmly supporting his body, but her left leg occasionally made a soft creaking sound, like a small pebble stuck in a gear. She didn't stop, nor did she complain of pain, but her pace slowed down slightly.

"How much further...?" he gasped, barely able to speak.

“1.8 kilometers.” Her voice was still flat and emotionless, but she spoke faster than before, as if she was afraid that if she slowed down she would stop.

“I feel… I can’t walk on my own anymore.” He grinned, sweat dripping down his chin. “I’m a corpse you’re dragging along.”

“Your motor nerves are still working,” she said, “it’s just that the signal transmission efficiency has decreased.”

"You make it sound so real." He scoffed. "I feel sleepy even if I open my eyes."

As soon as he finished speaking, his knees buckled, and he sank down. Nana immediately increased her push, and the support frame deformed slightly, managing to lift him back up.

“Don’t pour it,” she said. “If you pour it again, the system might not be able to start up again.”

"Are you trying to scare me?" He gave a wry smile. "I'm already like this, do you think I'll renege on my debt?"

“I’m just stating the facts.” She continued walking forward. “Your current metabolic level is close to the coma threshold. If you completely lose consciousness, the evacuation will be three times more difficult.”

"Alright then." He closed his eyes. "Then you'd better carry me back, don't abandon me halfway."

“I didn’t give the ‘throw’ command,” she said. “I only gave the ‘mission terminated’ command.”

"That's good," he muttered, "otherwise I wouldn't be able to die in peace."

The ground gradually became flatter, the slope lessened, and the wind weakened. Nana suddenly raised her left hand and drew a line in the air. A faint blue light emanated from her fingertips and extended along the ground like a glowing rope.

“Follow it,” she said. “It can save 12 percent of energy consumption.”

"Why didn't you add this feature earlier?" He squinted at the line. "After falling so many times, why didn't you draw a path sooner?"

“You were resisting assistance at the time,” she said. “Forced guidance can lead to psychological resistance and affect cooperation.”

"So you actually consider my feelings?" He laughed. "I thought you only cared about the data."

“The data includes psychological parameters,” she said. “A high level of agitation can affect heart rate, which in turn affects mobility.”

"Tsk." He shook his head. "You're even better at analyzing things than my homeroom teacher."

The two walked slowly along the blue line. Every step was heavy, but at least they didn't fall again. Chen Hao's breathing gradually became more even, and although his head was still spinning, he could at least hear what she was saying.

“The escape pod is just ahead,” she said. “The outline is already visible.”

He managed to lift his head, and on the distant horizon, a cylindrical structure half-buried in the sand was revealed, its outer shell rusted, but the signal light on top was flashing, as if it were still breathing.

"It's still alive," he murmured. "I thought we'd only be able to collect its corpse when we got back."

“Its standby mode is designed for ten years,” she said. “It can be restarted as soon as the energy is restored.”

“Then we’re its saviors.” He grinned. “When it wakes up, it’ll have to call us Dad.”

“It doesn’t have an emotion module,” she said. “It doesn’t express gratitude.”

"Sigh," he sighed, "It was all for nothing."

Finally, they reached the hatch. Nana released the support and turned to check the door lock. The mechanical fingers slid rapidly across the control panel, and a few seconds later, with a "click," the seal was depressurized, and the hatch slowly opened inward.

A strong smell of stale dust wafted over.

"Welcome home." After saying that, he stumbled headfirst into the door frame, almost getting stuck.

Nana reached out and supported his shoulder, giving him a gentle push to slide into the seat. Sensing the weight, the seat automatically adjusted to a semi-reclined position, and a slight vibration came from his back, like a machine yawning.

“I’m going to pick up the star core,” she said.

She walked to a corner and took out the shimmering crystal from her backpack. Its surface had some scratches, but it still shone brightly in the dimly lit cabin.

She crouched down and opened the power interface cover. The dust was too thick, and cleaning it manually was too risky. She squinted, a very thin red light flashing in her pupils, then gently swept it—the dust inside the interface instantly vaporized, revealing a delicate slot underneath.

"That was a really cool move." Chen Hao looked on in a daze. "You should go fix air conditioners and earn some extra money."

She didn't respond, but simply picked up the crystal with her fingertips and slowly aligned it with the slot. With a click, it fit perfectly.

“Initiate a self-check,” she said.

The console screen flickered a few times, and the red warning lights went out one after another, replaced by a steady green light band. The energy meter needle began to slowly climb, from zero to twenty, then to fifty... and finally stopped at eighty.

"Energy has been restored to 80 percent," she said. "Basic life support, communication, and temperature control systems have all been activated."

"Great." He closed his eyes. "Can I take a hot shower now?"

“Sure,” she said. “There’s enough water left in the tank for one shower, and the temperature is adjustable.”

"I want it so hot I could boil an egg in it," he muttered, "to wash away all the bad luck I've had along the way."

The cabin lights shifted from a dim yellow to a bright white, the heating started, and the air carried a slightly metallic smell. Chen Hao, huddled in his seat, felt like a piece of bread that had been heated, slowly regaining his senses.

Nana stood in front of the control panel, the optical lens continuously scanning various data. Suddenly, she spoke: "The star core fragment needs to be replenished with coolant every seventy-two hours, otherwise it may overheat and run away."

"Huh?" He opened one eye. "I need to add more water?"

“It’s not water,” she said. “It’s a special thermally conductive gel, stored on the third shelf of the spare supplies cabinet.”

"Why didn't you say so earlier!" He rolled over. "What if we'd accidentally let it slip one day? We'd both be blown to bits!"

"It's not too late to remind them now," she said. "There are still 69 hours until the critical time."

"You even know the time?" he glared. "Are you a human alarm clock?"

“It’s my job,” she said. “I’m not an alarm clock.”

"Okay, okay." He waved his hand. "Next time you say 'it's time to change the coolant,' I'll just treat it as an alarm clock."

He yawned, his eyelids drooping again. The seat's temperature control system continued to release warmth, and his heartbeat gradually calmed down.

"Why don't you go and fix yourself?" he asked vaguely. "The sound your left leg makes is painful to hear."

“The damage did not affect core functions,” she said. “It was a lower priority than task completion.”

"Can't you take a break?" His voice trailed off. "I can't run away."

She glanced at him, and the camera focused slightly.

Then, she walked to the small cabinet next to her, opened the drawer, and took out a small repair kit. But she didn't sit down or start repairing; instead, she stood there, continuing to monitor the data stream on the control panel.

Chen Hao's breathing became long and even, his fingers loosened their grip on the edge of the seat, and he completely sank into a state between sleep and wakefulness.

“Energy has been restored,” she said softly, “but the cooling cycle has already begun to be calculated.”

He didn't respond, but his lips twitched, as if in response, or perhaps as an unconscious twitch.

The cabin fell silent, save for the hum of the instruments and the occasional metallic contraction of cooling metal. Nana's left knee joint clicked slightly again. She glanced down, then raised her hand and added a record to the system log:

[External structural damage: The left shoulder connector is offset by 1.3 mm; there is abnormal noise from the left leg drive shaft. Inspection is recommended.]

After submitting, she closed the log interface and instead brought up the core status monitoring window. The temperature curve was stable, but the coolant level showed "less than one bottle".

She stared at the line of text for a few seconds.

Then she raised her right hand and gently touched the crack on her left shoulder, leaving a faint scratch on her fingertip.