Chapter 789: NO．158：Neon Gold Is Like This, What Can You Do

NO. 158: Neon gold is like this—what can you do about it?

"Dark Gona, how's the test subject's status debugging going?"

"Test subject? Watch your tone—show some respect. That's His Majesty."

"Say whatever you want—how's its condition?"

In that deep immersion chatroom where the room number constantly refreshes at random, each member appears as their true alien form, and the atmosphere among colleagues is hardly friendly.

"It? You—"

"Hey~! Calm down, Dark Gona—I can sense your negative energy radiating from afar. It's not yet time for real action."

Clearly a being of muscle and spikes, yet forced into a tightly fitted black suit, with a skull-like, ferocious face—this necromancer mage appears amid the room-switching light effects.

Opening with that old eavesdropping weirdo again.

The former Dark Gona might not have taken this newcomer seriously, but now he relies heavily on them: "... You're right, Robert."

"His Majesty's various indices have now entered a stable phase, just as designed in Project 13."

"Project 13? We can't follow Project 13 anymore—the calculation variables have already shifted to Project 31. Lately, there seem to be quite a few suspicious little things."

Likewise, the Jetton alien appears in formal attire—undoubtedly the most widely accepted dress code—but it's undeniable that when he shows up, the Betean alien soon follows in the exact same outfit—

—making this place look like a corporate team-building event, where everyone stays stiff and unchanged simply because the boss is present.

In fact, it's pretty much like that—except the boss hasn't arrived yet; the employees are just casually chatting.

"For example?" Dark Gona asked.

He, whose unusual build makes clothing difficult, still feels quite out of place here—knowing even Robert, covered head to toe in horns, is straining to torment his own wardrobe.

"For example, seven subordinate industries were shut down in a single day." The Betean alien flicked a finger, plucking a drink from midair.

"The stability report records for that Babar alien in the Western Sector of the Gate have also been cut off—why don't you just go dig through those artificial brains yourself?" The Gasi alien also joined in.

"I just feel… it's not very safe." Dark Gona shook his head.

As a dark strategist, during his time in power in the Belia Galactic Empire, he relied only on mechanical aids, handling most operations himself.

This reveals a degree of elderly distrust toward artificial intelligence.

"What could possibly be unsafe?" The blue-headed Gil alien shook his head. "The hangar environment built by the Beteans contains nothing Gilbalis could exploit. Given that junkyard mainframe, even deploying the mech wouldn't get you very far."

"That's how it's said, but facing this kind of planet-destroying AI… it's hard not to feel uneasy."

"The Heart of Terra would give you peace of mind? Don't make me laugh," the Pedan alien sneered, waving a hand. "If I had to say, compared to it, the previously mentioned Western Sector Babar… is that slippery Barthum guy?"

"Exactly—that slippery, scheming bastard," the Hippoliet alien said, rubbing his nose. "He avoids demotion only by doing basic work well, so his delayed stability report has drawn attention from many."

"Are you all just hoping to grab a position?" Robert said with ill intent.

"Hard to say—the Western Sector is still a bit tricky, but at least Barthum's performance is surely gone. After all, now everyone's just exploiting the situation, kicking people when they're down." The Baltar alien spread his claws.

This deeply flawed yet unchallenged colleague dynamic is the consistent atmosphere among these lawless aliens.

Though Dark Gona struggles to adapt to their habit of fully delegating plan management and modification to AI, he hasn't reached the point of quitting—so he still reluctantly speaks up to summarize:

"So these past two days, Zero and Jede haven't been found, but a bunch of big and small incidents have popped up—looks like we've totally startled the snake by beating the grass."

He does feel it's not good, but seeing his colleagues show zero concern…

Only makes him feel worse—haven't these guys ever considered that an incident might just end there? Or is there some rule or law in this world he hasn't noticed yet?

"Minor issue—this is within regulation, so now the simulation path isn't jumping from 13 to 31 anymore, even fluctuating—" the Baltar alien said, pointing at the unfolding holographic screen before him—"now it's at 34, and our next steps have shifted somewhat."

"This back-and-forth fluctuation in simulation makes it clear we're being watched," the Betean alien mused. "If it's official, tracking us down to this hidden room is probably just a matter of time."

"Let's refresh the room code first—action timing shouldn't need to change," the Gil alien said while standing up. "Reforming the first G1 race—this kind of opportunity only comes around with the Year-End Dream Cup."

——

"The largest audience, the most spotlighted match—it'll also be the best cover, and possibly even interfere with the match itself to facilitate that deal…"

Central Tressen Training Field, partly sunny afternoon—when Olmer watches that girl, now far more candid and resolute, splash through mud and water across the grassy field, his gaze isn't just on her speed, but also on the hoofprints she leaves along the inner edge of the fence.

Horseshoes might have room for optimization—he thinks this while simultaneously talking over the video screen.

On screen, Bhejtrix holds several versions of paper documents, spreading them out almost to the camera lens to show Olmer.

This is clearly not asking whether Olmer masters paper authentication or handwriting analysis—such knowledge, already fading from relevance.

Rather, the police criminal investigation department certainly has professionals—these two fields, though increasingly undervalued and reduced to electives, still carry decent credits.

With so many officers in the major precinct, it's easy to find specialists, making detectives in this era somewhat redundant.

So anyone still insisting they're a detective beyond basic knowledge must have some exclusive tricks up their sleeve.

Of course, Olmer doesn't call himself a detective—he just recalled that brown-haired horse girl he was investigating with White Ren, who hadn't yielded anything yet, until Olmer called it off due to progress on Celestina's side.

Now, with police extracting information from interrogating that Babar alien—though we still don't know how to pinpoint the headquarters—we no longer need to blindly sweep through those broad basic leads, checking each "possibly related industry."

Because it directly involves the short-distance horse girl championship, the two Triple Crown horse girls and Symboli's side are constantly transmitting updates, causing the screen's top alert popup to trigger every few minutes.

Should we say it's full of drive, or just skilled in its domain?

He sighs in admiration for the short-distance championship, then waves his hand, indicating he's finished reading everything on screen.

"If your horse girl is racing, you need to be especially careful," said Officer Shuwei Ya, folding the files, her face bearing the usual sternness of official duty—"the worst case is interference at the track—we'll notify organizers in advance to prepare, but based on past records, we can't really count on postponement or rescheduling."

"That's definitely out of the question." Olmer, speaking as an insider trainer, affirmed her guess.

"The association's races have seen schedule changes due to force majeure only a handful of times in history."

"Really, such stubborn trouble." Shuwei Ya's reply was restrained—likely because she couldn't read Olmer's attitude as a professional.

And Olmer's response left her still unable to gauge him.

"Indeed troublesome, but ultimately, it's what many people hope for."