Doomsday Mechanic: My Train Can Be Modified Infinitely

Chapter 89 27 Oraning Street

Outside the car window, the Berlin night was deep. The rain had stopped, but the clouds remained thick, obscuring the starlight. The city was asleep, but in some corners, some people were awake, plotting.

Wang Zhengyang began preparing for the operation. Not the weapons—those were already prepared. It was himself.

He sat down at his worktable, closed his eyes, and let his consciousness sink deep into the distance. There were no digital interfaces, no progress bars, only a single perception—a perception of his own body, his own abilities, and what he was becoming.

The mechanical pulse resonated in his blood, the metallic whispers echoed in his bones. Mastering three rifles was just the beginning; he knew there were many more possibilities: heavier weapons, greater distances, more complex coordination. But he also knew that every expansion came at a price, every evolution would change the way he saw the world.

Forty minutes later, Wang Zhengyang opened his eyes. The light in the carriage seemed clearer, the luster of the metal surfaces had more layers, and the movement of the air was almost visible. His senses were sharpened, like a newly honed blade.

He stood up and did a final check of his equipment: three G17 pistols tucked into his belt, two spare magazines, a military dagger, and communications equipment. The three rifles would remain in the carriage—tonight's mission required stealth, not a direct assault.

But Wang Zhengyang knew that if necessary, he could quickly return to the carriage and retrieve those weapons. And he knew that when he picked them up, they would respond faster, more accurately, and more seamlessly than before.

This isn't a superpower, he told himself. It's just... a talent. Just as some people are born sensitive to pitch, and some are born perceptive to color, he seems to be born with a connection to metal and machinery.

But this explanation began to seem weak after the night Natasha was rescued. Because talent wouldn't allow three pistols to float in the air, wouldn't allow nine bullets to hit six enemies' vital points simultaneously, and wouldn't allow someone who had never received formal mechanical training to repair a rifle that should have been scrapped in seven minutes.

Wang Zhengyang shook his head, dispelling these thoughts. Now is not the time to delve into the essence; now is the time to act.

He stepped out of the maintenance car and gently closed the door. The corridor was silent; most of the people in the other cars were asleep.

Without alerting anyone, Wang Zhengyang quietly crossed the train and arrived at the very end of the exit. He opened the train door, and the humid air of the Berlin night rushed in.

The streets were deserted after the rain, save for the occasional sound of a car in the distance. Oranien Street was 3.7 kilometers away, and he had to walk there—vehicles were too conspicuous, and he needed this time to get his body and mind into peak condition.

Wang Zhengyang blended into the night, his steps slow yet firm. With each step, he adjusted his breathing, calibrated his senses, and extended that resonance with the machinery to the entire environment: the hardness of the asphalt pavement beneath his feet, the vibration frequency of a car engine in the distance, and the speed of water flowing in the pipes inside a building.

All this information converged in his mind, weaving into a dynamic map. And he was moving toward a point on the map—27 Oranien Street, a place where Andrei's team might be hiding, or it might be a trap.

But he will go. Because Natasha is waiting for news of her father, because Victor and the others need their captain, and because sometimes, knowing it's a trap is the only way out.

The rain started again, the fine raindrops shimmering under the streetlights. Wang Zhengyang turned up his collar and continued walking.

His fingertips unconsciously brushed against the pistol at his waist. The metallic touch was warm and familiar, like a handshake with an old friend.

Pistols, rifles, or other weapons that may be encountered in the future. Light, heavy, simple, complex.

Whatever it is, he knows it will respond to his call.

Because on this rainy night, on the quiet streets of Berlin, a man is learning a language to dance with machines.

He learned very quickly.

At 10 p.m., the rain intensified.

The streets of Kreuzberg were glistening from the rain, and streetlights cast a dim, yellowish glow on the wet asphalt. This neighborhood, known for its multiculturalism, was unusually quiet at this moment—the neon lights of Turkish kebab shops flickered in the rain, the Arab supermarkets had closed early, and only a few bars were still lit, with faint music drifting through the rain.

Wang Zhengyang and Li Ming sat in an inconspicuous gray Volkswagen sedan, parked on the corner of Oraning Street. The car was a temporary vehicle that Li Ming had obtained through black market channels; the license plate was fake, and the interior had undergone basic anti-eavesdropping measures.

"That's the building." Li Ming pointed to a five-story old-fashioned apartment building across the street. "27 Oranin Street. The first floor is a Syrian grocery store that has already closed down, and the second to fifth floors are apartments. According to the architectural drawings, there are two entrances to the basement—one inside the building and one in the back alley."

Wang Zhengyang observed the building through the windshield wipers. The building was old, with some of the plaster peeling off the exterior walls, and most of the windows were old-fashioned wooden frames. It was dinnertime, but very few windows in the building were lit; only one window on the third floor had light shining through, and two on the fourth floor.

"What's the situation with the residents?" Wang Zhengyang asked.

"I can't find any detailed information." Li Ming operated the tablet. "The residents of these old buildings have a high turnover rate, many of them are short-term renters or illegal immigrants. The landlord is a German lady in her seventies who lives in the suburbs and usually entrusts the management to an agency. I hacked into the agency's system, but the records are very messy. At least eight people have moved in and out in the last three months."

Wang Zhengyang nodded. This chaos was precisely why Andrei's team chose this location—a melting pot of all sorts of people, making them difficult to track down.

"Where are the Iron Hands?" he asked.

"Two hours ago, three cars circled around the area but didn't stop," Li Ming said, pulling up the surveillance footage. "I hacked into the external camera at the corner convenience store and captured the license plates. They were all vehicles commonly used by the Iron Hand Gang. They were looking for someone, but they didn't seem sure of the exact location."

"Mr. Zhou's men?"

"Nothing found." Li Ming shook his head. "Those people are very professional. If they don't want to be discovered, it will be very difficult for us to find them."

Wang Zhengyang pondered for a few seconds. The situation was more complicated than he had anticipated. The Iron Hand Gang was searching openly, the cleanup team was lurking in the shadows, and Andrei's team might be hiding in this building, or they might already be gone.

"I'll go in and take a look," Wang Zhengyang said.

"One person?" Li Ming frowned. "That's too risky. If Andrei's team is really inside, they're like frightened birds right now, they might open fire immediately."

"If they are really inside, then someone needs to go in and explain the situation even more."

"I'll stay outside to provide backup," Li Ming said. "If anything happens, contact me via encrypted walkie-talkie. Channel three, confirming safety every five minutes."

"clear."