Yang Ying remembered he had a mag-lev car parked right by the curb. Since the distance to the City Hall wasn't close—a walk would take several hours and pose an extreme danger—he decided to try starting the vehicle.

Having made up his mind, he opened the window and jumped straight onto the street, quickly locating his vehicle amidst a heap of scrap metal. The mag-lev cars of the twenty-sixth century featured streamlined, silver-gray shells, hovering half a meter to a meter off the ground when moving, capable of speeds exceeding two hundred kilometers per hour.

Yang Ying tiptoed toward the car, noting that while the hood had sustained a brutal impact, causing a central dent and warped edges, it was still far better off than the surrounding wreckage, likely because the cabin had been empty at the time of the incident. He pulled out the key to unlock the door while simultaneously scanning the surroundings, remaining ever alert to potential threats.

Soon, he successfully opened the door. Sliding inside, he attempted to start the mag-lev car, but the indicator light for the engine flickered once, then died out.

"Damn junk heap! Failing me at this crucial moment!

Start up, quick!" Yang Ying mumbled the words silently, his instincts warning him that danger was closing in. Yet, the car ignored his haste and simply refused to cooperate.

Yang Ying quickly dismounted, popped the hood, and found a hole punched into the center of the engine block. As he touched the dented area with his hand, he analyzed the damage using the fragmented knowledge remaining in his memory.

The impact point was the nexus of multiple systems; underneath the dent lay a mass of severed wires. Clearly, a significant portion was destroyed, and repairing it wouldn't be simple.

Not only did he lack tools, but the time required would be enough to walk to the City Hall. In that instant, a jolt ran through Yang Ying; his senses registered the terrifying presence of something watching him.

The location: approximately fifty meters directly behind the hood! Yang Ying spun around and fled instantly, paying no heed to any curiosity about observing the enemy.

In such a situation, craning one's neck out was tantamount to suicide. His target was a restaurant twenty meters ahead.

The restaurant, with its numerous obstacles and exits, offered an excellent spot to lose a pursuer. More importantly, the memories attached to this body held a clear impression of the establishment.

He frequented the place for meals and was a regular card partner of the owner, giving him an intimate understanding of the interior layout. Bursting through the restaurant’s main entrance, Yang Ying immediately saw his old card-playing friend and several patrons collapsed on the floor, their exteriors covered in frost marks—they had clearly frozen to death long ago.

Before he could process the grief, a tremendous rushing sound echoed from behind him, sending a chill down his spine. He dove forward instinctively.

With a tremendous crash, the mag-lev car slammed straight into the restaurant, shattering doors, windows, and walls in an explosion of flying debris. To evade the impact, Yang Ying executed a clumsy roll and hid beneath a table.

To his horror, he realized the car hadn't been driven; it had been thrown! Although mag-lev vehicles were generally built lighter with lightweight alloys to reduce magnetic load, they still weighed nearly two tons.

Yang Ying lay prone on the floor until the rain of glass subsided, then scrambled back up, making a dash toward the rear of the restaurant where the kitchen and the back exit were located. During his sprint, he passed three tables and swiftly pocketed the glass pepper shakers resting on them, tucking them into his coat pockets.

In the final second before entering the kitchen, he glanced rapidly over his shoulder. Through the massive hole created by the car, a fuzzy, grayish-white arm appeared—unmistakably non-human.

Where the wrist had less fur, the subcutaneous veins were distended and bulging, writhing like earthworms, conveying a savage, primal strength. Yang Ying bolted into the kitchen, snatched a long, narrow cleaver from the counter, gripping it like a short sword.

He couldn't face this unnaturally robust brute empty-handed, and while a cleaver might offer minimal utility, it was better than nothing. He suddenly remembered the StarCraft world he possessed and called out Baal's name mentally.

"What commands do you have for your humble servant, great and omnipotent Master?" Baal's voice resonated in his mind. Yang Ying felt like spitting blood.

What normally sounded like obsequious flattery was now an agonizing mockery during his desperate flight. "Forget it.

Nothing," Yang Ying replied testily. "Oh?" Baal seemed to sense the situation and suggested, "Your humble servant Baal perceives you are in dire straits.

Of course, this surely poses no challenge for the invincible Master, but perhaps a minor task for us to handle? Although the base currently holds no military units, the Master may summon the peasants of the three races to assist in clearing the immediate obstacle." "No need!" Yang Ying's innate pride flared, and he answered calmly, "You all mind your own business!" "As you command, my Master!" Baal's voice faded.

The peasants' offensive capabilities were frankly pitiful. Even a whole squadron attacking together, regardless of the likelihood of burying the pursuer under their mass, would result in catastrophic casualties.

The projectile mag-lev car had clearly demonstrated the tracker's power; the peasants wouldn't withstand being hit by even one car. For Yang Ying, casualties weren't the primary concern; in war, death was inevitable.

What mattered was that this was only the first day of his transmigration; everything was just beginning. Opponents ten, even a hundred times stronger than this tracker would appear before him in the future.

He was a man destined to dominate the world and achieve immortal accomplishments. His brief life experience had taught him profoundly: the higher one climbs, the harder the fall.

Possessing power without commensurate spirit and capability would eventually lead to self-destruction, like an infant wielding a great hammer. If he couldn't even handle this petty tracker today, it meant he, the master of this miniature StarCraft universe, was nothing special, leaving no room to speak of dominating the world.

Therefore, Yang Ying vowed internally: "Before the first Zealot appears, I will survive by my own strength. This is a trial of ability, but also a test of will and wisdom.

If I fail this trial, I would rather die than be considered incompetent!" Although he had so many thoughts, very little time had actually passed. As he passed through the kitchen and was only three steps from the restaurant's back door, a loud boom sounded behind him, and a colossal figure tore through the wall!

Simultaneously, Yang Ying spun around, moving swiftly, and pulled a pepper shaker from his pocket, hurling it toward the upper part of the breach in the wall. The bottle smashed against the wall surface, shattering into dust.

The glass shards and pepper powder scattered down, landing directly onto the tracker's face. The tracker let out a bestial roar, screaming while clutching its face.

Yang Ying took the opportunity to observe. The tracker stood over two meters tall, its body a knot of bulging muscle, covered in long, dense fur.

Through the gaps between its fingers, he saw its face: the snout protruded, the jaw was massive, giving it an ancient, archaic look—nothing like a human face, but rather an ape-man! Even in the biting cold outside air, this ape-man wore only a black tank top on its upper body and a communication headset on its head.

Its arms and shoulders were fully exposed to the piercing cold, yet it moved with the swiftness of the wind, completely unaffected by the temperature. A laser pistol and an unknown metal baton were clipped to its belt.

While the ape-man was blinded, Yang Ying burst through the restaurant's rear door. He immediately spotted a relatively intact mag-lev motorcycle lying on its side across the street.

A body was pinned beneath it, drenched in blood, clearly deceased for some time, but its hand still gripped the handlebars. A prime opportunity!