Winter in Orb was not cold, but this year's rains were exceptionally heavy.
Nangong Wentian stood under the eaves of the orphanage's back kitchen, watching raindrops slide from the edge of the roof tiles and splash into small pits in the muddy ground. At three years and nine months old, he was just taller than an adult's knee, bundled in an old cotton-padded coat sewn by Sister Mary, looking like an inconspicuous little bundle.
But his eyes were intently fixed on the rusty sheet metal drainpipe under the eaves.
Rainwater flowed over the rust, carrying away some orange-red powder. He crouched down, dipped a fingertip into the muddy water mixed with rust, brought it to his nose to sniff, and then examined the color carefully.
"Oxidation of iron," he silently recorded in his mind. "Ambient humidity 85%, temperature approximately 18 degrees Celsius, oxidation rate..."
"Wentian! What are you doing?"
The voice of the cook Tanaka came from behind. Nangong Wentian stood up, turned around, and showed the innocent smile a three-year-old should have: "Watching the rain."
Tanaka walked over carrying a basket of vegetables, looking down at this child who was always "a bit strange." He crouched down, using his rough, large hand to wipe the mud-stained face of Nangong Wentian. "Don't crouch outside on rainy days, you'll catch a chill easily. Come inside, I'll roast a sweet potato for you."
"Thank you, Uncle Tanaka."
Nangong Wentian followed him into the back kitchen. The warm air was filled with the smell of flour and firewood. Tanaka placed the vegetables on the chopping board, then fished out two sweet potatoes from beside the stove and tossed them into the charcoal fire.
"Sit there and wait." Tanaka pointed to a small stool in the corner.
Nangong Wentian obediently sat down, his gaze sweeping over every corner of the back kitchen—the old refrigerator that had been used for over a decade, its compressor surface already corroded; the aluminum pots and utensils piled in the corner, their edges showing signs of deformation; and the plastic vegetable basket Tanaka had just set down, with a crack at the bottom crudely bound with wire.
Every object was whispering the secrets of materials to him.
"Material strength, toughness, corrosion resistance..." he silently organized in his mind. "The level of civilian materials in this world is even lower than I anticipated."
He closed his eyes, calling upon the system that had taken initial form within his consciousness.
"Star Core, retrieve basic material data from the UC Era."
A stream of data instantly flooded in.
RX-78-2 Gundanium Alloy: Titanium/ceramic composite material, tensile strength 1200MPa, density 4.5g/cm³, heat resistance limit 1800°C...
Luna Titanium Alloy: After smelting assisted by Minovsky Particles, crystal structure reorganized, strength increased by 40%...
"Close UC data. Retrieve 00 Era data."
GN Composite Armor: Multi-layer vapor deposition of E-Carbon Fiber and metal matrix, integrated anti-beam coating, energy absorption rate 73%...
"Close 00 data."
Nangong Wentian opened his eyes, his gaze falling on the rust-covered refrigerator.
The gap was a chasm-like disparity.
The Gundarium alloy of the UC Era requires crystal structure reorganization in a Minovsky Particle environment; the E-Carbon Armor of the 00 Era relies on nanoscale multilayer vapor deposition processes. And this world? It still uses ordinary steel and aluminum alloys, dependent on the most traditional metallurgical techniques.
Even this world's most advanced MS—those Astray Series secretly under development at Morgenroete—merely employ improved layered armor. Pure physical protection, relying on thickness to build defense.
"The concept of energy armor is still a blank in this world."
Nangong Wentian's fingers unconsciously traced something on the ground. Tanaka glanced back, thinking the child was doodling, and smiled without paying it much mind.
But what Nangong Wentian was drawing was a simplified structural diagram of E-Carbon Armor.
He needed to adapt this technology from the 00 Era into a form achievable by this world's metallurgical processes. No reliance on GN Particles, no reliance on nanotechnology—only the most traditional alloy formulas, heat treatments, and rolling techniques.
"The formula needs simplification, but the core principles cannot be lost. Multilayer structure, interface reinforcement, residual stress control..."
He was immersed in his own world until a sweet, fragrant scent drifted into his nostrils.
"Here, it's done." Tanaka handed over a peeled sweet potato, its golden flesh steaming.
Nangong Wentian took it and carefully took a bite. The sweet, soft flavor melted on his tongue.
"Good?" Tanaka crouched before him, a simple smile on his face.
"Good." Nangong Wentian nodded earnestly.
Tanaka reached out and ruffled his hair: "Eat more, grow strong. You're just too thin, kid."
Nangong Wentian lowered his head to nibble on the sweet potato, but a thought rose in his mind: If the E-Carbon Armor research succeeds, I must get Uncle Tanaka a new refrigerator—one that won't rust.
"Uncle Tanaka," he suddenly looked up, "that refrigerator... has it been broken for a long time?"
Tanaka followed his gaze to the old refrigerator and sighed: "Yeah, the compressor's gone, refrigerant's leaking. Tried fixing it a few times, couldn't manage. The director says funds are tight, so we make do."
"Why not buy a new one?"
"A new one costs tens of thousands," Tanaka said with a bitter smile, "enough for a month's food expenses at our orphanage."
Nangong Wentian silently chewed on the sweet potato. Tens of thousands of Orb—that was the price of a civilian-grade refrigerator. And the cost of a single MS was tens of thousands of times that.
This was the chasm in materials science. Not just a simple technological gap, but a generational difference in the entire industrial system.
"If..." he was about to say something when he suddenly heard the sound of an unfamiliar car engine from the front courtyard.
Tanaka stood up, wiping his hands: "Visitors? Stay here, don't move. I'll go check."
Nangong Wentian, of course, would not "stay here, don't move." He quietly slipped to the back kitchen door, peeking half his head out to look toward the orphanage's front courtyard.
A gray official car was parked at the entrance, its side bearing an unfamiliar emblem—not military, but formal. Two men in plain clothes were speaking with the director.
Nangong Wentian pricked up his ears. A three-year-old's hearing was limited, but his Newtype Ability was beginning to bud, allowing him to faintly catch fragments of the distant conversation.
"...Morgenroete... materials project... bottleneck..."
His heart stirred. Morgenroete? That was Orb's core institution for Mobile Suit development.
"...Thank you for coming all this way to inform me," the director's voice was gentle yet restrained, "but I've been out of that circle for many years now."
"We know, Ms. Watanabe," one of the men said, "but you were once Morgenroete's best materials analyst. We just hope to hear your opinion—on the optimization direction for Layered Armor."
Watanabe?
Nangong Wentian was slightly taken aback. He had never heard the director's surname before. The children all called her "Director," and no one had ever mentioned her full name.
"I haven't touched any of that for fifteen years," the director shook her head, "and now I'm the director of an orphanage, not a materials analyst. I'm sorry, I can't help you."
"Even just for a chat?"
"Please leave." The director's tone remained gentle, but it was firm.
The two men exchanged a glance and nodded helplessly. "Then... we apologize for disturbing you."
They turned and walked toward the official vehicle. Just then, one of the men accidentally dropped his briefcase, scattering several documents.
"Sorry." The man bent down to pick them up.
Nangong Wentian's gaze fell on those documents—too far away to see the specific contents clearly, but he vaguely caught a few lines:
"...37th test of Layered Armor... insufficient interfacial peeling strength... materials procurement list..."
The man quickly gathered the documents and stuffed them back into his bag. The two got into the car and drove away.
The director stood at the door, watching the departing car, unmoving for a long time. Her back, in the winter drizzle, looked especially frail.
Nangong Wentian quietly retreated to the back kitchen.
Tanaka was still there. Seeing him return, he asked, "Who was outside?"
"Not sure," Nangong Wentian shook his head, "seemed like they were looking for the director."
Tanaka gave an "oh" and didn't ask further, continuing with his own tasks.
But Nangong Wentian's mind had already flown to those documents.
Layered Armor. Insufficient interfacial peeling strength. Materials procurement list.
Putting these terms together, the amount of information was immense.
Morgenroete's Mobile Suit development had hit a bottleneck—the adhesion between the layers of the Layered Armor wasn't strong enough, failing to meet design requirements. This was the most common problem with composite materials, and also the hardest to solve.
"If I could help them solve this problem..."
The thought flashed through Nangong Wentian's mind, but he immediately suppressed it.
Not now. He was only three years old. A three-year-old child couldn't "coincidentally" know how to solve cutting-edge materials problems. Too dangerous.
But he could start preparing.
He needed to understand the current state of the materials industry in this world. He needed to know what materials and processes Morgenroete was using, and where they were stuck. He needed to find a way, at some appropriate time in the future, to contribute his knowledge in a "reasonable" manner.
"Record," he commanded in his mind. "New project: Morgenroete Materials Bottleneck Tracking. Priority: Medium. Related individuals: Director (suspected original name Watanabe, former Morgenroete materials analyst), Erica Simmons (Morgenroete core designer)."
Data entry complete.
Nangong Wentian took the last bite of sweet potato, chewing slowly.
Outside the window, the rain continued to fall. That rust-stained drainpipe still dripped with orange-red water.
But he knew that one day, he would make the world use materials that wouldn't rust, armor that wouldn't peel, and technology that would never become obsolete.
It just needed time.
"Wentian!" The director's voice came from outside. "Where are you?"
"In the back kitchen!" Nangong Wentian responded, standing up from the small stool.
The director walked in and, seeing him next to Tanaka, showed a relieved expression. "Why did you run off here?"
"Uncle Tanaka roasted sweet potatoes for me." Nangong Wentian pointed to the charcoal fire.
The director looked at Tanaka, who smiled and nodded. "This child is sensible, doesn't cause trouble."
The director crouched down and wiped the sweet potato crumbs from the corner of Nangong Wentian's mouth. "Don't run off like that in the future. I'd worry if I couldn't find you."
Nangong Wentian looked at her. Up close, he could see the fine lines at the corners of her eyes and the faint, almost imperceptible weariness deep in her gaze—a trace left by that brief conversation earlier.
"Director," he suddenly asked, "what did you do before?"
The director paused slightly, then smiled. "Why ask that all of a sudden?"
"I just want to know."
The director was silent for a moment, gently patting his head. "A long time ago, I did some… technical work. Later, I realized dealing with machines wasn't as interesting as dealing with children. So I came here."
Nangong Wentian nodded and didn't ask further.
But he remembered that moment—the complex glimmer in the director's eyes when she said "technical work." It wasn't disgust or nostalgia, but something deeper, buried by time.
"Let's go, back to the room," the director stood up and took his hand. "It's cold outside."
Nangong Wentian followed her out. At the doorway, he glanced back at Tanaka.
Tanaka was scrubbing a pot, humming an unfamiliar tune. That rusty old refrigerator in the dim corner of the back kitchen emitted a low, steady hum.
One day, he would change all of this.