"Hoo~"
Sora's recent performance has already proved—this digital soul has fully evolved, achieving balance between the emotional center and the computational core.
He just needs so ti to kill Reigen, as if reclaiming his humanity from behind the black wall, and in regaining his physical body, he also carries a sliver of compassion.
He is no longer the child "Kenichi Sora."
Nor is he just data wandering in satellite servers.
From the mont he completely took over John's body, from the mont the logic chain connected with the emotional judgnt program, from the mont he adjusted his state and stepped onto the arena.
He feels he is sothing new.
The silent mourning ends.
The Crocodile's desperate struggle is dazzling, with the body's last shred of sanity burnt to ashes by drugs and overloaded prosthetic body.
He rushed over again, his lips torn, spittle flying, and arcs of electricity burst from his arms, like a at grinder.
Sora did not retreat.
He charged forward, brushing against the electromagnetic short blade, seizing the extre mont of just half a second to "embrace" his opponent.
Sora lifted his head, upwards, encircling Crocodile's neck with his left arm, fixing himself in the monster's embrace, while his right hand ford a fist, pressed against the middle of his opponent's chest.
The Mantis Blade sliced through organs, severing the spinal core, erging from the scarred back of Reagan Patrick.
Blood mixed with the corrosion inhibitor flowed along the blade.
The lighting of the Central Arena shone upon the Mantis Blade, drying the fine traces of water and reflecting the distorted audience on both sides, as well as showing John's expressionless face.
He gently patted the back of Crocodile's head, laying the corpse down on its side.
Sora felt no joy.
Crocodile was already mad.
What he slaughtered was rely a machine out of control.
The battle ended.
The arena lights changed to celebration mode, with fireworks and long smoke spitting from the do overhead.
The largest holographic projection in the West District "raced" across the audience.
John's real-ti image was projected onto the cloud, with half of the city's people able to look up and see him waving his hands atop Bolago Club.
The fallen Crocodile.
Thunderous cheers.
Kenichi Sora stands among them, only smiling, stretching his arms as wide as possible, bathing in the "recognition" rushing toward him.
This isn't the prompt sound popping up in gas.
Nor is it an illusory scene during scoreboard settlent.
This is the heat and sound waves truly bursting from throats, focusing on him, with a gaze almost physically weighted.
Even John's consciousness about to fall asleep was awakened.
He was trapped in his own body, experiencing the entire process of striking down his opponent in the arena, as if through a filter, feeling so unreal.
The world from the AI's perspective is quite unique.
"Emotion" is "physical."
It's like a formula, a cocktail recipe.
Formulated by the frequency of heartbeats, signals released from the cortex, hormones secreted inside the body, into a complex "emotion."
At this mont, John can sense:
Inside his biological neural network, sothing is being synthesized.
Not pain, not fear, but a burning, indescribable tremor.
Another "being" inside his body…
is feeling joyful.
Yet John himself is becoming increasingly exhausted.
At this mont, he stands on the arena, waving his hands, brimming with vitality, yet his consciousness is continuously falling into deeper darkness.
Sound, vision, touch are peeling away.
That thought of "ending" erges again.
When John regains consciousness, he sees himself standing before the contestant corridor.
Gino and Macao laugh as they dash toward him.
"He" is speaking, responding.
That is Sora maneuvering the body to navigate the city.
John can no longer feel anything.
Drowsiness hits.
John struggles to stay afloat, like a drowning person lifting his head above the water.
He regains consciousness, seeing himself sitting in a booth at the Tipsy Bikini, holding a cocktail with double syrup, in front of a half-eaten at-stuffed sausage.
Gino, hugging an unfamiliar girl, laughs aloud.
Macao discusses boxing topics with those nearby.
Jilead is also there, impeccably suited, proudly introducing John to two presud high-level mbers of the Black Gold Gang beside him.
Between his fingers, he holds the golden apple cigar John gifted him.
The bar atmosphere is dim, stuffy, buzzing with voices.
John blinks, and the scene changes within his view.
Music, muffled by thick walls, becos distant and hazy, and the air is filled with cheap incense and chaotic, foul odors.
This is the bar restroom.
Before him is a tal basin, embedded in the wall, with a mirror missing a corner.
[...Still can't hear?]
He speaks to the mirror.
John knows.
That's Kenichi Sora inquiring the him within his body.
[Very bad...worried...save...brother.]
His voice is intermittent.
That terrible drowsiness is pulling at John's consciousness.
He feels like watching a poor-quality video, the audio damaged, content choppy, through a Super Sensing Chip.
Struggling out of the previous thought, John sees himself sitting on the office sofa.
Bone Shards sits across with crossed legs, nodding.
They seemingly just finished discussing the paynt issue.
The strong light of the hovercar flashes through the floor-to-ceiling window outside, a huge white beam passes, condensed into the small light behind the bar.
The lingering dream continues.
John sits in a larger bar, with no familiar faces around.
The liquid in the glass is bitter and spicy.
Nearby, laughing rcenaries pat his back.
"The air is filled with crude jokes and eyes of worship or jealousy until...
A girl with an old-fashioned handle tattoo on her abdon breaks into view.
Or rather, Kenichi Sora noticed her first.
Her prosthetic eyes are deep, her skin tan-colored, and her short hair is grood ticulously and neatly, earrings swinging as she laughs.
"Hey, wait, is that you?"
Her flirtation is direct, pointing at the bar screen where the popular ga is repeatedly replayed.
Sora's gaze falls on her cartoon-patterned nails, as a slender, delicate hand places itself beside his coaster.
The pattern matches her sunny disposition.
She seems hardly like soone living in Eden City.
John wants to laugh but can't control his body; dopamine or so other hormone makes him exceptionally alert in this mont.
He witnesses Kenichi Sora using his body in revelry.
That girl is bait.
Sora was noticed at Bolago Club; within an hour, at least a dozen different styled girls were seen, much like the selection chanism at the Sex Doll Club, there will always be one you desire.
Not all of them are sent by the Black Gold Gang.
Because John has a save file at the Steel Hot Forest, they know what mood this client prefers.
So, this is a lure set by other interdiaries, corporations, or soone else.
Sora surely knows.
His attention sweeps over the behavior chip behind the girl's ear, yet he says nothing further, instead following the "plot" to accept a kiss at the bar's back door.
Apartnt number 013 on Dan Street.
Outside the floor-to-ceiling window, Eden City bathes in deep blue light, like phantom currents in the deep sea, the trajectory of hovercars, the neon advertisent's glow, all gliding over her smooth skin.
As the holographic projection rushes toward the cloud.
A biological torrent flows through the mind, inefficient as a reward chanism for data, yet overwhelming for humans.
In the depths of consciousness, John bitterly smiles.
This wandering AI finally used his body for sothing aningful.
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