If there’s one instrunt on this planet that’s the most complex and ticulous, it is undoubtedly humanity itself.
Everything man-made born of the Prosperity Epoch pales in comparison to the wonders crafted by nature.
Even with their whole brief existence, scholars of bygone days could never fully decipher the secrets the creator had hidden within this organic vessel.
This "machine" was nearly omnipotent.
Though he always had more unsolved questions than those he had resolved, in the face of ti, it seed that eventually, all known problems could be solved.
However, this machine was not designed for a single purpose, so naturally, there were limits to what it could achieve in specific fields.
And to break through that boundary—
one must forsake their humanity.
The mont Midnight Chicken Killing awoke from the resurrection point, he made his decision.
To beco stronger—
he would no longer be human!
At least not in this life!
...
"Have you thought it through? Once you start down this path, heavy shackles will follow you for life, and you’ll never have a chance to go back... ga ga ga."
Boulder Military Industrial Building.
Cybernetic Modification Laboratory.
Looking down at the man lying on the surgical table, Yibers’s face wore a twisted smile.
Although he could have smiled more warmly, he didn’t really feel like doing so.
Engineers and doctors standing by had long since gotten used to their boss’s sinister sense of humor and didn’t find it strange anymore.
Saws, wrenches, hamrs, and the nurous flexible chanical arms and various blade heads hanging above the operating table—all tools for the procedure were ready.
The instant the client nodded before the cara’s lens to sign off on this ultimate life-and-death clause, they could imdiately start their bold and expansive work on this fellow’s body.
Yet to Yibers’s slight disappointnt, the man on the operating table didn’t show a trace of fear or nervousness at his statent.
The man’s crisp response sounded as if the person lying there wasn’t himself at all, but sothing else entirely.
"Make it quick! Stop dawdling."
Watching this guy hurry them along, Yibers was slightly taken aback, then laughed and said,
"As you wish."
With that, he gestured with his hand.
The doctors and engineers waiting aside didn’t waste words and imdiately took up the devices to start their work.
Midnight Chicken Killing, lying on the operating table, was decisive too— he closed his eyes, opting not to watch the grueso scene, and disconnected to do sothing else.
A human’s skeleton determines its basic frawork, and also its limits.
Even the most powerful Awakeners with attributes far beyond those of ordinary people in a certain field can never break away from the human category to beco monsters.
Therefore, Huge Rock Military Industry’s first task was to replace his entire spine, legs, arms, and other parts with titanium alloys instead of calcium salts and to use pure electrical control units to replace the complex exchange of bioelectric and chemical signals.
Afterward, the construction workers replaced his original organic skin with 10mm thick specialty pre-fabricated steel plates and filled his significantly larger fra with complex and robust motors and power units.
The operating room echoed with clangs and clatters.
Now the sound of bone sawing, then hamring tal, and then the sizzle and buzz of arc welding, with plasma flying everywhere and the ground littered with charred cinders.
This place hardly looked like an operating room, it resembled so sort of workshop more.
In fact, that was indeed the case.
Under the flickering of electric sparks, a nearly three-ter-tall, burly and magnificent "tal giant" gradually took shape.
Its left arm was fitted with a ter-long chainsaw, which could be swapped out with the chanical hand at the front end, while its right arm was a 19mm caliber XB-1 "Roarer" bomb gun barrel, foldable like the ter-long chainsaw and also interchangeable with the chanical hand at the forearm’s front end.
It could be used as a heavy rifle to fire armor-piercing bullets or as support equipnt to fire airburst shells of the sa caliber.
As for the power source of the armor, it was a tallic hydrogen battery weighing a full three kilograms, with a battery life of up to one week.
It’s no exaggeration to say that he himself was a walking logging machine self-propelled recoilless gun, additionally equipped with front armor that was 30mm thick.
The helt was the hardest part.
After all, it was the spot on the body with the most remaining flesh and also the command center for the entire armor’s information processing; naturally, it required special protection.
If possible, Midnight Chicken Killing actually planned to fit his chest with a couple of rocket launchers.
Unfortunately, this armor wasn’t custom-ordered by him, but a new experintal product from Boulder Military Industry. As a "guinea pig," he only had the choice of whether or not to put on this freeloading gear, with no power to DIY.
The entire armor was designed by the product developnt departnt of Boulder Military Industry, with the project nad "Power Warrior" plan.
As the na suggests, it was about directly replacing the redundant excesses of the human body with wearable power armor, thereby creating self-propelled armor driven by the person.
Under such a design, one could still live even with a pierced heart because there simply wouldn’t be a heart anymore, replaced instead by a simple blood pump. The digestive system was also completely omitted, replaced by an inlet for nutrient solutions and an outlet for waste products.
As the refurbishnt progress advanced, this weapon system, nad "Power Warrior," had completely beco a part of Midnight Chicken Killing’s body.
Ibers, standing next to the operating table spectating, had an ecstatic smile on his face, contentedly watching his brainchild take shape.
This was the brainwave he had after watching the battle footage of the Jungle Corps.
Those green-skinned folks, in pursuit of greater strength, had transford themselves into half flesh, half chanical hunks of iron.
In his view, this brainwave was just fantastic!
Worth promoting vigorously within organic society!
If the residents of Giant Stone City had such high enlightennt and pursuit, Boulder Military Industry would have beco the world’s leading military enterprise long ago!
Regrettably though, the majority of people were quite resistant to replacing parts of their bodies with chanical prostheses, whereas the "seemingly but not practically useful" bionic prosthetics were more popular.
Most rcenaries also only cautiously fitted one or two prosthetics to themselves when they absolutely had to.
However, fortunately, there was no shortage of fine people with refined tastes and pursuits in the Alliance.
Their views were starkly different from those of the common people, even considered heretical in the eyes of ordinary folks, and they had an exceptionally high level of acceptance for all kinds of bizarre chanical prosthetics, daring to fit whatever inexplicable parts to their bodies.
With the support of such a group of adorable people, Boulder Military Industry, equipped with more professional devices and rich experience in designing combat prosthetics, had no reason not to co up with sothing even more badass!
Ibers was filled with confidence about this.
His "Power Warrior" plan would put a new spin on the traditional concept of "power armor," completely fusing human and weapon into one!
This would be unprecedented!
Of course, due to the lack and high cost of many bionic parts, his design approach was even simpler and more brutal than the prostheses on those mutants, replacing certain parts that would normally require bionic organs with direct chanical structures.
As for the power source, due to the scarcity of nuclear fuel and even though the Alliance had the Black Box capable of making fusion batteries, he had to temporarily use chemical batteries instead.
But even with nurous inconveniences, it still didn’t affect the power of this war machine.
This equipnt was simply tailor-made for the Jungle Corps!
However, contrasting with Ibers who was admiring and intoxicated, the lead surgeon standing beside the operating table felt his scalp tingle.
Especially upon seeing the intestines and minced at discarded in the plastic bucket at his feet, he couldn’t help but cluck his tongue.
"...This guy must be insane."
"Be more confident, change 80 percent to 100 percent, that’s right," wiping the blood off the tablet terminal, an engineer wearing a safety helt couldn’t help but make a comnt, "Anyone with a sane mind wouldn’t turn themselves into this."
Don’t doubt it.
If one day he turned himself into this, he probably wouldn’t have to wait for the next day before his wife would be seeking a divorce.
Nobody would want to live with a monster, and to beco like this is basically to forsake all attributes of being human.
After all, why chase after strength to this extent?
Is it not good to be just a person?
"Are all those guys living in the shelters freaks?"
"Who cares, hand the saw."
"Here."
Of course, aside from those with similar thoughts, there were others who cast admiring glances towards the iron lump on the surgery table.
To pursue the ultimate power to combat the manifold evils of the Wasteland and forsake their humanity, these guys are real warriors!
The engineer operating the tools installed the emblematic 19mm gun barrel for him with full respect and tightened the last screw.
A power warrior that cost up to 500,000 was thus completed!
Midnight Chicken Killing was still asleep and hadn’t awakened.
Yibers gazed at the perfect steel shell for a while, and when his eyes landed on his face, he suddenly let out a light exclamation and stroked his chin.
This face...
The more he looked at it, the more familiar it seed.
Seems like he has seen it sowhere before?
At this mont, Midnight Chicken Killing shook his head on the surgery table and woke up from his sleep, then suddenly sat up from the table.
The nearby doctor was startled and promptly said,
"Sir, it’s best if you avoid vigorous movents right now. Although we used a tissue repair fluid to speed up wound healing, it’s better for you to take it easy."
Hearing these well-intentioned warnings, Midnight Chicken Killing gave a simple smile, lifted his huge arm, and touched the back of his head with the still-clumsy chanical hand.
"It’s okay, I feel like I’ve recovered quite a bit already."
Although the recovery speed of Strength-type players couldn’t match that of the Body Constitution System players, it was still exceptional compared to other systems.
He now felt better than ever!
He was eager to head to a nearby city district and practice on a few Crawlers.
No, that’s wrong—
With his current equipnt, practising on Crawlers was a waste; he should look for Tyrants or Decaying Knights, these types of evolutionary bodies.
Otherwise, how would it demonstrate the combat power of this equipnt?
Watching Midnight Chicken Killing jumping off the surgery table, Yibers put away his earlier suspicions and said with a satisfied smile on his face,
"Your recovery speed is indeed extraordinary. Normally, even if one fully recovers, postoperative phantom pain and discomfort would last for about three to four days... Anyway, how does it feel?"
Hitting his breastplate with his fist and listening to the crisp thud, Midnight Chicken Killing grinned at the corners of his mouth.
"I feel full of strength, I could even screw my own head off!"
Yibers coughed at this remark and quickly admonished,
"I suggest you better not do that... After all, this is equipnt worth five hundred thousand. If you die in an accident before going to the Battlefield, I won’t be able to recover valuable experintal data."
Midnight Chicken Killing laughed and said,
"Don’t worry, I’m not stupid. How could I possibly play around by twisting off my own head?"
Having said that, he walked towards the door.
Seeing him about to leave, the doctor quickly called out to him.
"Wait, to prevent any potential rejection reactions, I recomnd you stay here for observation for a few hours before leaving."
Any foreign tissue entering a host with immune activity inevitably causes a rejection reaction of varying degrees.
Although this can technically be eliminated, they have never implanted so many chanical Prostheses into any client at once.
Midnight Chicken Killing waved his hand, casually saying,
"No worries, no worries. If sothing feels off, I’ll just co back and check it out. I’ve just received a mission, and I need to leave now."
"A mission??"
The doctor was taken aback, looking at him incredulously as if staring at a monster.
Midnight Chicken Killing laughed heartily and nodded,
"Yeah, quite a coincidence, just got so Work."
He was browsing the official website when he went offline, suddenly noticing a pop-up window in the mission column, and unable to contain his itch, he imdiately returned online.
Fortuitously, the mont he logged on, the NPC next to the surgery table had just tightened the last screw on his "power warrior" system.
The surgery was nearly tid to perfection!
"But still..."
The doctor’s expression still showed hesitation, clearly wanting to persuade further, but Yibers on the side stopped him.
"Let him go."
Watching the young man turn and walk towards the elevator, Yibers’s face was adorned with an admiring smile as he slowly continued,
"Such a keen kid and you actually have the heart to pour cold water on his enthusiasm... Tsk tsk, really heartless."
The doctor turned his head and stared blankly at his boss.
Heartless, huh...
Who exactly was heartless?
After a pause, Yibers continued in a cheerful tone,
"Besides, I also want to see the actual combat data of this equipnt sooner, to improve the next version."
He was extrely grateful for his decision back then.
Joining the Alliance was fantastic!
...
Pinecone Wood Farm.
The winter Sun was not very strong, even sowhat chilly, feeling ice-cold on the face as if soaked in cold water.
The faces of the residents in this settlent were marked with a dazed expression.
People looked at each other with eyes full of horror, as if staring at a beast, fearing that in the next second he might suddenly go berserk...
In a sense, large settlents like Pinecone Wood Farm allowed their serfs to be counted as free folks. They didn’t wear Shackles to Work but were tied to the Land, not allowed to leave the ground beneath their feet arbitrarily.
They were Slaves, yet not entirely, as they worked 15 hours a day, not 24. They had their own property, but did not fully own it, they only had the right to use "the part allowed by the owner."
In a typical family here, there would usually be a wooden house, a few Kids, a small patch of cultivable Land or a "share of Land," and a few fruit trees.
The crops that the serfs grow on their own land are mainly for their own consumption. Besides tilling their land, they also need to till the fields belonging to the farm owner.
If they want to use the farm owner’s mill, machinery, chemical fertilizers, and other production tools, or the high-yield seeds occasionally brought by Waste Land Wanderers, they are required to pay an additional tax.
Since there is no money here, the type of tax is usually not fixed and might be either three chickens and fifteen eggs or two jars of jam, usually announced at the beginning of the year.
This is about farming.
And for those running inns, making paper pulp furniture, or other craftsn, the products they must offer as tribute would be sothing different.
Hamr was one of the serfs here, and he belonged to the most ordinary kind of serf.
Though his na might seem strange, it wasn’t the least bit odd in Pine Cone Wood Farm.
His neighbor was a young fellow nad Stool, it’s just a pity that last night his woman bit off half of his face; the man was gone.
His mory of last night wasn’t very clear; he only rembered falling asleep early, waking up not on his bed but standing on the street with many others.
It was so frightening at that mont that he thought it was a miracle sent by the Saint Heir and hurriedly knelt down to pray to the Saint Heir...
Until later on, when the Alliance announced through a broadcast what had happened during the night, and he saw body after body being carried out of the settlent to be buried, he gradually recalled those vague mories and realized what had really happened to himself and the others...
It was truly a nightmare.
He was only grateful that he and his family were still alive, though insane they hadn’t resorted to cannibalism, nor had they been killed.
Before dawn, he went to his neighbor’s house for a glance only to find that the madwoman had hanged herself, leaving behind only a child wrapped in a swaddling cloth, crying pitifully.
Perhaps it was maternal instinct or perhaps her husband’s corpse had satisfied her hunger for long enough; either way, she hadn’t devoured her child too.
Hamr, unable to bear it, took the pitiful child back to his ho and gave him a na as sloppily as his father’s had been given.
From that day on, Stool changed from a twenty-one or twenty-two-year-old lad to a half-grown kid.
In a while, he would have to ntion it to the Steward.
He believed that the noble would understand and consider the child as part of his family. This way, he could deliver a little less food tax this winter.
To clear his mind, Hamr stepped outside the house and took a deep breath, but the lingering scent of blood did nothing to lift his spirits.
Now was not the ti for daydreaming, though.
According to the rules, he had to arrive at the cattle shed with his farming tools before sunrise, waiting for the Steward’s supervisor to arrange today’s work.
Running across the muddy roads, he breathlessly pushed through the gate, just making it to the cattle shed before it was too late.
A fair number of people stood under the ramshackle wooden shed.
Seeing that nearly everyone had arrived, Hamr panicked at the thought he was surely going to be whipped, and, steeling himself, he walked over.
However, he was surprised to find that the usual supervisor guarding the entrance was nowhere to be seen.
Curious!
Today the sun must have risen from the west!
Stepping inside the shed, Hamr quickly realized his premature jubilation; the supervisor wasn’t absent, but was standing with a few butlers’ servants, discussing sothing.
His heart tightened again, and he timidly walked over.
"Sir..."
He was about to explain the situation with Stool’s family and inquire if he could pay less food tax at the end of the year, but he was impatiently dismissed by the supervisor.
"Get lost, I don’t have ti for you."
The supervisor, without even glancing at Hamr, signaled with his eyes for this clodhopper to keep his distance, then continued to whisper with the servants.
"It seems General Luo Feihui also died..."
"He doesn’t have a brother?"
"His brother is just a Centurion, what use could he be!"
"This is tough, he’s the one who seems to have so ideas."
"What about the other officers? What do they think?"
"Hard to say..."
Hamr’s face showed a vacant expression as he faintly overheard those people’s whispering conversations.
What are they talking about?
And what made him feel even more uneasy wasn’t the rebellious words they were saying but that they were discussing them so brazenly right here.
It seed like this settlent was about to undergo a change...
Unable to fit into that circle, Hamr could only go where he was supposed to, joining the group of serfs who were standing together.
Maybe because those overseers were recklessly discussing the master’s family, these usually ek folks had grown bold.
"The master is gone... what are we to do now?"
"Heh, if he hadn’t insisted on planting those seeds, if he hadn’t brought over those prayer-chanting charlatans from the south, none of this would’ve happened!"
"Exactly! What’s wrong with planting Kamu fruit?"
"The master had no choice, didn’t the price of Kamu fruit drop? The factory owners in the north seem to be refusing to buy it this year for so reason."
"Oh!"
The more the crowd talked, the more they sighed, facing each other with worry, yet feeling helpless.
They weren’t only anxious about their uncertain future, they were also at a loss for whom to bla.
Yes.
Who indeed should be blad?
Should they bla the factory owners in River Valley Province for not looking after their business, or the farms in Luo Xia Province for stealing their business? Or maybe the sly deceivers by the master’s side, or perhaps even the master himself got a bit muddled.
Of course, the Alliance was no good either.
If they hadn’t sneaked in and provoked those fanatics, they surely wouldn’t have done sothing so extre out of the blue.
Pinecone Wood Farm was the largest settlent in Brocade River City; what good would co to The Church from sacrificing this place?
They had already joined the Torch Church, dedicating everything to the most exalted Saint Heir, those people had no reason to harm them.
After all, it made absolutely no sense.
A shepherd occasionally leads a sheep out of the pen to kill it, but no lunatic would slaughter every single sheep at once.
There’s no benefit in that!
Watching the crowd shake their heads and heave sighs, Hamr couldn’t help but say,
"What are you all talking about... The master still has a daughter who survived, right?"
The crowd exchanged glances.
An old man with a face full of wrinkles couldn’t help but remind him, saying,
"She’s only eight years old."
"So what? Even if she’s only eight... she still carries the master’s blood, she’s the heir to this farm too, with such a big incident happening, she has to take care of us, right?" As Hamr spoke, his heart did hold a bit of self-interest.
The master was not easy to deceive, and he was hard-hearted, but children should be easy to deceive, surely a tearful plea would soften their hearts.
If that young miss were to beco the farm’s owner, perhaps life could be easier in the future. After all, he was just a farr; what did it matter to whom he sowed his seeds?
The farr next to him echoed in agreent.
"Soone really does need to take charge."
Although he didn’t believe an eight-year-old child could handle much, he agreed with the latter part of the statent—soone indeed needed to take control.
The other farrs also nodded their assent.
It was at that mont that a booming voice ca from the side.
"That’s right! Things can’t go on like this; soone must take charge!"
As he spoke, the overseer walked over.
Upon seeing his face, everyone scattered in fear, not expecting that the man who usually looked fierce now wore a pleasant smile.
Hamr was the most taken aback.
Just a few minutes ago, the overseer had glared at him fiercely.
That dog-like gaze...
It had nearly scared the soul out of him.
Ignoring the fearful expressions of the crowd, the overseer continued to speak with a smile.
"Whether it’s the respected miss, so centurion of great power, or soone under the butler’s command—an able person must co out and take control of the situation."
Watching the crowd whisper among themselves and nod in agreent, the supervisor’s smile grew even brighter, though there was a hint of mockery behind it.
These guys were natural beasts, just like sheep in a pen. Even if led outside, they couldn’t go far.
The sky over the farm had changed, yet these fools were still preoccupied with the chores of today or whether they could spare so grain tomorrow.
Indeed, a slave is a slave for life.
But he was different.
While others saw the sky falling, he saw a hope to rise above others.
Seeing the overseer’s smile, Hamr suddenly shivered.
Not from the chill mixed within the smile—he wasn’t insightful enough to catch that—but because such an event had happened just hours before, and yet this person could still manage to smile.
The overseer didn’t even look at him but continued to speak in his booming voice.
"Now is the ti when the future owner of the farm needs us. Let’s all go to the gates of the estate and petition. Whoever is willing to take charge, we’ll support them."
"Who wants to join ?"
If he could stand by the future master when he was most needed, perhaps he could even beco the farm’s steward with such a rit, ascending to the heavens in one step!
However, he had the foresight to be cunning and used the term "future owner of the farm"; that way, if he backed the wrong horse later, he could fairly change his tone without being caught.
Just in case.
It wasn’t completely impossible for the military officers to reach a consensus and decide to support that young miss.
The crowd exchanged glances, not as calculating as him, just simply panic-stricken.
There was an unwritten rule on the farm: unless ordered by the butler to help with household chores, they were not allowed near the manor’s territory.
Moreover, farming was their work.
Running around without finishing the work wasn’t a matter that could be settled with a few lashes; they might even get shot.
Picking up on the concerns in their eyes, the overseer continued to speak with a smile.
"Don’t worry, today is an exception! I can assure you that even if you don’t do farm work today, no one will punish you!"
Relieved by his words, the crowd beca excited and rallied to the overseer’s side.
At his call, everyone proceeded towards the estate with their farm tools. Hamr didn’t want to get involved; he just wanted to work on the farm, but seeing everyone going, he could only follow reluctantly.
Perhaps due to the horrific nightmare from the previous night, the usually bustling streets were nearly empty, and they didn’t encounter any patrolling soldiers.
But at the gates of the estate, the overseer was taken aback to see a sea of people already gathered, of all sorts.
Clearly, he wasn’t the only one looking for an opportunity, and it just so happened that everyone had the sa idea.
However, unfortunately, the very person to take command was missing.
There was no one here vying for the position of farm owner.
He saw neither the influential military officers nor the young miss of only eight years, nor the trusted butler of the old master.
There were only a few Alliance soldiers standing at the entrance.
Seeing the growing crowd on the street, Quit Smoking at the door also felt a headache coming on.
The Guard Corps of the Alliance had taken control of the few military officers on the farm. After witnessing the power of the Mind Interference Device, they all cooperated, but they hadn’t expected that the least likely to cause trouble—the serfs—would start agitating.
Killer Dagger glanced nervously at Quit Smoking.
"What on earth do they want..."
The people only stood there in silence, not speaking.
Quit Smoking swallowed hard.
"How should I know..."
Just monts before, they had received intelligence from the Army Command that a Mutant army was on its way, though it was unclear from which direction.
The Manager had urged them to be extra cautious, to protect the Mind Interference Device located in the villa at all costs.
Right now, they had no ti to deal with these people.
It was not a solution to stand and stare, so Quit Smoking cleared his throat and, in not quite perfect United Human dialect, shouted.
"Friends of Pinecone Wood Farm, do you have so business here?"
The crowd stirred.
After a mont, a person mustered the courage to shout out.
"We want to know... who the new farmowner is and where the steward is. Soone has to arrange today’s work."
Soon another person echoed, and the people began to nod repeatedly.
"That’s right!"
"Please... can you call the master for us?"
Humph!
So, that’s the issue!
Quit Smoking smiled at the request and imdiately replied without hesitation.
"Don’t worry, there are no farm owners here anymore!"
"You’ve been liberated, the crops you grow are your own, go ho!"
Having finished his act, Quit Smoking awaited the cheers, only to find that no sooner had he finished speaking, the once calm site exploded into a frenzy.
Hearing that there was no farm owner, Hamr panicked amidst the crowd. He was about to speak when the overseer beside him turned pale, crying out before him.
"How could that be!"
---
(Again, thank you to our brother Tranquility for the Sterling Silver alliance! I’m deeply embarrassed, having asked for a day off yesterday... Truly sorry. T.T)
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