Chapter 156
Translator: RaidenTL
Chapter 156
Every living thing radiates energy.
By that same logic, stars are alive. Like living organisms, they radiate energy, and when that power is spent, they die.
Life is dynamic, a state of constant change. Death is a state of changelessness.
Death is stasis.
What lies beyond death?
It’s a question countless sentient beings have hurled at the universe.
Some say there is nothing. It is a materialistic view, one that argues from a cold, objective perspective that consciousness is nothing more than a fragile illusion. Our consciousness isn’t the brain itself, but merely a temporary reaction taking place within it. The evidence is so overwhelming that it’s difficult to deny.
Consciousness is just a collective term for a phenomenon that occurs while energy flows through the physical body. It’s no different from the light that vanishes when a lamp is switched off.
Therefore, we are more like the light than the lamp itself, and our value is judged by the form that light takes.
Brighter, more colorful, longer-lasting.
Like shining stars, we boast and show off our own unique colors. Then one day, we all quietly go out.
Luka. Lucaus Custoria.
I recalled my name. It seemed I wasn’t dead yet.
If I were dead, my thoughts would have stopped completely. Not even the faintest glimmer would remain.
My consciousness was faint, my memories hazy. My brain functions weren’t fully intact. My experiences and memories were a disorganized mess, arranged neither chronologically nor by importance.
It was like closing my eyes and flipping to a random page in a book; the order was complete chaos. I began to deduce the causality between scenes, sorting them chronologically. I set aside the memories with the most vivid emotions—those must have been important events.
I organized my memories like a librarian. It was tedious work.
Having only just woken, my level of awareness was extremely low. My thoughts were stiff, like rusted machinery, and the connection between my body and brain had not yet been established.
...Let’s entertain a horrifying thought for a moment.
Am I a brain in a vat? Just a floating consciousness, thinking in isolation?
In any case, the situation was not good. I couldn’t feel any external stimuli. Just as a person loses their humanity if they neglect its functions, the brain can only maintain itself when it receives proper stimulation.
If I stayed like this, I would become an idiot.
“Waking…”
Ah, thank God. I could hear something.
My hearing was the first sense to respond. Starved for input, my brain greedily snatched up the sound, savoring every vibration.
It was a man's voice, one that had already broken. It showed no signs of age or artificial modification. Based on the post-pubescent tone, he was likely a young man, his vocal cords biological. I couldn’t detect any bronchial damage from tobacco, alcohol, or drugs.
Who would have thought such a trivial stimulus could be so sweet? I was truly glad to hear that voice. I wanted to hug him, man or not.
“…up. His level of awareness is rising rapidly.”
“You idiot! If you know he’s waking up, don’t just stand there talking! Move!”
“S-Senior, should I administer the sedative then?”
“Hey, how long are you going to ask me every single thing? Is this your first day on the job?”
It sounded like a nasty senior chewing out a clueless junior. The accent wasn’t from Akbaran.
I listened calmly. Waking too quickly can overload and damage the brain, just as attempting a difficult exercise without warming up can easily lead to injury.
But for me, rapid awakening wasn’t a high-difficulty mental activity. It was routine.
I focused, consciously rousing my senses. Since my hearing was active, the others responded in an instant.
Flutter.
My eyelids trembled. Come to think of it, I thought my eyes and optic nerves had been completely destroyed…
“Ah, the patient is w-waking up!”
“Shit, he’s not supposed to be awake yet! Administer the sedative! Hurry!”
My vision was perfectly normal. Someone must have performed an optic nerve reconstruction.
I saw two men in white coats. The one whose tone was as nasty as his face had tattoos covering his cheeks, making the white coat look ridiculous on him. He appeared to be a medical worker, but he looked more like a gangster from the Lower District.
The junior, cowering before the tattooed man, was hurriedly pulling out a syringe. His face was bruised, as if he were beaten often.
“E-Excuse me, c-customer. According to procedure, you need to w-wake up later, so you must stay asleep for now…”
What kind of idiotic nonsense was that?
I scanned my surroundings. I was lying on a bed with all sorts of instruments attached to my body, a complex device reading my vital signs. A monitor flashed with graphs and numbers detailing my condition. From the look of the place, it seemed to be a hospital in the Lower District.
Smack!
The tattooed man smacked the back of the junior’s head. Hard.
“Why are you talking to a guy who isn’t even fully conscious? He can’t move anyway. Give that to me.”
He snatched the syringe and approached me.
I opened and closed my mouth a few times. My speech functions were slow to recover, and the words didn’t come out immediately.
“…Put that syringe down before I snap your wrist.”
I managed to speak, my voice raspy. The tattooed man’s eyes widened, and he hesitated.
Whir.
My limbs twitched. I had a prosthetic arm and a prosthetic leg.
I narrowed my eyes, calibrating my vital signals. Judging by the responsiveness and output, they were cheap prosthetics, barely suitable for daily life. They seemed to have been attached just for show—lacking artificial skin and sensory feedback, they felt clumsy. They were little more than moving chunks of iron.
Now that I’ve assessed my body, it’s time to decide on a course of action.
My name is Luka. I don’t know the situation. My last memory is of Akbaran during the Storm Era. I don't know what happened after that. But judging by the peeling paint, the worn-out medical equipment, and the tone of the staff, this wasn’t a ‘nice place.’
Worst-case scenario: someone with malice toward me had orchestrated my awakening.
I always assume the worst. I learned the day I took my first steps that life isn’t that easy.
“I understand you’re surprised to wake up suddenly. But, uh, if you just stay quiet, nothing bad will happen.”
The tattooed man said, bringing the syringe close to my neck.
I had given him a friendly warning.
Crack!
That I would snap his wrist.
I shot my right fist forward and struck his elbow. Since it was biological, the bone shattered with a crisp snap, tearing through skin and cloth.
I hadn’t actually meant to shatter it. The prosthetic was unfamiliar; its output and movement were erratic. A massive gap existed between my intent and my body’s actions. There was no time for self-calibration. I’d have to wing it.
“Aaargh! My—my arm! My arm! It hurts! Fuck, you son of a bitch!”
I felt a little sorry, but his scream was an excellent stimulus. It was like a jolt of MSG straight to the brain, sending a tingle deep into my core.
Recognizing combat, my brain activated instantly.
“W-W-What? Senior! The b-bone! The bone is sticking out!” the clueless junior shrieked.
“Gah! G-Guard! Guard!” The tattooed man fumbled for a button on the wall.
I pulled myself up, my entire body creaking.
Whoosh!
I grabbed the man’s collar and yanked him back. Hmm, I seemed to have pinched a good chunk of his flesh along with the fabric.
“It hurts!”
Well, getting your flank pinched by iron fingers would certainly hurt.
I pulled him close and wrapped an arm around his neck in a chokehold.
“Where is this?” I asked calmly.
“P-Please let go, c-customer! Cough! Cough!”
“Just answer the question.”
The tattooed man was clearly not a fighter. He had no pain tolerance whatsoever.
Rip!
I bit down on his ear and tore it off with a sharp tug of my head.
“Screeech!”
He let out a horrified shriek. I spat the bloody, pierced ear onto the floor.
“Next, I’ll gouge out your eyes. And you,” I said, looking at the junior, “dumbass over there, stay still. If you so much as twitch a finger, you’ll watch your senior’s neck spin three-hundred and sixty degrees.”
A threat is meaningless unless you’re willing to follow through.
“S-Stay still! Stay still! Do what the customer says! Cough, cough, gasp.” Having experienced my violence firsthand, the tattooed man screamed desperately. The realization that he could actually die had been thoroughly hammered into his head.
“Answer me. Where is this?”
“L-Lazarus.”
A name I’d never heard.
“Give me the geographical location and the name of the person who paid for my treatment.”
“B-Border City… I-I’m just a low-level employee, so I d-don’t know the details. Please, s-spare me.”
There was a reason the accent sounded unfamiliar. This wasn’t even the outskirts of the Empire.
Border City of the Bellato Federation.
I’d heard the name a few times. It was the city Lillian Ramones had wanted to go to.
Click!
I frowned.
The junior, who had been watching for an opportunity, dashed to the wall and slammed the guard call button. The person most shocked by this was the tattooed man.
“You crazy son of a bitch! Why did you move?!”
I had threatened to kill him if the junior moved, yet the junior had done it anyway. I didn’t expect him to have this much nerve.
“Uh, aren’t you going to kill Senior? I, uh, just moved. This is kind of awkward now,” the junior said, looking flustered.
“What?”
The tattooed man was dumbfounded. Even I was momentarily speechless at the sheer absurdity.
Clack!
The junior opened the door and bolted.
“…If you kept picking on him, you would’ve ended up dead sooner or later. Guys like him are the scariest.”
I kicked the tattooed man away and let him go. Groaning, he crawled toward the corner to escape.
Creak, creak.
Walking on prosthetic legs that were practically junk, I stood before the wall monitor.
Once I was actually moving, my body wasn’t as stiff as I’d expected. It seemed they had performed motor rehabilitation therapy while I was unconscious. That would explain why my muscles were still intact and why the prosthetics were attached.
Swipe.
I swiped the screen with my palm to check my medical records.
Keisa Tres.
I was registered under an alias.
Keisa was the name I used when I cross-dressed.
Few people knew the name Keisa.
…Tres.
A word meaning the number three in several languages.
I moved to the next record. The guards would be here soon. I needed to gather all the information I could and make my move.
“This is crazy.”
I frowned.
I had been here for nine years. Five of those were spent in cryosleep. The actual treatment period was four years. According to the dates, I was admitted three years after the Storm Era had ended.
Twelve years have passed.
It was much longer than I had anticipated.
Clack, clack.
Footsteps echoed from the hallway. I heard a metallic clinking along with them—armed guards.
What should I do?
The limbs I currently wore were not built for combat. On top of that, I hadn’t calibrated or adapted to them yet. My eyes… I flinched.
They weren’t artificial. Both were biological. No wonder they felt so comfortable.
Pressing my back against the door, I peeked down the hall. Two armed guards appeared around the corner.
Crackle, crackle.
They held electrified batons, with pistols holstered neatly at their hips.
The corner of my mouth twitched.
Well, if it’s CQC, I can manage somehow.
Dodging bullets would be difficult in my current state, but I could wing close-quarters combat. Our ancestors on ancient Earth killed people by smashing their heads with rocks. I had chunks of iron for limbs. Humans die when you beat them with iron.
As I honed my senses, I flinched. There was another presence.
—Keisa Tres, have you awakened already?
A mechanical voice echoed from around the corner. Someone was approaching. If my brain were in better condition, I could have discerned their shape with my Auditory Vision.
Soon, a massive alien revealed itself. I’d seen this species before.
An Equesian.
Fragments of my unstable memory resurfaced. I retrieved the necessary information first.
I had dealt with Equesians before. A race larger than humans, they were so skilled in combat they were known as a mercenary race.
The combat helmet completely covering its face and the blue skin with orange stripes were just as I remembered.
—My employer paid for your treatment. I understand your wariness in an unfamiliar environment, but if we intended you harm, we would not have spent such an astronomical sum. We would have removed your limbs beforehand as well.
The mechanical voice flowed from the translator on the Equesian’s neck.
“The employer’s name?”
—I cannot say here. Think wisely. Our employer cherishes you.
I thought for a moment, feeling as if my brain cells were waking up one by one. As the resolution of my perception expanded, the world became clearer.
Keisa Tres.
It had to be a code only I could decipher.
Only a handful of people knew the name Keisa. And among them, only one would use ‘Tres’—the number three—as a signifier.
“Ha… haha.”
I covered my mouth, a laugh slipping through my fingers.
Giselle Custoria.
The number of times she and I had been intimate was three.
Quite a romantic code. So very… me.