The Hospital (3)
The world of Space Survival held thousands upon thousands of traits.
Some were powerful enough to turn the tide of an entire battle in an instant, while others left you wondering how they'd ever made it past review in the first place.
With traits of every conceivable effect flooding the game, physical transformation traits were, of course, inevitable among them.
Take the Wolves I had devoured once before.
They were the werewolves of the space age, each carrying an innate ability to assume their beast form for a short time. Playing as a Wolf made reclaiming their true form the central goal of the entire run.
In their pursuit of becoming something better—something evolved—they weren't so different from the Amorph, come to think of it.
The reason I was dwelling on all this was simple: the change taking place in my body right now closely resembled a Wolf's transformation. My body had always been that of a monster, but this new form went beyond monster—it was closer to a full-blown kaiju.
The outer shell covering my head had grown at a startling rate, thickening until it swallowed my eyes entirely, and my horns had lengthened into massive spear-like protrusions.
My original three-meter frame had swelled far beyond that, making it impossible to stand upright inside the room.
Thanks to the Perfect Organism trait, my combat arms—already thick with slabbed muscle—had been strengthened further still, and their shape had changed too. Only the shell sheathing my wrists had grown out of proportion, leaving me looking as though I'd strapped a pair of small shields onto my forearms.
Those shield-like growths bristled with tiny spines along their outer surface, suggesting they could serve not merely to parry an enemy's strikes, but as weapons in their own right.
The Barbed Bone Launching Organ on my left forearm had transformed dramatically as well. What had once resembled a long rifle now looked more like a mortar.
And it has three barrels now?
Which meant I could fire three darts at once, or unleash them in rapid succession. Long-range firepower would never be a problem again.
Even that much was staggering, but the greatest change of all was on my back.
Are those... arms?
Two more arms had sprouted from my spine.
Each was jointed at four points instead of the two my other arms had, and where hands should have been, long crescent-shaped blades of bone curved outward. Arms designed for nothing in this world but combat and slaughter.
So that's why the wings were forbidden?
The sensation of moving them was nearly identical to the sensation of moving wings—these back-arms had clearly been built to replace them.
I swung them a few times. The bone blades at their tips were no ordinary edge; every swing carved the air with a threatening hiss.
Truly, a transformation worthy of being called the Avatar of the Hunt.
And even with my eyes gone, everything feels this vivid.
My sight was completely gone, but my auxiliary organs had improved more than threefold, and I found I didn't miss my vision at all.
Thanks to those organs, I could read not only the changes in my own body but the movements and silhouettes of every person in this entire building. I could even make out the heartbeats of the four men sealed inside their powered armor.
Powerful traits come with a price—and a change this extreme has to have a monstrous recoil.
Any trait that altered the body this radically would burn energy like a furnace out of control. One misstep, and I could starve to death the moment the effect wore off.
First, I need to get out of—
"Over here!"
A knight outside aimed his Plasma Bolter at the room I occupied. Plasma fuel inside the weapon converted to raw energy and screamed from the muzzle.
The plasma—pure, distilled destruction—didn't stop at reducing the wall to dust. It came for me.
And then—
"What the—?!"
A voice distorted by a machine filter, carrying nothing inside it but sheer bewilderment.
Despite taking the plasma blast head-on, my shell was fine beyond a light scorching.
Not bad at all.
It wasn't entirely painless, but the discomfort was vanishingly slight—about like the faint sting of sipping coffee that was a touch too hot.
I shook the soot from my shell with a combat arm and crawled out of the room.
My bulk made standing impossible, so I pressed all my combat arms flat against the floor and moved in a half-crawl. Even so, my sheer size meant my body alone filled the corridor wall to wall.
Unlike a moment ago, the enemies seemed cowed by my towering bulk, faltering and backing away.
「Grrrrrr」
"The Plasma Bolter—it isn't working!"
"Everyone, fall back!"
Faced with my low, rolling growl, the knights began to retreat.
Well, this had just gotten interesting.
I tensed my tail and whipped it around with full force. It tore through the corridor wall and smashed into one of the knights. Powered armor that had shredded concrete without effort crumpled in a single blow.
"Ghk—!"
The knight's spine bent at an unnatural angle where my tail had caught him. It was a wound that should have meant instant death, but he didn't die—apparently his suit had been fitted with a life-support option.
"Fifield!"
"Damn it, it's already too late! We fall back and regroup!"
"Bastards!"
Instead of chasing the others, I advanced on the wounded knight they'd called Fifield.
My jaws are reinforced now—I shouldn't have any trouble eating him whole.
Activating Metal Absorption while I ate would double my armor rating, but with the return trip to the nest in mind, I had to preserve the cloaking ability still running.
I seized the knight with my combat arms.
The High-Grade Powered Armor he wore was closer to a full armored suit, which was why he stood nearly three meters tall—yet I was bigger still, and he had to tilt his head back just to look up at me.
"Kh... we... of the Silver Lion Knights... ghk... will..."
The machine-filtered voice couldn't hide the wet rattle of a cough. Blood sprayed inside his armor, sending crimson ripples across its readout.
I paused my assault for a moment.
Not out of mercy—one word in his sentence had caught my attention.
A knightly order.
In Mega Corp, there was only one faction that could throw around words like that: Edgerton.
So the head of the family has come here himself.
Playing as the Edgerton family granted a special privilege once you became its head: the family's knightly order, serving as your personal mercenary force. In the game their names were randomized, but here in reality, they apparently went by the name of the Silver Lion Knights.
Come to think of it, if this is about the board meeting, all seven families of Mega Corp will be arriving.
Odds were good the delegates from the other families would bring elite escort forces of their own, just like these men.
Though the escorts of a few families are fixed by the system—I'd know.
Just as Edgerton had its knights, certain families received mandatory mercenary retinues. But not all of them did, and that was something I'd have to verify with my own eyes.
Either way, my prey had nothing left worth listening to. I drove one of my back-arms down into his skull.
The sharp, dense bone blade punched clean through the visor of his High-Grade Powered Armor and buried itself in the crown of his head. As I withdrew it, blood and brains sprayed free, and the powered armor powered down in sync with its owner's death.
Inside the shattered helmet was the face of a young, handsome white man. He'd probably been quite popular in life; now he was nothing but a corpse, his brains trickling in a slow line from the hole in his skull.
I spread my jaws wide and closed them over the knight's corpse. With my enlarged body and newly flexible mandibles, I fit him up to the chest in a single bite.
The moment I clenched down, the High-Grade Powered Armor burst apart like wet paper. The flesh, blood, and organs within spilled out past the ruined armor and poured down my throat.
It felt like biting into a hard candy shell to reach the sweet jam inside.
So this one was a modified human too.
Which meant he tasted absolutely exquisite.
The powered armor itself was little more than a lump of scrap metal—an unpleasant garnish—but framed as an interesting texture, it was tolerable enough.
It took me less than a few minutes to render the armored knight entirely into nutrients. My enlarged body made short work of even a three-meter meal.
When I finished, a translucent text box floated up before me, and I ignored it.
Right now is hunting time.
Until the Avatar of the Hunt ran its course, I intended to busily cull every fleeing lamb in sight.
"My lord. General Manager Lyla requests the honor of hosting a dinner in your name this evening."
"Hah. And when exactly did she find the time to arrange that?"
"As you're well aware, she is the daughter of the infamous Saddam Chamberlain. Exercising this level of resourcefulness is hardly a challenge for her."
"Tch. Saddam's a fortunate man."
DENVER clicked his tongue in genuine admiration at the resourcefulness of Lyla Chamberlain, who had only just come of age.
He was currently lodged in a luxury guest suite inside the Monument, the towering skyscraper at the heart of the Administrative District. The suite itself was nothing remarkable—but the state of the room was.
Every fixture and ornament within it matched Denver's own office precisely. It went beyond appearances; even the materials and age of the furniture were identical.
Truly Saddam's blood. No need to worry on this front.
Though it was never made public, Prime Capital Edgerton and Noble Capital T&C had maintained a secret understanding since the day Denver became head of the family. The project Denver was pursuing in secret—development of the new-model Hulk Mutants—demanded an enormous infusion of capital, and T&C was the one supplying it.
The price for that money was simple: at the board meeting, Edgerton would cast its vote for T&C's Saddam Chamberlain. Lyla knew nothing of it—Denver had settled everything with Saddam long before ever setting foot in this city.
That reminds me—I was thinking of summoning William, after all this time. And then that had to happen.
Watching his old subordinate attempt suicide right in front of him had genuinely shaken Denver. The William in his memory was not a man who would ever contemplate ending his own life.
Please...
DENVER turned the words William had left behind over and over in his mind.
What on earth had his old subordinate begged of him? When the First Project had ended in that ugly scandal, Denver had seen to it that every member of the project team received a substantial settlement.
It can't be about credits.
Even if a man were desperate for credits, would they ever outweigh his own life? Nothing about the self-inflicted wound suggested so petty a motive.
A problem he couldn't solve himself. And one that was extremely urgent.
Unfortunately, Denver knew almost nothing about the situation inside the T&C Special Trade Hub. Political matters he understood in exhaustive detail—but what sort of problem would drive an ordinary police detective to gamble his life just to ask for help was beyond him.
I'll need to gather information on William.
His mind made up, Denver turned to his vice commander.
"What became of the man who tried to kill himself?"
"He is currently at a hospital in the Commercial District. The surgery was completed without complication, and he has since been placed in a recovery capsule."
"Mm. He's an old friend of mine—see that he's treated with proper courtesy."
"I've stationed four Silver Lion Knights on him. All veterans, so there's no cause for concern."
"If the vice commander vouches for it, then I can rest easy."
It was the clean, decisive handling one would expect from a man Denver had personally elevated. Denver nodded, then issued one further order.
"And one more thing. Investigate the public order problems this city has suffered of late, and report back to me."
"Public order problems, my lord?"
"Yes. Something has caught my interest."
"Understood. I'll complete the investigation and deliver a report by tomorrow."
With Denver due to prepare for the evening's dinner, the vice commander withdrew from the suite.
He couldn't fathom why a single common policeman who had botched a welcome ceremony occupied Denver's attention—but he raised no objection. Denver's capricious orders were hardly a novelty.
As befitted the Silver Lion Knights, he too was nothing more than his lord's sword. And a sword does not question the hand that wields it.
Back in his own quarters, the vice commander summoned another knight. It was to carry out the orders Denver had given.
"I'll conduct the investigation together with the men."
"See to it."
After dispatching his subordinates, the vice commander lifted an ornately decorated communicator from its case.
"I should run a check on this end as well."
The Silver Lion Knights were among Edgerton's finest special units, built from veteran warriors who had never known defeat. Every one of them was a human war machine armed with High-Grade Powered Armor and an array of vicious weaponry, and so the vice commander felt no particular worry.
He merely intended to confirm, as he always did, that the operation was proceeding according to plan.
But tonight's operation did not unfold the way he expected.
Beyond the communicator, hell itself was unfolding.