Peter Pan - 18
The functions of the physical enhancement procedure had evolved slightly across the early, mid, late, and post-war phases. No one knew why, but the fact that it kept gaining new capabilities without major side effects was nothing short of miraculous—though that was for the scientists to figure out. In any case, early in the war, the procedure had been designed for mass deployment among soldiers, aiming to boost combat effectiveness even if just a little. Things like reduced fatigue, boosted immunity, and greater stress resistance. Mild effects akin to health supplements, but ironically, when applied across large numbers, they effectively ramped up wartime efficiency.
Mid-war, the goal shifted to absolute resistance against the virus. Late-war, it became all about preserving the dwindling male population. Losing one of the few remaining men to a stray bullet or shrapnel was an utterly unacceptable horror. Post-war, additions were tacked on: arousing women who received their bodily fluids, or constantly enhancing virility and libido. The key point, though, was that the procedure's core aim was male survival. In RPG terms, it was like dumping every stat point into health and defense. Artillery would handle the offense anyway.
That said, in the rare event that two enhanced men clashed, fights tended to simplify dramatically. It became a futile, meaningless slugfest between two unkillable pigs, each trying to outlast the other's stamina. The boy—young and perhaps trained in martial arts—moved with sharp, vicious precision. Using his low center of gravity, he sliced smoothly at my legs with his knife, then rolled and reset his stance. The women who'd been aiming guns had long since backed off, watching dumbly from afar. Firing into this tangle would've hit me too, and even if they did, it wouldn't shift the tide.
"Never fought a man before, huh?"
"Have you... ever fought one, hyung? Your wounds are piling up."
The boy was getting cocky after a few scratches. "It's not meaningless exactly... but you get it, right? These wounds? To put it extremely, they won't overcome my recovery. To kill me like this, you'd have to starve me out."
He sensed it too—his face darkened instantly. Too fast to track visually. One, two... now?
My dagger, swung in earnest through empty air, plunged into the boy's shoulder blade as he lunged forward. Got him good.
He let out a short groan but didn't stop, whipping his arm around. My dagger was sharp, but it was blocked by my arm, tensed with raw power.
"I get you're worried, but you're in no position to play executioner."
"No... no... no. I have to protect Mika..."
"If you die here, it'll be even harder for her."
The boy glared, teeth gritted. His dagger blade was nearly spent. Without another weapon, his external damage output was done. A deep gash on his back, scrapes on his knee, a shallow stab on his arm. Wounds like these wouldn't kill me. That tattered dagger? Doubtful it'd pierce my flesh again.
Noticing it, he flung the knife to the ground in rage and squared up with fists clenched. I hadn't brought a spare either, so we were even on lethal strikes.
"Hah!"
Ditching the weapon made him more threatening. His powerful punch slammed my shoulder, staggering me.
"No matter what you do, you can't kill me. You didn't prepare or study for fighting men."
"Shut up!"
Even if he pummeled me all day, death felt impossible. He charged full-force, but I drove a hard uppercut into his chest.
"Guhk!"
Not lethal, but it stalled his assault. I kicked him away hard. His once-clean body was caked in dirt and leaves.
"Give it up."
He sprang up fast, but he knew I'd gone easy—had a chance to pound him into the ground. He was quick; I was quicker.
"How about we call it even now?"
"I... I heard it all. Lying to Mika! The radio couldn't transmit, but it received fine!"
"I didn't lie."
"Even if that's true, why would she trust a guy who lets his slave escape—or you, chasing her down?!"
"Fair point. Sorry. I'm out."
I pocketed my dagger and turned.
"Where do you think you're going!"
He chased to grab me but stumbled immediately. I'd half-expected it, but the effect was stronger than anticipated. Enhanced men were powerful—and hard to control. Late-war, this spiraled. Survivors were high-ranking, often deployed to occupied zones as victory loomed. War crimes piled up: massacring hundreds of locals, raping women, slaughtering POWs. Drunk on power, they ignored summons or punishment. You couldn't airstrike or missile entire units. Overwhelming them with two or three key assets had limits, and camaraderie among the few men made it rarer.
Thus, the so-called Gardener role was born. A special augmentation for a select few men, granting authority to punish war crimes. It sounded absurd even at first glance—and it was—but with crimes blowing up, something had to be done. It got implemented. And for some reason, I was chosen. I joked it was because I'd never gotten a single demerit, but somehow, I got the position. The power.
"Tired, right? Head back to Korea ASAP, then straight to a hospital. Fast as you can."
A Gardener's blood, injected into another enhanced man, gradually weakened the procedure's effects. In a stamina war between men, it created an overwhelming gap.
"D-Damn... it..."
The boy clenched his teeth, refusing to fall. He was still far stronger than a normal person; full neutralization would take much longer.
"Don't worry. Feels like shit, I know, but I promise compensation money."
Unable to catch me anymore, he had no choice but to trust my character. No woman had my heart set on her, and I wasn't furious enough to demand prison time.
"...Fine."
He stood again but didn't charge. Maybe he hadn't come to hunt women after all, like I'd first thought.
Finally over. I raced down the mountain, relief flooding me.
Right after that fight, I took Yukiko and Mikoto straight back to Korea. Physically and mentally draining events had piled up. Tension released, my drive plummeted—I barely did anything for days. Ate (one meal a day if that), lay in bed watching YouTube, slept forever. Objectively, minus games or time with Yukiko, it wasn't much different from my usual reclusive life. But before, I'd chosen idleness; now, I simply couldn't muster the energy.
"Master, I have something to discuss."
"Yeah... come in..."
Today, too lazy to even throw off the covers, I called for Yukiko. I'd once hustled out of guilt for her diligence, but now I hibernated like a bear. Early for dinner, I thought—odd—when she entered. Trailing her leisurely steps was a petite blonde big-breasted girl.
"S-Sorry, Master bro! I'll do anything—just let me serve you, please!"
Mikoto, in the ragged torn slave outfit from the closet and a slave collar, prostrated herself under the bed, forehead to floor. Seeing her shredded clothes recalled the warehouse version; my resolve softened. Wounds lingered too, red and inflamed in spots.
"You should've started like this. Committing such a grave sin, yet seeing your head drop now—pitiable or admirable? Hard to say."
"Y-Yes... I was wrong..."
"At least your neck looks better. Good."
Yukiko no longer hid her coldness, berating Mikoto openly.
"You wanted to be a voice actress, right? Okay to give that up?"
Mikoto jolted at my words. "N-No! Please, no... please..."
Her breasts squished against the floor, mesmerizing. Come to think, I hadn't drained myself rolling around lately. Lust stirred, overriding fatigue.
The armed women trudged down the mountain, shoulders slumped. Helplessness hung over them. Bad intel wasn't their fault, but their response was disastrously wrong—unprepared. They'd been useless in the fight; their firepower inflicted zero damage. Their master had battled due to their screw-up, lost, and begged for mercy.
Heading back to the bus, their steps dragged. So it was inevitable they botched the ambush response. Gunshots rang out; they scattered in panic, blind to the enemy's position, no counterattack or organized retreat.
Their leader, trying to rally them, screamed as a bullet struck from nowhere.
"Men who come here believe they're immortal."
The black-clothed woman smiled, knowing her shot had hit. Even the toughest man hurts with a bullet to the eye. No permanent vision loss, and blind men were dangerous—but to her, a familiar prey despite the risk.
"This is our land. Not yours."