Test Subject 23-4: Eyes Unseen for Sale
Still don't get it? Words plant seeds. You only realize it when it's too late. And by then, you're crying. Sometimes, when you think it's too late, it's really too late—and that's when the blood tears flow.
"Perfect! Your vision should be fully functional in about ten minutes!"
"……."
Staring at the mad old bastard's mug through my halved field of view, killing intent boiled up inside me. Aside from not being able to see out of one eye, the sticky tears streaming down made me feel twice as shitty. Couldn't tell if the pounding headache was from fever, ripping out nerves without anesthesia, or both. I wanted to kill him right then, but no matter how I sized it up, with my current piddly internal energy, I didn't trust myself to dodge bullets. The bot prick was aiming straight at me without a single gap, zero humanity.
Hold it in, little master within me. Not yet. When the time comes, I'll split that fucker's skull. Sharpen the blade with the resolve of a Butcher willing to throw away life and limb.
"Impressive, though. No test subject has endured like this before! What's your secret?"
"……."
Screw him—I wanted to hawk a loogie right in his face, but three days of meditation and the fresh surgery had dried my mouth to dust, not a drop of spit left.
"No fun. …Well, fair enough. Can't blame you. Get some rest. Experiments are more entertaining when you're lively."
"……."
I worked my mouth, trying to scrape up some saliva, but the bastard unilaterally called for guests to leave.
Whirr.
A robot arm grabbed my wrist before I knew it. This time, to avoid being dragged, I stood and shuffled after it….
"Seemed like you and No. 3 got pretty close. Shame."
"……?"
"Got a big batch of test subjects coming next week. Planning a full purge."
I halted and turned at his casual toss-away line. The cyclops eye stared back, pure curiosity—like a kid wondering how I'd react. Pure, insane curiosity.
"Grew kinda fond of you, but a purge is a purge."
"……Ha."
His mocking mug pissed me off even more. Back in my past life, I'd nearly died countless times from flipping my lid like this. Guess this life's no different.
My heart, twisted about thirty degrees off-kilter, whispered: Since when did you play the odds, punk?
Guess the me I didn't know was scared of guns, not swords. Not the blade-wandering martial artist inside, but the modern drone from my foggy memories, clinging to payday like a salaryman. Pathetic. Fucking embarrassing.
I'd never been one to pick fights by level. First-rate? I'd poke a Peak master. Peak? I'd jab a Super Peak. Super Peak? I rammed the Heavenly Demon. Now this rat-tail scrap of energy, I rationed like a broke office worker's budget.
"You bought a few more days."
"Huh?"
You, asshole.
"Use the real deal, you prick!"
Mastering split-mind technique, I kept a straight face while channeling energy into my legs.
Krunch!
I side-kicked the robot's knee, snapping it, and shoved the barrel aimed at me toward the madman.
Tat-tat-tat! Ting-ting-ting!
Casually revving his arm saw to block bullets—guy had modded himself too. I snatched the gun with Gold Na Su style, blasted the robot.
Tat-tat-tang!
Camera lens shattered, key parts riddled—prime scrap metal born. Swung the gun back on Cyclops, pulled the trigger.
Click. Click.
Nothing.
"End of the line."
"……."
> LOCKED
> ACCESS DENIED
> USER: UNAUTHORIZED
"Not fucked at all!"
Empty guns make fine clubs—I flipped the rifle, gripped the barrel. Mad geezer revved his saw and charged, speed unbelievable for a scrawny fossil.
Whiiiir!!
The high-revving saw clashed with my trusty bludgeon—slash!
"You're fucked!!"
The metal gun sheared clean in half.
"Breaks my heart—you were my favorite test subject."
The saw blade flew past the ruined gun straight at me. Thinking it over, spouting bullshit, the Science Demon cackled grotesquely.
He thought he knew "me." Test Subject 23. Didn't even remember the number, but after ripping arm, leg, eye, replacing with his machines—he figured he knew every move.
Crackle.
No fancy lightness skill, no flashy martial arts needed. Bust predictable expectations with raw internal energy control.
Detonate the last quarter-rat-tail underfoot. Can't vent qi through his psycho prosthetic right leg, so left foot it is—healthy one. Dive into his guard, dodge the saw.
His cybernetic eye, glowing weird, tracked me, swiveling. Still too slow. While that wonky orb chased my hair, I thrust my right arm.
Channel remaining energy through it. This shitty body favors palm strikes over fists anyway. I'd only learned both to hobby level, but against an uncultured maniac, hobby's plenty.
Palm heart—emit force. Single Palm Strike. Crude, unnamed haymaker, but enough.
Krunch!
Felt something inside him pulverize.
"Guh-haak!!"
Hot blood from his guts sprayed my head. Filthier 'cause it spewed from his mouth.
"That's heartbreak, asshole."
Heart and lungs smashed, he crumpled backward. I spat the words watching him go.
Silence.
Confirmed dead, strength drained from my body. Truth was, after three days dry-meditating, I had jack left. Dantian tingling—pushed a bit more, I'd have internal injuries. Internal energy management like a 40-year bachelor's perfect savings.
Wanted to meditate before bouncing, but sticking around was suicide. More subjects tomorrow. Whatever, he wasn't solo on this madness.
Staggered to the elevator, slumped in. Thought of my cellmate yelling, worried I'd died.
Papa, coming to see you now.
///
"Passing through~ the magic castle~ crossing the swa~mp~."
Whirr.
Going up, stunk of heavy oil and that guy—hard to breathe. Solo ride? Kinda comfy. Good mood kicked in? Dead eye flickered, half-vision went full. Unintended bonus: cyberpunk holograms popped up, punking my mood right back.
"Human experiments busted! Hell roll call! One, two, three, four, mercy plea~!"
Excitement bubbling, I medley'd random tunes waiting for the door.
Ding!
Doors opened to an empty hall. Cut the song, padded silently down the corridor.
Creep up sneaky, jump out 'surprise!'—Papa'll freak. Perfect plan.
Praised my genius inwardly, passed open cells to his….
"…Who's there?"
"……!!"
Third-rate warrior level, sure. But bravo, me. Ever-growing man, now unflappable in surprises.
My neighbor sensed better than expected. Not my clanking mech leg/arm. For real—no sound. …Do I stink?
Shoved sad thought aside, knocked the bars with my hand.
Clang-clang!
Left arm, so metal screech echoed.
"……."
Clang-clang!
"……."
"Knock, you say 'who is it?' Then I go 'don't know, amnesia hit'…."
"23!"
"Yeah, it's me. Pa…."
Cellmate dashed to the bars, saving my botched joke. Pa… Pa….
Sudden brain flash: voice over the wall. High for man, low for woman.
"Mama?"
Asked involuntarily, staring at the aggressively assertive chest that screamed woman.
Padre was madre. Papa was mama!
Yanked eyes off that powerhouse, looked up. Blue eyes glared down. Utter contempt.