The Hickzen Group's Mystic Curse
Several days had passed since the incident with Jimmy, the boy and girl from Punk City. Amon couldn't get a wink of sleep, tormented by a nagging discomfort.
Big events always come with small omens. Having ignored the faint headache that foreshadowed the Light Path ending in his past life, Amon refused to dismiss even the tiniest signs this time around. This is a quest precursor.
A graduate threatening their life with a gun wasn't a major incident. It was merely a harbinger. An omen that some greater catastrophe would circle back later. As far as Amon's imagination went, the worst-case scenario was Jimmy snapping, rallying a gang, and raiding the orphanage.
Unable to lower his guard, Amon tossed and turned in bed. Damn it. Guess sleep's off the table tonight.
He sat up, scratching his head vigorously before carefully climbing out of bed so as not to wake his roommate. Settling at his desk, he powered on the laptop and searched for info on his career paths—a routine he'd fallen into on these sleepless nights.
Until now, he'd dug into the Mercenary Association's history and Vatican incidents. Tonight, it was Hickzen Group's turn.
> Hickzen Group History
Founded 38 years ago... That put it 11 years after the true ending in Punk City 3. After the true ending toppled countless megacorps and elevated newcomers, Hickzen had survived as one of those rising stars.
Main business: distribution. Expanding worldwide under the name Hyzen Mart. Not America's biggest, but a solid major franchise chain.
When Amon first heard Hickzen stood shoulder-to-shoulder with other megacorps on distribution alone, his immediate reaction was doubt. What kind of sorcery is this?
Megacorp—or megacorp—wasn't some flattering title slapped on any big company with deep pockets. It was reserved for irreplaceable behemoths that towered above nations, above the law itself.
Their domains? Arms manufacturing that mocked state power, food production tied to survival itself, media empires bending governments to their whim. For Hickzen to match them in mere distribution meant they had something uniquely irreplaceable.
And that something wasn't hard to find. It was plastered right on their homepage.
They'd fabricate stock from nothing in under two hours. The pinnacle of the discount mart dream—pharmacy, gunsmith, anything you could imagine.
At first glance, peak service industry perfection. But shadows lurked behind that overwhelming convenience.
Hickzen had no unions. No equivalent of Korea's four insurances. What about the constitution? Megacorps sat above it.
Classic cyberpunk. No other worldview could pull this off so brazenly.
That was their weapon: ruthless exploitation of cheap labor for unmatched product range. Their identity as the "everything store" was the core strength.
But that sparked a new question. Why would a place like this want me and Sonia?
What use was divine power in distribution? Even if there was some niche, did it warrant such pursuit?
Amon typed two keywords into the search bar.
> Hickzen Group + Mystic Power
The top results—and scrolling down—were flooded with articles linking Hickzen Group and mystic power.
Amon read the most comprehensive article to the end and went slack-jawed.
Every mystic power holder hired since founding... dead.
The story went like this: Hickzen's first mystic power user died on night duty, cursing the company in their final moments. Every subsequent hire died before a year on the job.
In a world where ghosts were real, people believed the curse clung to the company name. Some blamed sabotage by rival megacorps; others called it Hickzen's noise marketing.
A quick search unearthed conspiracy theories galore—the drought was that severe.
But Amon didn't dismiss it as mere ghost story. Where there's smoke, there's fire. A pattern since founding meant something was up. Maybe truth hid in the wild theories.
Fingers flying like a spy unearthing corporate secrets in a thriller, Amon scoured the net. But yields were slim. Just your standard cyberpunk black corp: workers dying daily, investigating cops dropping dead. Typical megacorp fare. No mystic power leads.
As exhaustion set in, a corner category caught his eye: Executives.
Mesmerized, Amon checked the leadership roster, scrolling slowly from chairman down.
Chairman: Unknown. Vice Chairman: Unknown.
The scroll halted midway.
A chill raced down Amon's spine the instant he saw the name. Déjà vu at first, but repeating it unlocked the memory.
Why is that madman here...?
Victor was the Easter egg doctor plotting to transfer his consciousness into a robot. No outcome shown since it was just flavor text—but seeing him here? Unthinkable.
Coincidence? Same name? Unlikely. How many weirdos flaunted "Victor N.N." publicly? Amon didn't buy coincidences anyway. Not when a dangerous figure popped up amid dire stakes. His head wasn't full of flowers.
Especially since Victor tied perfectly into the mystic curse. Amon knew brain uploads weren't Victor's endgame—just a lifespan hack. The true goal?
Project Artificial Saint - Divine Power Implantation Technology
⟨ ULTIMATE GOAL ⟩
Create artificial divine power users. Success would vault them to megacorp elite. But the method...
Compressing divine power holders...
Jam multiple divine power users' essence into one vessel to birth an artificial "child of god." Like biblical saints or holy maidens. Mass-produce them by having the artificial saint convert followers, à la the 12 apostles.
Problem: The vessel loses humanity in compression; donors lose their lives extracting the power.
The pieces snapped together. Insane...
Sleep vanished. Knowing the truth killed any thought of joining them. Amon scratched Hickzen off his list.
Not enough. Mercenaries too—orphans with no ties were kidnap bait.
One option left. Damn it... Vatican...
Not welcome. To Amon, who saw the faithful's corruption as the ultimate blasphemy, Vatican was the city of sin.
But reality left no choice.
Lord, forgive this coward.
Prayer done, thoughts sorted. Tell the priest tomorrow morning.
Identity unknown, but the priest teaching him and Sonia seemed Vatican heavyweight enough to shield them from corporate claws.
The next day, after plotting his strategy...
"What? Field trip?"
Sonia dropped the bomb right after Amon vowed to watch Hickzen. Enough to fluster him.
"Alone?"
"Yeah. Invited solo, but maybe I can bring you?"
Confusion hit. Why invite only Sonia, one of two divine power users? What was Hickzen thinking?
Didn't matter. Sonia was in danger.
Tell her the truth? Tempting, but he shook it off. Too many ears, eyes. Spill Hickzen's secret? Missiles on the orphanage wouldn't surprise him. That intel was priceless to them.
First: Persuade.
"Heard mystic power users keep vanishing there?"
"Really? News to me..."
Sonia panicked too. Amon probed.
"How'd this happen?"
"Email yesterday. Thought you got one too."
"You should've researched the company first."
"Sorry..."
Head bowed, she gazed up like an abandoned kitten. What now...? Already said yes...
"Cancel it."
"Okay..."
Shoulders slumped, she trudged to the computer. Amon felt guilty—like he'd scolded her.
Hickzen's the problem. One corp ruining their lives.
...If I were Purple Bear form, I could've handled it. That spec could take a megacorp. Current Amon? Maybe one rabid gorilla, tops. Worlds apart.
No real transformations anyway. He was powerless.
I need power. Helpless, he pitied Sonia's retreating back.
*
Meanwhile, Sonia canceled dejectedly.
Was looking forward... New experiences thrilled her. But more, sharing with Amon.
Pure excitement for time together. But safety trumped thrills. She swallowed regret, sent the cancellation.
Sniiif...
Shoulders drooped, she exited her room. Amon thrust a ticket at her.
"Ta-da."
"Huh? What's this?"
"Blue Moon Resort vouchers."
"Suddenly? Why?"
"Gotta make memories before graduation. Priest just handed 'em over—said go."
Sonia's face lit up.
"Just us?"
Amon nodded. Resort. Alone. Adults. Her cheeks flushed beet red.
Nuns and sisters nearby shrieked, pounding shoulders. Passing Orphanage Director smiled indulgently, nodding. "Hehe. Young love."
That afternoon, a Hickzen section chief took a call.
"Yes. Sorry, something came up suddenly..."
"No problem. Let us know anytime you're free—we'll send a car."
The chief responded warmly to Sonia. A few more apologies, then the call ended.
Clunk. Phone tossed aside, he pondered briefly.
Then lifted the receiver again.
"Hello? Special Affairs, please. Yeah, it's me. Need a report on those Vatican zealots. As acting chairman, I'm asking."
His glasses glinted ominously under the light.