What It Means to Live as a Believer in the Punk World
Ari. The failed company president's daughter, a woman forced to sell her body to feed her family. And perhaps, the woman who might have become Wilhelm Hyzenberg's wife. She approached him, her hand slyly sliding toward her thigh. Wilhelm, entranced by her beauty, didn't notice the dagger she drew from there.
Stab.
That was the price: his life. Wilhelm stared at her in shock. The shy demeanor was gone, replaced by a cold gaze meeting in the air.
Ari. No such woman existed. She never had, not then or now. Inside that false shell was a strapping man named Amon.
He was the Amon who'd once won a cross-dressing contest with cheap makeup alone and even landed a casting from an entertainment agency. With the paladins' full support and high-end cosmetics, the result was a perfect woman even a playboy who'd embraced countless ladies couldn't detect.
'Fuck...'
The man himself hadn't been thrilled about it.
Amon moved behind Wilhelm, dagger still plunged in. Blood spurted from the severed right carotid artery, flooding the desk. The blade had torn through to the trachea beyond, silencing any scream. But for good measure, Amon clamped Wilhelm's mouth shut. He'd stabbed so deep there was no resistance; Wilhelm went limp.
Seeing this, Amon sliced the dagger from right to left across the throat. As it arced like a fan, he felt the contents inside shatter.
He went this far because this was a cyberpunk world.
'Even if the heart stops, there are revival devices.'
Back in Punk City 3, implants could save you from a gunshot under the eye. Fifty years later, one that revived a carotid severing wouldn't be surprising.
'One lapse is enough.'
Learning the orphanage salesman was the chairman's son—with x-ray eyes—had chilled Amon's blood. His "perfect" handling had been breached effortlessly.
'That complacency nearly doomed us.'
A fifteen-year-old boy couldn't topple a megacorp alone, but Amon had been complacent. Failing to learn from it could spell greater tragedy.
So, obsessively, Amon verified Wilhelm's death. Checking pulse and vitals periodically, it took five minutes to confirm.
His first kill. He'd been ready for the mad gorilla but failed. The ninja wouldn't die, so he'd thrown without hesitation. This was different: Wilhelm's death was Amon's will from start to finish, and it succeeded.
The sensation of taking a life made Amon shudder. He closed his eyes for a brief penitential prayer.
"Lord, today I have taken a life."
In that short prayer, he recalled his exchange with the Goddess.
- [If I must kill my brothers below, what should I do?]
Amon loved this world dearly, but he knew cyberpunk life made killing inevitable. So he'd asked her: Did killing ever violate her doctrine?
Her answer:
- [Even for the wickedest child, a parent permitting their murder... it pains my heart.]
Her stance remained firm. She was a merciful mother, but also Lord of Lords. Understanding human malice better than any, she didn't forbid killing outright. But she emphasized one thing:
"The innocent must never be sacrificed."
With that, the memory ended. Amon opened his eyes and gazed at the life he'd taken. Did this being deserve death? He couldn't answer. He wasn't great enough to judge.
But one thing was clear: This was for survival, and his blade would swing only when unavoidable.
Less than a minute of reflection over, Amon searched Wilhelm's body. He found the target card key. For contingencies, he severed Wilhelm's index finger and pulled out his phone.
'Let's see... how's the layout?'
The map app, from the Squinty Priest, showed the building's blueprint. Examining the 3D cross-section, Amon pinpointed his position and objective.
'Time to end this cursed tie, Chairman.'
The day Amon first bloodied his hands. Atop Hickzen Group HQ, peace reigned. Unaware of events in his kingdom, the king chatted with his loyal vassal.
"How's the woman's condition?"
The chairman asked the cyborg before him. The cyborg worked its uncanny silicone face and replied.
"Stable. Awakening nears. Secure the girl, and the saint will rise."
"Truly well done, Victor N.N.."
The doctor rubbed his chin sheepishly at the praise. Brains were wondrous; even transplanted into machine bodies, habits persisted. As a scientist scorning unscientific myths, Victor figured if God existed, He'd code the human mind delicately.
Satisfied, the chairman leaned back.
"Soon, we commodify Mystic Power. But is this funding enough, Doctor?"
"Yes. Advancing humanity satisfies me."
Humans were great. They must escape God's grasp. Dragging divine power—wrong superstition—into rational Mystic Power would elevate them.
Victor preached his creed, as always, with a teacherly tone toward the chairman. But the chairman didn't mind. This scientist was one of the few he saw as an equal partner, not a tool.
Victor knew it, so he didn't change. Extending his mechanical arm, he declared.
"Humanity's progress. Achieving it with these hands satisfies me."
"Decades together, and I still can't grasp that creed."
"Yet we both strive for humanity's infinite potential, no? You want to sell everything; I, to rationalize it. If our paths profit each other, must we understand one another?"
That drew a smile across the chairman's wrinkled face. It was why he valued Victor: mutual incomprehension, but knowing each other's madness made them trustworthy.
"We match perfectly."
Decades ago, amid trash heaps, the then-grocery clerk chairman saved the freshly transplanted, dying Victor out of curiosity. That sparked their partnership, building this empire. Victor delivered every requested product without betrayal—or greed. He sought only reinvestment: more labs, gear, staff.
No employee was more exemplary. The chairman lavished favors unhesitatingly.
"I know what you don't want. But as our star asset, accept my gifts."
With that, he provided a house and trusted guards. Victor, desireless, recognized their necessity and accepted.
"Preferably tight-lipped ones."
"Naturally. Ones who'd rip out their own tongues if loose."
Partners for a lifetime, they synced perfectly. Clinking glasses, they toasted nearing victory.
The warm mood shattered with building sirens.
[Intruder in the lab!]
The chairman shot up. Victor followed. Exchanging glances, they rushed to the lab with escorts.
This plan held their lives' work; panic was justified.
Chairman and doctor arrived with personal guards. The thick steel door, locked from inside, wouldn't budge.
The chairman nodded to the security chief. The near-all-prosthetic man charged mana into his right arm.
"Step back."
They retreated. The chief's punch shattered the door.
His direct subordinate entered first, guards following. Chairman and Victor tried, but a guard blocked.
"Chief's engaging the intruder. Enter once secure."
They endured. No dying to stray bullets, no matter the haste.
It lasted one minute. With neural accel, the chief subdued the intruder instantly.
Once safe, they entered. Lab damage was minor: a few smashed computers, but the key chamber intact. The saint's shell unscathed.
"Phew..."
Relief washed over the chairman. Turning to the intruder—spared for oddities, per the chief—he gaped.
Recognized from reports. Sweat-matted hair, lipstick-smeared lips, but unmistakable: Amon, the decoy meant to distract from the target.
Hickzen assumed only one Mystic Power user per region, pegging Sonia Perfumrose. Wrong. Post-battle, divine power poured from Amon.
"Hah..."
Sonia the decoy. Nicely played. But fortune favored him; the target delivered himself, saving effort.
'Youth's fire is fierce.'
Impulsive blood, surely. Victory near, he felt giddy despite age.
Then, a anomaly struck him.
'How'd he enter?'
Blood aside from skill meant a security flaw. To avoid past mistakes, identify it.
"How'd you get in?"
Amon smiled enigmatically, offering a finger and bloody card key instead.
The chairman's eyes bulged. Rage first. Then tears.
Face flushing, he roared.
"Bill!!! What have you done to Bill!!!!"
Amon stayed silent, merely miming a throat-slash.
His innocent face, smeared with makeup and lipstick, created eerie dissonance. Smiling with lipstick trails while slashing air? Pure psychopath.
Guards hesitated. But parental fury blinded to fear.
Slap! Amon's head snapped sideways, handprint blooming.
The chairman weakly slapped the other cheek. Amon's smile endured.
Fueling rage further.
"You... not tearing you apart is my eternal regret...!"
On the verge, he lamented. Endless ways to torment humans, means to execute. Extract soul for eternal torture; gas orphanage kids before Amon's eyes; rape Sonia.
But no. Amon was the saint's offering. No risking death via torture or suicide.
Fail now, and decades more wait. Weighing son's vengeance against ambition, ambition tipped. Ultimately urban: self over blood.
Chairman raised his head, swallowing tears.
"I concede this round. You win."
He'd awaken the saint, self-actualize—but never avenge. Hatred would torment till death.
'He aimed for this.'
Not toppling the corp, but eternal scar. Countless tried; most failed at the gate. This youth succeeded.
Suppressing regret, he eyed Victor.
"Sacrifice him now."
Extracting divine power painfully might console.
But Victor's response was odd.
"Chairman... the saint's complete."
"...What?"
"This intruder completed her."
Chaos gripped the chairman. Victor, surviving researchers, guards—all baffled.
Why? How'd he know? How's he alive?
Amid doubts, Amon's bowed smile deepened. Raising his head with sweet grin, he murmured.
"The Lord said, 'I will cause all my goodness to pass before you and proclaim My name before you. I show mercy to whom I will show mercy, compassion to whom I will show compassion.'"
Perplexed by the sudden recitation, as Amon muttered:
"Thanks. For dragging this out."
As if planned, Amon straightened boldly. Sensing wrongness but clueless, none moved. No flight, no kill, no evac.
Speculation absent, they froze.
Then, the saint's tube shattered.
Hearing it behind, Amon recited:
"He said, 'You cannot see My face, for no one may see Me and live.'"
⟨ DIVINE JUDGMENT ⟩
Words ended, guards collapsed, blood gushing.