Victory's Burns and Corporate Coup

Amon, the man of faith in this cyberpunk world, grumbled as he clutched his ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠warm, throbbing side. "Said they'd chop my head off, but just straight-up killed it."

As if mocking his declaration to feed it to the birds of prey, the demon vanished into a pile of ash. From its entrance to its exit, it had been an utterly distasteful demon. Setting aside the declaration, once he'd vented his rage and cooled his head for some calculations, it was clear this hadn't been worth the cost at all. If he'd just calmly left the boss room, farmed diligently, and come back in about a year, he could've taken down this boss so easily. His side wouldn't have ended up this crispy on the outside, at least.

No, wait—was the burn mark sticky, making both outside and inside moist? "Aughhh..."

It hadn't hurt during the fight thanks to adrenaline, but now it felt like he was dying. He had no medical knowledge, but it had to be at least second-degree burns. The blisters bubbling up clearly ruled out first-degree, and he'd heard third-degree destroyed all the nerves so it wouldn't hurt—this had to be second-degree by process of elimination.

"Aughhh... Do I gotta like this or hate it..."

Better than third-degree, sure, but ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠the spot—his side—meant even a slight lapse in focus could knock him out. Just breathing sent pain racing up his spine through his whole body, driving him mad.

"Next time for real... seriously... damn it..."

Amon fanned his side with his hand to cool the pain. Lesson from the agony: pick your battles, even if you have to smash your head in to do it. Beyond the pain, this whole challenge had been insanely reckless. He'd only won because his divine power's uniqueness prevented regeneration—if the demon had regenerated normally, Amon would've been the dead one.

There were plenty of other ways he could've died. A glancing beam did this; a direct hit would've been instant game over. It'd been a tightrope walk, nothing less.

Looking back, his win rate had been under 40 percent, and he'd somehow survived. Insane. No matter how I slice it, that was nuts.

This wasn't skill; it was pure luck. Reflection, more reflection. He had a lot to mull over today, but if you didn't do it right away, you'd repeat the mistakes later.

As he reflected on the day's events, something dropped in front of him.

"Huh?"

A marble-like orb. Amon had a pretty good idea what it was.

It drops, huh.

In game terms, a drop item; in this world, spoils of war or essence. A lump of condensed divine or mystic power left by bosses or monsters when defeated, which could later imbue gear with abilities. These essences from the dungeon's depths, combined with megacorp tech, were what drew mercenaries here.

Amon examined the orb closely. Per series tradition, higher concentrations shifted colors to indicate grade. Bright yellow.

Oh, legendary.

Jackpot. But not jump-for-joy levels. Higher grade meant stronger output and judgment, but not necessarily unique effects. In a world overflowing with quirky magic and implants, raw power output mattered less than synergy, cost-performance, and versatility. Overwhelming firepower could be substituted, but irreplaceable special traits? No.

So the grade was secondary; the actual effect was key. Problem was, he didn't know if it suited him yet. If it spat out useless bow skills, it'd be pretty trash.

No celebrating until he checked the details. Amon pocketed the essence and stood.

Later for that.

Time to leave the dungeon. This was a mega-incident: a top-tier corp dungeonized. The chairman and execs ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠still trapped inside, cops probably stomping around the entrance helplessly. Before that, Amon had work to do.

He pulled out his phone and called somewhere.

Amon ended the call and immediately started gathering the guards' weapons and hard drives.

Can't resist looting.

Looting time now.

No one had imagined the boss would drop on the day it spawned, so the cops hadn't dared enter. Fair enough—who'd rush into a nuclear meltdown?

Thanks to that, the holy knights and Amon farmed Hickzen Group undisturbed. No endgame military gear like an arms corp, but the ultra-high-speed low-cost 3D printers and licenses—their pride—were huge hauls.

With the fun looting at Hickzen done, Amon didn't head straight to the cathedral but to the Order's partner hospital. The knights and priest, flush from loot, told him to treat his side without worrying about bills.

Already, fresh skin was sprouting on his side.

Finally feel alive.

He'd played tough during the boss, but hauling loot to the hospital had been hell. Only after painkillers and cream did the agony subside.

—"This isn't narcotic, right?"

Before the shot, Amon's question had the doc raging like a money-grubbing bastard; he and the priest had stared like they'd spotted a rare entity. Aside from that, the hospital was peaceful.

TVs blared Hickzen dungeon news across channels; streets swarmed with long-haired liberty shouters; cops and authorities reeled without their leashed king.

But Amon's hospital? Quiet.

"Ah... so peac—"

"..."

Two incidents before he ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠finished. Correction: his private room was peaceful.

Hearing staff sprinting the halls, Amon thought, Probably my fault.

A megacorp vanishing overnight without warning? Chaos inevitable. When the tiger dies, beasts fight bloody for the den.

Now it was cops regaining wits first, or hyenas—smaller corps and gangs—expanding into the void.

Grab power first, become the next Hickzen. Not just gangs and corps: citizens would riot, looters among protesters; mass layoffs tank security.

All from Amon toppling a megacorp in one night.

In cyberpunk, megacorps were evil's axis but necessary evil. They unemployed masses yet employed them; toyed with security yet maintained it; killed yet sustained life. Governments and people knew removing them meant mass death/injury—hence hands off.

Amon closed his eyes, pondering. No guilt, honestly. Sacrificing him and Sonia for "city stability"? Absurd. In this world, blaming every tragedy on yourself meant losing sanity.

Good by this world's standards, but utterly rational. No heavy responsibility here.

But. The director and the kids...

City security? Whatever. The place was rotten enough; a bit more blood on the stains changed nothing. But if it dragged his siblings or nuns into danger? Unbearable.

Eyes shut, he fiddled with a Hickzen hard drive. Finally, he called the priest.

The night's chaos was quelled by morning.

Amon nodded at the wall-to-wall coverage. On his bed, no bland hospital slop—instead, real pork hamburger.

Stuffing it in his mouth, he nodded again. Good sale.

Last night, he'd sold Hickzen's data and licenses to a food megacorp: 3 Dollar Meat. Franchise selling all meats in 3-dollar units. Bottom-feeder while Hickzen ruled.

Via Vatican relay, he'd handed over everything: core tech, patents.

Impossible in his past life, but here? Dungeon Special Law. Dungeonized corps lost all rights automatically. Loot inside? Yours—including patents/tech. First in owns it; later claimants get sued.

Amon exercised that, selling all to 3 Dollar Meat. Process tricky, though. He knew his vulnerability; direct pitch meant swiped.

Vatican help: priest connected to archbishop; disguised Amon from special orphan with divine power to legendary secret holy knight solo-clearing the dungeon in an hour, slaying the demon.

Affiliated with the Order's sword; Vatican as trade proxy. "Legend hates showing face—all via us." They contacted city #2, who bit with generous terms.

Didn't know 3 Dollar Meat moved this fast.

His memory: food poisoning call-back 7 hours, rep contact week, lawsuit 7 months, victim loses after 7 years.

7 seconds to answer, 7 minutes legal, 7 hours total? Wild. How many staff ground overnight?

Made sense: they'd stagnated at #2 sans meat marts. Butcher shops? Everything routed through Hickzen's Hyzen Marts—they knelt.

Now, the blocker gone; plus their marts, low-cost 3D printing tech, other rights bundled. Marts to sell, cheap production, all rights. Who cares about staff sleep?

Archbishop said they'd YES'd every Vatican ask—pouring favors.

Deal done overnight. Worldwide Hyzen Marts rebranded 3 Dollar Marts; city calmed under new king.

Happy world complete?

Vatican: steady kickbacks, leash on. 3 Dollar: escaped peasantry, market cap doubled. Amon: cash, nuns/kids safe. Perfect ending.

Someone might ask: why not hoard? Could be megacorp chairman. Regrets?

Greed bursts the belly.

Amon knew his place. No factory/capital to use tech; no power/connections to defend rights. Bombs to him.

Better sell to Vatican: cash + goodwill banked. No cheapball fears. To them, he'd blocked an existential threat and solo'd artificial saint. Legendary knight disguise fooled corps and Vatican believed it.

Huge gains from rights, no need risk antagonizing a heavy hitter.

As expected, priest relayed: "Expect good."

"At least, Amon, you won't scrape by on money your whole life."

"For real?"

"...Assuming you live normally."

"Gotcha."

Endgame gear fetched midcorp buyouts—not that. Still, reassuring.

This sum? No orphanage worries.

Attack aftermath weighed heavy; now solved. Wasteful? Nah. Enough to fix home—who'd stint?

Like repairing your house with your money, filial piety bonus. Regret only not doing more. Wanted hospital/school next door, but here? They'd dump more kids gleefully. Shelved.

Help unseen.

Visible aid: lifetime free quality synth-meat from 3 Dollar. "Obesity over malnutrition now."

Amon whispered the good news only to visiting Orphanage Director.

She hugged him sobbing. "You're the angel Goddess sent, Amon. Truly grateful... to someone like me, even orphanage shares..."

"Urk!"

Hug reignited burn—brain-searing—but heartwarming end.

Worth the side chomp.

Truly touching.

...Should've been.

"Amon. Care to explain?"

Sonia, visiting, shoved a photo: him arm-in-arm with the brothel madam.

Amon glanced at priest—already fled the room.

What the hell'd you tell her!?

One certainty: botched excuse. Else her eyes wouldn't gleam manic.

Gathering courage, Amon asked what priest said.

Her reply:

"Priest said—"

Hearing priest's "explanation," Amon could only curse him.

Not an explanation at all!!

Felt deliberate dunk. Sure, mission secrecy mumbling, but better excuse existed?

Cursing inwardly, Amon faced Sonia. Dead eyes chambering pistol, he thought:

Fuck. Zero pattern breaks unlocked.

The legendary holy knight who slew the demon, Amon. Past + present life love exp: first playthrough. Lifetime crisis.