I'm Done Being Human!

If one were to name the most complex and precise instrument on this planet, it was undoubtedly humanity itself. All man-made creations born of the Era of Prosperity paled in comparison to this masterpiece of nature. Even after spending their entire brief lives, the scholars of the old days had failed to completely unravel all the secrets the Creator had hidden inside this organic body. This "machine" was virtually all-powerful. Though the questions it had yet to solve would always outnumber those it had, in the face of time, every known problem seemed ultimately solvable. Yet this machine had not been designed for any single purpose after all; when it came to a specific field, it inevitably possessed limits. And to break through that boundary— One had to cast aside one's identity as a human. The moment he woke at the revival point, Midnight Chicken Slayer made up his mind. To become stronger— He was done being human! At least for this life, he wouldn't be human anymore! ... "Have you thought this through? Once you embark on this path, heavy shackles will accompany you for the rest of your life, and you will never have a chance to turn back... Heh-heh-heh." Boulder Military Industries Building. Cyborg Prosthetics Modification Lab. Looking at the man lying on the operating table, Ibers wore a twisted grin. Although he could have smiled more amiably, he didn't really feel like doing so. The engineers and doctors nearby had long grown accustomed to their boss's wicked taste; nothing surprised them anymore. Saws, wrenches, hammers, and countless flexible mechanical arms and various cutting heads suspended above the operating table—all the construction tools were in place. As long as the client nodded in front of the camera and signed off on this final waiver of life and death, they could immediately commence their drastic overhaul of this fellow's body. However, to Ibers' slight disappointment, the man on the operating table showed neither fear nor hesitation at his ominous warning. His crisp reply made it seem as though the person lying there were not himself at all, but some entirely different object. "Hurry it up! Stop dawdling." Staring at this fellow who was actually rushing him, Ibers was taken aback for a moment, then smiled. "As you wish." With that, he waved his hand. The waiting doctors and engineers wasted no words, immediately picking up their gear to get to work. Lying prone on the table, Midnight Chicken Slayer was just as decisive. Closing his eyes, he didn't watch the gory spectacle at all, logging off directly to do other things. Human bone determined a person's basic framework and set their upper limit. Even if a powerful Awakened far surpassed ordinary people in a certain attribute, they still remained within the bounds of humanity rather than becoming a monster. Therefore, the first thing Boulder Military Industries had to do was replace his entire spine along with the bones of his legs, arms, and other parts, substituting titanium alloy for calcium salts, and pure electronic control units for the intricate exchange of bioelectric and chemical signals. Next, the construction crew used sheets of 10 mm special prefabricated steel plating to replace his original organic skin, packing the significantly enlarged chassis with complex, sturdy motors and power units. The operating room resounded with clangs and bangs. One moment came the sound of sawing bones, the next of hammering metal, and then the hissing buzz of electric arc welding. Blood splattered everywhere, and charred cinders littered the floor. It hardly looked like an operating room; it was more like an industrial workshop. And in fact, that was exactly what it was. Under flickering electric sparks, a hulking, imposing "metal giant" nearly three meters tall gradually took shape. Along his left arm rested a one-meter-long chainsaw that could swap places with the mechanical hand at the end, while his right arm mounted the barrel of an XB-1 "Roarer" bolter of 19 mm caliber, which—like the meter-long chainsaw—could fold or swap with the mechanical hand on his forearm. It could function as a heavy rifle firing armor-piercing shells, or as fire support firing airburst grenades of the same caliber. As for the armor's power source, it was a metallic hydrogen battery weighing three kilograms, boasting an endurance of up to an entire week. Without exaggeration, he had become a walking lumbering machine plus a self-propelled recoilless gun, further equipped with front armor up to 30 mm thick. The helmet was the hardest part. After all, that was where the largest portion of his remaining flesh resided, as well as the information-processing core of the entire armor; naturally, it warranted prime protection. If possible, Midnight Chicken Slayer had actually intended to mount two rocket launchers on his chest. Unfortunately, this armor hadn't been custom-ordered by him; it was an experimental prototype recently created by Boulder Military Industries. As a "guinea pig," his only prerogative was deciding whether to don this free gear, not to customize it. The entire suit had been designed by Boulder Military Industries' Product R&D Department under a project dubbed the "Power Warrior" program. True to its name, it replaced the redundant deadweight of the human body with wearable power armor, thereby creating a human-driven, self-propelled armored unit. Under such a design, one could survive even if shot through where the heart used to be, because no such organ existed—it had been replaced by a simple mechanical blood pump. The digestive system had also been entirely omitted, replaced by an intake port for nutrient fluid and a discharge valve for metabolic waste. As the modification progressed, this weapon system called the "Power Warrior" became an inseparable part of Midnight Chicken Slayer's body. Standing beside the operating table, Ibers wore an enraptured smile, admiring with deep satisfaction the masterpiece of his imagination taking shape. This inspiration had struck him after watching combat footage of the Jungle Corps. Those green-skinned fellows, in their pursuit of greater strength, had actually modified themselves into half-flesh, half-machinery iron lumps. In his view, this brainstorm was simply brilliant! It was well worth heavily promoting throughout organic society! If the citizens of Boulder City possessed such lofty consciousness and ambition, Boulder Military Industries would have become the world's leading defense enterprise long ago! Regrettably, however, most people were repelled by the idea of replacing their body parts with mechanical prostheses; instead, "flashy but flimsy" bionic prosthetics enjoyed far greater popularity. Even most mercenaries only cautiously installed one or two when absolutely necessary. Fortunately, this place called the Alliance never lacked fine folks with elevated tastes and pursuits. Their outlook diverged entirely from ordinary people, reaching an unorthodox extreme in the eyes of commoners. Their receptiveness to bizarre mechanical prosthetics was astonishingly high; they dared to graft any bizarre part onto their bodies. Backed by such a lovely crowd and equipped with superior specialized machinery and extensive experience in combat prosthetic design, Boulder Military Industries had no reason not to produce something even more formidable! Ibers was full of confidence. His Power Warrior program would blaze new trails beyond traditional concepts of "power armor," thoroughly uniting man and weapon into one! It would be unprecedented! Of course, because many bionic components were scarce and expensive, his design philosophy was even cruder and more direct than the prosthetics on those mutants, replacing parts that originally required bionic organs with raw mechanical structures. As for power, due to the shortage of nuclear fuel, even though the Alliance possessed a black box capable of producing fusion batteries, he could only substitute chemical batteries for now. Yet despite countless inconveniences, none of it diminished the might of this war machine. This equipment was practically tailor-made for the Jungle Corps! Unlike the appreciative and ecstatic Ibers, however, the lead surgeon standing by the table felt his scalp tingle with horror. Particularly when looking at the intestines and minced meat discarded in the plastic bucket at his feet, he couldn't help smacking his lips. "...This guy is eighty percent likely out of his mind." "Be confident; change eighty percent to a hundred and you'll be right," an engineer wearing a hard hat remarked while wiping blood from his tablet terminal. "Anyone with a shred of sanity—who would turn themselves into this?" Without a doubt. If he ever turned himself into this, his wife would probably divorce him before the next day dawned. No one wanted to live with a monster; looking like this was practically discarding every attribute of being human. Why pursue power to such an extent, after all? What was wrong with staying human? "Are all those folks living in the vaults freaks?" "Who cares? Pass me a saw." "Here." Naturally, besides those sharing such thoughts, there were also people casting admiring glances at the iron hulk on the table. Abandoning their humanity to pursue ultimate strength capable of fighting the countless evils of the wasteland—these people were true warriors! Full of reverence, the engineer operating the tools installed the iconic 19 mm barrel for him and tightened the final screw. A Power Warrior with a manufacturing cost of five hundred thousand was thus complete! Midnight Chicken Slayer was still fast asleep. Ibers admired the flawless steel shell for a while. When his gaze lingered on the man's face, he suddenly let out a soft exclamation and rubbed his chin. This face... The more he looked at it, the more familiar it seemed. Why did it feel like he had seen it somewhere before? Just then, Midnight Chicken Slayer shook his head, waking from his slumber, and sat straight up on the operating table. The doctor beside him startled and blurted, "Sir, you'd better avoid vigorous movement right now. Even though we applied tissue-repair fluid to accelerate your wound healing, you should still take it easy." Hearing this kind advice, Midnight Chicken Slayer chuckled sheepishly. Lifting a massive arm, he scratched the back of his head with his still-unpracticed mechanical hand. "No problem. I feel like I'm pretty much healed." While a Strength-type player's recovery speed couldn't match a Constitution-type's, it was still stellar compared to other classes. Right now, he felt better than ever! He could hardly wait to dash into the nearby city ruins and spar with a few Crawlers. No— With his current loadout, using Crawlers for target practice would be a total waste. If he was picking a fight, it had to be with an evolved organism like a Tyrant or a Decaying Knight. How else could he showcase this gear's combat prowess? Watching Midnight Chicken Slayer leap off the operating table, Ibers set aside his earlier suspicion and said with a pleased smile, "Your recovery speed is indeed extraordinary. Normally, even after full physical healing, post-operative phantom pain and discomfort linger for three or four days... So, how do you feel?" Banging a fist against his breastplate and listening to the crisp, dull thud, Midnight Chicken Slayer grinned. "I feel brimming with power—I could even twist my own head off!" At those words, Ibers coughed and hurried to caution him, "I suggest you refrain from doing that... After all, this is a piece of equipment worth five hundred thousand. If you suffer an accidental demise before reaching the battlefield, I won't be able to retrieve the precious experimental data." Midnight Chicken Slayer laughed. "Relax, I'm not stupid. Why would I twist my own head off for fun?" With that, he headed for the door. Seeing him about to leave, the doctor called after him in a hurry, "Wait! To prevent possible rejection reactions, I suggest you stay here under observation for a few hours." Whenever foreign tissue entered an immunocompetent host, varying degrees of rejection were unavoidable. Though technically suppressible, they had never implanted so many cybernetics into a client all at once. Midnight Chicken Slayer waved a hand dismissively. "No worries, no worries. If anything feels off, I'll come back and have it checked. I just got a mission, so I've got to deploy right now." "A mission??" The doctor froze, staring at him dumbfounded as if looking at a monster. Midnight Chicken Slayer gave a hearty laugh and nodded. "Yeah, nice timing—work just came in." While logged off, he had been browsing the official website when a pop-up suddenly appeared in the mission tab. Unable to contain his itch, he had logged right back into the game. Coincidentally, when he logged back in, the NPC beside the table had just tightened the last screw on his Power Warrior system. The surgery had practically finished right on cue! "But..." The doctor's expression was still hesitant, clearly intending to dissuade him further, but Ibers stopped him. "Let him go." Watching the young man stride toward the elevator, Ibers said with an appreciative smile, unhurriedly continuing, "Such an eager lad, and you have the heart to pour cold water on his enthusiasm... Tsk-tsk, truly inhumane." The doctor turned his head, staring at his boss in slack-jawed disbelief. *Inhumane?* *Who on earth is the inhumane one here?* Pausing, Ibers added in a cheerful tone, "Besides, I'd like to see combat data on this gear as soon as possible so I can improve the next version." He was immensely grateful for the decision he had made back then. Joining the Alliance was truly magnificent! ... Pinecone Wood Farm. The winter sun was not intense—in fact, it felt rather cold. Shining on one's face, it felt icy, like being soaked in cold water. Muddled, vacant expressions were etched onto every face in this settlement. The glances people exchanged were fraught with terror, as if watching wild beasts, dreading that the person next to them might fly into a frenzy the very next second... In a sense, in a massive settlement like Pinecone Wood Farm, the serfs living here could almost be considered freemen. They did not work in chains; they were merely tied to the soil, forbidden from leaving the ground beneath their feet without permission. They were slaves, yet not entirely; their working hours were fifteen hours a day rather than twenty-four. They possessed personal property, yet not fully, having only the right to use "the portion permitted by the master." An average household here usually owned a wooden shack, several children, a small plot of cultivable land or "allotment," and a few fruit trees. The grain grown on their allotments was mainly for personal consumption, and besides tilling their own plots, they had to cultivate the farm owner's fields. If they wished to use the farm owner's mill, machinery, fertilizer, or other tools of production, or high-yield seeds occasionally brought in by wastelanders, they had to pay an extra tax. Since currency did not exist here, the forms of tax varied and were not fixed. Sometimes it was three chicks and fifteen eggs; other times, two jars of jam, usually announced at the beginning of the year. That was for farmers. For those running inns, producing wood pulp, crafting furniture, or working other artisanal trades, the tributary goods shifted to other items. Langtou was a serf here, the most ordinary sort. Though the name sounded a bit strange, in Pinecone Wood Farm it wasn't strange in the least. He had a neighbor, a young fellow named Bandeng, but unfortunately Bandeng had had half his face chewed off by his own wife last night and was already gone. Langtou's memory of last night was hazy. He only recalled going to bed very early, and waking up not in bed, but standing in the street alongside a great crowd of people. It had scared him half to death at the time. Thinking it was a miracle bestowed by the Holy Son, he had dropped to his knees to pray to the Holy Son... It was only when the Alliance later broadcasted an account of what had happened during the night, and he saw corpses carried out of the settlement one by one to be buried, that those blurry memories gradually returned. He finally realized what had happened to himself and everyone else... It was truly a nightmare. He was only thankful that he and his family were still alive; though they had gone mad, they hadn't eaten anyone, nor had they been killed. Before dawn, he had checked on his neighbor's house and found the madwoman had hanged herself, leaving only a swaddled infant babbling and crying there. Perhaps out of maternal instinct, or perhaps because gnawing on her husband's body had kept her busy long enough, she hadn't devoured the infant. Unable to bear it, Langtou had carried the poor child back to his own home and given him the same crude name as his father. From now on, Bandeng would cease to be a young man in his early twenties and instead become a tiny child. In a bit, he would have to report this to the supervisor. He trusted that the supervisor would understand and register the child under his name. That way, he could surrender a bit less grain this winter. To clear his head, Langtou stepped outside and took a deep breath, but the lingering stench of blood made it impossible for his spirits to lift. Still, now was not the time to daydream. By the rules, he had to bring his farm tools to the cattle shed before daybreak and await the overseer to assign today's tasks. Jogging across several muddy paths, he panted as he pushed through the gate, managing to arrive at the shed just before he was late. Quite a few people stood beneath the battered wooden roof. Seeing that almost everyone was already assembled, Langtou panicked, figuring he was almost certain to taste the whip, and braced himself as he walked over. Yet to his surprise, he noticed the overseer who usually guarded the entrance was nowhere to be seen. Strange! The sun must have risen from the west today! Stepping into the shed, Langtou quickly realized he had celebrated too soon. The overseer hadn't failed to show up; rather, he was huddling with several servants under the steward, discussing something. Langtou's heart tightened again, and he slunk over timidly. "My lord..." He wanted to explain the situation with Bandeng's family and inquire whether he could turn over less grain at year's end, but the overseer impatiently waved him off. "Get lost, I've got no time for you." Without even bothering to glance at Langtou, the overseer warned the mudfoot away with a glare, then resumed conferring in hushed tones with the servants. "Chiliarch Luo Feihui seems to be dead as well..." "Doesn't he have a younger brother?" "His brother is just a centurion! What good is he?!" "Tough spot. He looks like the one with the biggest ideas." "What about the other officers? What are their thoughts?" "Hard to say..." Catching snippets of their whispered conversation, Langtou wore a look of bewilderment. What were they talking about? What unsettled him most was not the treasonous nature of their words, but the fact that they were standing right here, uttering them without the slightest restraint. The sky above this settlement seemed about to change... Unable to fit into that circle, Langtou had no choice but to head where he belonged, joining the farmers standing in small groups of threes and fives. Perhaps seeing the overseers boldly gossiping about the master's family, these usually timid fellows grew bolder as well. "The master is gone... What will become of us?" "Heh, if he hadn't insisted on planting those fruits and inviting those chanting charlatans from the south, how could this have happened?!" "Exactly! What was wrong with planting Kamu fruit?" "The master had no choice either. Kamu fruit couldn't fetch a price anymore. For some reason, the factory owners in the north stopped buying it this year." "Sigh!" The more they spoke, the deeper they sighed, exchanging anxious glances in utter helplessness. It wasn't entirely out of worry for their uncertain future; rather, in that moment, they simply didn't know whom to blame. Indeed. Whom could they blame? Should they blame the factory owners of River Valley Province for not favoring their business, or the farms in Sunset Province for snatching their trade? Or perhaps the sycophants whispering slander around the master, or the master himself for being a bit muddleheaded? Of course, the Alliance was no good either. If they hadn't snuck in and provoked those zealots, those people never would have resorted to such extreme measures. Pinecone Wood Farm was the largest settlement in Jinhe City; what benefit could sacrificing this place possibly bring the church? They had long joined the Church of the Torch and devoted everything to the supreme Holy Son. There was no reason for those people to harm them. After all, it defied all logic. A shepherd might occasionally lead one sheep from the pen to slaughter, but no madman slaughtered the whole flock at once. There was simply no gain in it! Watching everyone shake their heads and sigh, Langtou couldn't help chiming in. "What are you all on about... Doesn't the master have a surviving daughter?" The crowd exchanged glances. A man with a face full of wrinkles couldn't help pointing out, "She's only eight years old." "So what? Even if she's only eight... the master's blood runs in her veins, and she's the heir to this farm. With something this huge happening, someone has to look after us." As he said this, Langtou harbored a bit of selfish calculation. The master had been hard to fool and had a heart of stone, but a child should be easy to deceive; a face full of snot and tears would surely soften her heart. If that young lady truly became the farm owner, life ahead might be easier. Regardless, he was just a farmer—who cared which master he tilled the soil for? A farmer beside him concurred. "Someone really does need to take charge." Although he didn't believe an eight-year-old child could manage anything, he agreed with the latter half of the statement—someone truly needed to take charge. The other farmers nodded in agreement one after another. Right then, a booming voice rang out from nearby. "That's right! Things can't go on like this. Someone really needs to take charge!" As he spoke, the overseer strode over. At the sight of his face, the men scattered in fear, only to be surprised when the usually ferocious man arrived wearing a genial smile. Langtou was the most astonished of all. Just minutes ago, the overseer had glared at him with ferocious hatred. That look, like a rabid hound... It had nearly scared the soul out of him. Paying no heed to their frightened expressions, the overseer continued with a smile, "Whether it's the respected young lady, one of the honorable chiliarchs, or some capable man under the steward... someone has to step up and preside over the overall situation." Watching the men whisper and nod in agreement, the smile on the overseer's face broadened, though there was a trace of mockery behind it. These creatures were natural-born beasts of burden, like sheep in a fold. Even if you led them outside, they couldn't wander far. The sky over this farm had changed, yet these fools were still worrying about what labor to do today and whether they could surrender less grain tomorrow. Indeed, slaves would be slaves for life. He, however, was different. Where others saw the sky falling, he saw hope of rising above his station. Looking at the overseer's smile, Langtou suddenly felt a chill run down his spine. What chilled him was not any hidden malice in the grin—he lacked the wit to discern such things—but the fact that such horror had occurred only hours ago, yet this fellow could actually smile. The overseer didn't look at him at all, but continued in his booming voice, "Right now is when the future farm owner needs us most! Let's go to the manor gates together to petition! Whoever is willing to step up and preside over the situation, we will support them!" "Who's willing to come with me?" If he could stand by the future master in his hour of greatest need, this merit might even land him the position of farm steward, rocketing him to the top! Still, he was shrewd enough to use the phrase "future farm owner." That way, even if he backed the wrong horse later, he could change his tune without being caught in a lie. What if? What if the officers reached a consensus and decided to support the young lady? It wasn't completely out of the question. The men exchanged glances. They didn't harbor such intricate thoughts, only plain dread. There was an unwritten rule on the farm: unless the steward ordered them to do odd jobs at the manor, they were forbidden from approaching the vicinity of the master's manor. Moreover, tilling was their duty. Running around without finishing their work wasn't something that could be settled with just a few lashes of the whip; they might very well catch a bullet. Seeing the misgivings in those eyes, the overseer smiled and continued, "Don't worry, today is an exception! I can promise that even if you don't do farm work today, no one will punish you!" Hearing this, the men finally cast their worries aside and began chiming in excitedly, siding completely with the overseer. Rallied by the overseer, the crowd grabbed their tools and advanced toward the manor. Though Langtou didn't want to get involved and only wished to do his farm chores, seeing everyone else go left him no choice but to bite the bullet and tag along. Perhaps due to the horrific nightmare of the previous night, the fairly broad streets were deserted, and they encountered no patrolling soldiers questioning passersby. Upon reaching the manor gates, however, the overseer was dumbstruck. Before the imposing grand gates, a sea of people had already gathered, comprising all sorts of folks. Evidently, he wasn't the only opportunist; everyone had coincidentally arrived at the same idea. Yet unluckily, the crucial figure needed to step up and preside was missing. No one at all was vying for the position of farm owner here. He saw neither the powerful officers, nor the eight-year-old young lady, nor the master's trusted steward. There were only a few Alliance soldiers standing by the gates. Watching the crowd swelling in the street, Jieyan, stationed at the gates, felt a throbbing headache. The Alliance's Guards Corps had already subdued several officers on the farm. Having witnessed the power of the psychic interference device, those officers were cooperating meekly. Yet contrary to all expectations, the serfs—the least likely group to cause trouble—had started stirring up a ruckus. Killing Dagger glanced guiltily at Jieyan. "What in the world do they want..." These people just stood there silently, not saying a word. Jieyan swallowed hard. "How should I know..." Just moments ago, they had received intel from Army Command that mutant forces were on their way here, though the exact approach vector remained unclear. The Administrator had instructed them to exercise utmost caution and protect the psychic interference device in the annex at all costs. At such a critical juncture, they had no time to babysit these people. Staring blankly at each other wouldn't solve anything either. Clearing his throat, Jieyan called out in broken Human Alliance language: "Friends of Pinecone Wood Farm, what brings you all here?" A stir rippled through the crowd. After a moment, someone plucked up the courage to shout: "We want to know... who the new farm owner is! And where the steward is! Someone has to assign today's work!" Soon someone chimed in, and the others nodded repeatedly in agreement. "That's right!" "Could you please... call the master out for us?" *Tch!* *Is that all?* Jieyan chuckled at the words and answered without thinking: "Rest easy, there won't be any farm owners here anymore!" "You're liberated! The grain you grow is all yours! Go on home!" Having finished acting cool, Jieyan waited for the crowd to erupt into cheers. Yet the moment the words left his mouth, the previously calm scene instantly exploded. Hearing that there would be no more farm owners, Langtou panicked in the crowd. Just as he was about to speak, the overseer beside him turned pale and blurted out ahead of him in terror: "How can that be?!"