Walking the main street of the residential district, Danan turned into an alley littered with vagrants’ corpses, wincing at the sour stench. Gunshots roared, and his gaze shifted to the alley’s depths. There, a young man shot an elderly man in the gut, violating a girl who seemed to be his granddaughter.

  Screams, sobs, wails, groans… Most emotions swirling in the undercity were a mix of sorrow and hatred-fueled rage. Humans driven to trample the weak, sating their desires, were perpetually ravenous. To quench an unhealing thirst, they bared insatiable wants, tearing into others’ fleeting happiness with bared fangs. The girl’s forced violation, the trickle of red down her soft skin—these were common sights for those living in the undercity.

  Danan felt no urge to save her, no desire to preserve the old man’s life, no inclination to condemn the man’s barbarity. But… the scene was unbearably repulsive. The girl’s anguished cries echoed in his ears, the man’s ragged breaths stirring a dormant murderous intent within him. A ferocious beast, fueled by anger, slowly opened crimson eyes, roaring to kill. It materialized at Danan’s ear, shrouded in haze, its black-furred claws pointing at the man, urging him to draw his magnum and pull the trigger.

  Bullets were the only power to change this hopeless reality. Danan knew the quickest way to silence those cries. Drawing his magnum, he checked the chamber, aimed at the man’s head, and squeezed the trigger. The exploding powder launched the bullet, shattering the man’s skull into fragments.

  Splattering brain matter, scattered skull shards. Drenched in gushing blood, the girl’s terror-stricken eyes locked onto Danan, smoke curling from his gun. Overwhelmed by the thick blood stench, she vomited.

  “…”

  As Danan moved to pass her, a knife’s tip stabbed into his thigh. The teary-eyed girl flashed a manic grin, cackling dryly.

  “…Die,” she hissed.

  “…”

  “Just a bit more, and I could’ve killed him! You ruined it! If you hadn’t killed him, I could’ve done it the moment he was satisfied! Die, damn you!”

  No matter how many times she stabbed, no blood spurted. Of course—Danan, a ruin digger clad in body armor, fought non-humans and discarded killing machines. A mere knife was meaningless.

  What was the right move? No one in the undercity could answer. In a world where survival of the fittest was unquestioned, and living for oneself was the sole aim, seeking justice was wrong. To an outsider, Danan’s act might seem like saving a pitiful girl, but he only killed to erase his discomfort, to quiet the roaring beast within. The girl, too, had endured until her attacker’s lust peaked, planning to strike in his moment of weakness.

  Danan aimed his magnum at her forehead, finger on the trigger. Slowly applying pressure, he lowered the hammer halfway, then sighed deeply.

  Killing a girl driven by murderous intent would achieve nothing. Even if he spared her, someone else would likely kill her later. Or, with luck, she’d find a way to survive. Holstering his gun, Danan turned away, stepping deeper into the alley.

  “Wait, you—!” she shouted, chasing him but tripping, collapsing onto the hard asphalt. Clutching her groin, teeth gritted, she glared at him, her eyes warped with hatred and rage.

  “What! If you’re gonna kill me—”

  “You okay?” Danan asked.

  “…Huh?”

  “I asked if you’re okay. Answer clearly.”

  Her body? Or her resolve to live or die? Never asked about her well-being before, the girl blinked, looking up at him.

  “Okay? Hell no! Just kill me if that’s your plan! You’re just gonna—”

  Her body floated, hoisted onto his broad back. The hard, jagged body armor and the tobacco-scented, tattered coat overwhelmed her. Unable to process, she gripped the knife reverse-hand, pressing its dull blade to Danan’s neck.

  Now she could kill him. Let him regret his kindness, sink beneath remorse! Lips twisted, she slashed his throat, blood splattering her face.

  “…Trying to kill me is pointless,” Danan said.

  “—”

  “I don’t die. If that puny knife could kill me, I’d give you a million credits.”

  White nematodes crawled from the bleeding wound, instantly repairing it. Faced with this surreal sight, the girl let out a small scream, covering her mouth and dropping the knife.

  A normal person would die from a slashed throat without immediate aid, or from multiple gut shots. But Danan, carrying her, defied such logic, walking as if nothing happened. Pale with fear, she scrambled for ways to escape.

  “Hey,” Danan said.

  “W-what!” she stammered.

  “You… Never mind.”

  “Say it clearly if you’re gonna say something!”

  “…Got parents?”

  “Huh? Parents? No way. Don’t say stupid stuff.”

  “Yeah… figured.”

  Nodding to himself, Danan walked on as the girl, indignant yet exasperated, rested her cheek on his coat. Glancing at the old man’s corpse, she realized too late he was her foster parent.

  She didn’t know her parents’ faces or her birthplace. Her only memories were scavenging alley trash, vomiting rotten food. The old man, now dead, was her guardian, but as a weakling in the undercity, his death was inevitable, she told herself, dismissing any memories as meaningless to the dead.

  “You—” she started.

  “Danan.”

  “You—”

  “Danan.”

  “…Does Danan have a family?”

  “…Two freeloaders.”

  “Freeloaders?”

  “Long story. Circumstance, mostly… but they’re as good as family. You got a name?”

  “As if. Only the lucky have names. I don’t. That old man just called me ‘kid.’”

  “I see.”

  “Why didn’t you kill me, Danan? Tell me.”

  “You’ll die someday.”

  “…”

  “Whether I kill you now or not, you’ll die eventually. Used as a vent for lust, turned into a full cyborg for the Dead Parade, or rotting in an alley… Saving you today or tomorrow’s pointless, you know that.”

  “I—!”

  “But…”

  Maybe that’s wrong, Danan muttered, his pitch-black eyes flickering, the roaring beast quieting.

  “The least you deserve is a choice. Everyone has the duty to choose their tomorrow. Not a right—a duty. People must choose their tomorrow. Right, kid?”

  “…The weak can’t choose.”

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  “Even the weak can. Not everyone’s strong.”

  “That’s too complicated.”

  “Think.”

  “…”

  “I don’t know how people live or die. But… you can act. Fight, resist, scream—and the future you reach might satisfy you. I… want to believe that. I don’t want to die. I want to live.”

  To live, he killed. To avoid death, he stole.

  Taking, killing, violating—pouring acid into a hollow heart to sate endless desires. For the strong, the undercity was a paradise of absolute freedom. They crushed anything that irked them, stripped families of dignity, and killed any chance to rise as humans. Those who ignored their heart’s cries, feigning blindness to true desires, reigned as the strong.

  Unlike the strong, endlessly filling a bottomless pot with desires, the weak decayed without choice, dying. Wanting to live but unable, dreading death yet shadowed by it, they faced the strong’s blood-soaked gaze, forced to accept death. For those bowing to survive another day, weeping, the undercity was hell itself.

  Perhaps that’s why the girl found Danan’s words like a fairy tale beyond comprehension. His claim that the weak had a duty to choose sparked anger; his dismissal, telling her to think despite her confusion, bred defiance.

  Only the strong could say such things. Facing weaker prey gave him the luxury to spout pretty words. Against the three organizations’ leaders, he’d grovel before their overwhelming force, licking boots, forehead to the ground, blood and bone grinding.

  Her budding hatred blazed into a fire, charring her heart. Reaching for Danan’s neck as he carried her, she squeezed with all her might, muttering “die” through clenched teeth.

  “…”

  Gripping her hand with his mechanical arm, Danan pried it off, snorting, “You can’t kill me. Don’t waste your effort.”

  “You won’t know unless you try!”

  “I know.”

  “Didn’t you say to choose for myself?!”

  “You’re right.”

  His mechanical arm hummed, fingers flexing deftly. Grabbing a steel pipe, Danan crushed it like paper, turning his dark eyes to her.

  “Still want to try after seeing this? You’d be something.”

  He hoisted the girl, sliding halfway down his back.

  “…”

  “…”

  “You—”

  “Don’t make me repeat myself. I’m Danan.”

  “…Danan, where you headed?”

  “The graveyard.”

  “Graveyard? Ain’t most bodies there dug up already? Seems like a place a strong guy like you wouldn’t care for.”

  “…My old man’s grave is there.”

  “Old man?”

  “My foster father.”

  A trace of sorrow and regret seeped into his flat voice. The girl couldn’t see his face, nor he hers. Their conversation hit a wall of misunderstanding, the graveyard’s meaning lost in translation.

  “So, Danan’s your name from him?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Lucky you. I got nothing.”

  “Guess so.”

  “…You even trying to talk?!”

  “Somewhat.”

  “You iron-faced jerk! So blunt! Uh…”

  “Anything else?”

  “Uh, that mechanical arm!”

  “Kid’s nonsense.”

  The girl smacked his back, tugging his gray hair, frowning. Ignoring her, Danan passed through the dark alley, bypassing dug-up graves.

  For vagrants and kids without addresses, a graveyard was a treasure trove. No risk in harvesting organs, and mechanical limbs could be dismantled and sold. Once a weakling’s dream, the graveyard now stood empty, a desolate haunt for ghosts.

  Passing a skeletonized corpse, Danan stopped, drawing his magnum. Aiming at a fully mechanical man—Damocles—before a tombstone, he channeled boiling rage into his finger, slowly squeezing the trigger.

  “Wait! Stop! That’s—that’s Damoc—”

  “Right, Danan,” Damocles cut in. “As the kid says… let’s not fight before his grave, yeah?”

  “…”

  The steel giant turned, its mechanical eyes piercing Danan with a droning hum.

  “Damocles, what do you want? Didn’t know you had a heart for the dead,” Danan said.

  “Sentiment’s important, don’t you think? It’s the excavator digging up human pasts… the drive that makes us human,” Damocles replied.

  A fully mechanical lunatic spouting nonsense. Danan clicked his tongue, scanning the surroundings.

  “Relax, it’s just me. Nah, a Dead Parade member’s always alone. Ganging up’s out of the question—no qualification for it.”

  “Your buddies always come in pairs,” Danan shot back.

  “Small fry pretending to be tough. Too weak to accept their place, they flock together, thinking they’re strong. The Dead Parade you kill ain’t the real deal. True loners love solitude, trusting no one. You kill those, right, Danan?”

  “…”

  Madness sprouted in Damocles, rooting through his mechanical body, oozing muddy killing intent.

  “Danan, you’re the same.”

  “…”

  “Trusting only yourself, never others. Know what that means? If you don’t, or won’t, I’ll spell it out. No one’s more suited to the Dead Parade’s creed than you. I don’t know how he raised you, but your core’s like mine. You don’t trust anyone, don’t want to.”

  Clanging heavily, Damocles stood before Danan, a warped smile meeting his gaze.

  “Even with one mechanical arm, you’re a complete machine to me. Can’t understand your heart, don’t know what you seek, can’t find life’s meaning—a pitiful puppet. Danan… join me. I can give you purpose, look after your friends. One more time: join the Dead Parade, Danan.”

  “…”

  The girl’s eyes darted, burying her face in Danan’s coat.

  The Dead Parade, one of the undercity’s three ruling factions, was a violent organization of full or half-cyborgs, killing indiscriminately and slaughtering rival members on sight. Taught by the old man to fear Damocles and prepare for death if meeting him, the girl’s face contorted in terror.

  She felt madness creeping in. If Danan nodded and joined the Dead Parade, she’d be the first to die. Losing her barely-saved life so cruelly made her want to scream. But her rigid throat only let out hoarse cries and trembling air. Breathing heavily, body tense, she clutched Danan’s coat, eyes squeezed shut.

  “…Damocles,” Danan said.

  “…”

  “You’re gonna kill me, right?”

  “…”

  “If you want to kill me or be killed, don’t spew contradictions. It’s annoying. Get out of my sight. Stick with your buddies, Damocles.”

  With that, Danan, still carrying the girl, placed the bottle before the old man’s grave.

  Sighing that living was pointless, yet gripping a gun to avoid death.

  Living was endless suffering. Enduring painful nights, waking to a vague sense of life. Squeezing pus from festering wounds, wiping whitish blood with fingers. The foul mix of blood and pus stained skin, hardening and peeling.

  Crushing pain with gritted teeth, stifling screams. Spitting blood-flecked phlegm, seeing himself in the black asphalt’s liquid, he loaded his gun, affirming he was alive, not dead.

  Fighting to live, to deny death, he fought without counting corpses. No time to ponder life’s meaning, why he dreaded death, or why he prayed to live.

  Looking at the old man’s tombstone, Danan reflected on ten years of surviving alone. “I still… haven’t found it,” he muttered, opening the bottle. The sharp alcohol stung his nose, a drop spilling.

  He didn’t know what liquor the old man liked. He remembered him sipping a flask, maintaining an old Peacemaker. That ritual wasn’t for work but to remain himself. Young Danan saw it as battle prep, unquestioning.

  Now, a seasoned ruin digger, Danan understood why the old man polished his gun. He was thinking—of the future, what to do. In the silicon oil’s scent, the metal’s dull gleam, the trigger’s dry click, he found his purpose in silent dialogue with his weapon.

  Did Danan want to be like him, find his own path? Calling himself an outdated cowboy, he couldn’t save others. Unlike the old man, he wasn’t strong enough to help the weak. Barely protecting himself, he had no room to guard others.

  Tilting the bottle, Danan poured it over the tombstone, swallowing the last sip. Exhaling hot breath, his vision wavered.

  Would he wander like this forever? Unable to find life’s meaning, becoming a death-scattering machine, pulling the trigger to avoid death?

  Ignoring chances for renewal at his feet, letting life rot like a living corpse?

  “Danan?” the girl called.

  “…”

  “Danan!”

  “…You’re loud.”

  “Loud? You were lost in thought… What’s that stone?”

  “My foster father’s grave.”

  “The old man you mentioned?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Huh.”

  Her heartbeat synced with Danan’s through his back, a hazy silence echoing like tinnitus.

  “What were you thinking?” she asked.

  “…You wouldn’t get it.”

  “I decide what I get.”

  “You? Decide?”

  “Yup.”

  “Stop talking nonsense. This isn’t your problem. It’s mine to solve. Shut up, kid.”

  “Kid? You could at least tell me a little!”

  Sighing deeply, Danan set her down, drew his revolver, and glanced at Damocles, arms crossed behind them.

  “Damocles.”

  “…”

  “I’m not joining the Dead Parade. That’s my choice, and no amount of convincing will change it.”

  I never want to see your face again. Stepping toward the graveyard’s exit, a steel hand gripped his shoulder.

  “Danan.”

  “…”

  “I’ll keep showing up. As long as you’re Danan, calling yourself Danan, you can’t escape my eyes. We’re Cain and Abel, bound by self and ego. As long as gods demand offerings, we’ll fight until death parts us. Right, Danan?”

  “Shut up, lunatic.”

  A clash of killing intent teetered on the edge. Damocles’s mechanical roar thundered, and Danan’s arm deployed its ultrasonic blade.

  If death must part them, the fight wouldn’t end until one died. Damocles reveled in the chance to kill Danan, who couldn’t tolerate his existence, fueling rage with irritation. One spark, and a cataclysmic slaughter would erupt.

  Maybe… Danan thought, staring into Damocles’s madness-tainted mechanical eyes.

  I hate this guy. Beyond humanity or mentality, I just can’t stand his existence. His self-satisfied demeanor pisses me off; his scheming to control everything is unforgivable. The feeling of an invisible hand pressing my head, his bottomless desire to force all wishes—I hate him. Personally… I want to kill him.

  But—knocking Damocles’s hand away, Danan turned, walking with raging fury in his chest. He wouldn’t let him have his way. He’d choose when to risk his life, slowly, deliberately.

  “D-Danan,” the girl stammered, running after him. Damocles glanced at her, his twitching mechanical eyes sparking terror. She froze, letting out a small scream.

  “Hey, kid,” Damocles said.

  “Ah… ah…”

  “What are you to Danan? A friend?”

  “I-I’m—”

  “Don’t worry, I don’t kill kids for fun. But… what can you do alone?”

  “—”

  “No backing, no protector, no family, right? I’ll give you a choice: join the Dead Parade quietly, or be sold to the crucible of lust. Choose, kid.”

  The strong’s words were absolute in the undercity, demanding an answer. Her racing heart pounded, cold sweat dripping as her body temperature swung.

  The two choices were servitude or death’s chains. Either way, her life would be squandered like dust, fading pathetically. Averting Damocles’s pressure, head bowed, she chattered her teeth, vomiting rising bile.

  Death ended everything—pain, despair, all wiped clean. But it meant discarding hope and tomorrow. A cruel choice: suffer within limits or die in pain.

  “—” Danan said the weak had a duty to choose. “—” The weak must seize their own choices. “—Help me, Danan!” she cried, grasping a third option.

  “Danan won’t save you! He’s not like him—” Damocles shouted.

  Instantly, his electromagnetic barrier deployed, deflecting magnum rounds. Amid flashing sparks, a lone tiger-wolf—Danan—drew Helles, brandishing it at Damocles’s mix of shock and glee.

  “What am I, Damocles?!” he roared, challenging the full cyborg to battle.