Under the cloak of night, the center of District 19's A-Class city glowed with decadent brilliance—flashing neon lights, lavish parties, and a flood of wealth. The rich congregated here to indulge in nights of luxury most could never imagine.
But far from that dazzling core, in the neglected suburbs where broken streetlights hadn't been fixed in ages, a very different world stirred in the shadows—one where dark and unspeakable things transpired.
An experienced trucker expertly backed his refrigerated meat transport vehicle into an abandoned warehouse.
"Not much cargo tonight, huh? Government's been cracking down lately—makes things harder for me," the grizzled driver grunted as he stepped down from the cab. He was a rough man, scruffy with a beer belly swollen by gutter oil and cheap alcohol. His tone was casual, almost friendly, as he addressed the sharply dressed man standing on the steps—a man who clearly wasn't new to these clandestine transactions.
This supervisor was a stark contrast to the driver: impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, a neatly trimmed mustache, and a cold, emotionless gaze. He raised one hand, holding up six fingers.
"Six, huh? That's less than usual. Well, rules are rules—no wire transfers, cash only," the driver muttered, returning the gesture by raising five fingers in a counter-offer.
The supervisor didn't even blink. With a wave of his hand, a man in his thirties stepped forward, carrying a suitcase stuffed with cash. The smell of the bills mingled with the stench on the driver's fingers as the suitcase was passed into his hands.
"Load it up."
Without counting the money, the driver opened the refrigerated hold. Workers rolled out six burlap sacks—each one large, heavy, and ominously silent—and stacked them inside.
Once loaded, the driver lit a cigarette, gave a lazy wave, and climbed back into his truck, pulling away into the darkness.
When he reached the city gates, two armed guards stopped the vehicle—but they were no strangers. This driver had clearly done this before. A quiet exchange took place: a wad of cash handed out through the window. With a nod, the guards stepped aside, and the truck rolled out into the night.
As the vehicle bumped along the uneven rural roads, something began to stir in one of the sacks.
It wasn't the road causing the motion.
Inside one of the burlap bags, something twitched—something alive. Green roots coiled and spread, binding together chunks of meat, drawing them in, fusing them. A parasitic plant was reassembling a human body, its remaining life energy dwindling as it worked, struggling to complete the process.
Slowly, agonizingly, the mangled tissue was restored. Even the missing parts began to regenerate under the plant's influence.
A young man's body, now whole again, lay motionless in the sack.
As the truck jolted forward, the man's eyelids fluttered open.
Zzzzip.
The zipper slid open—from the inside.
A pale, slender youth sat upright with unnatural stiffness, his eyes hazy and unfocused. He was completely naked, his gaze glassy and mind fogged. The look on his face was one of total confusion. He didn't know where he was, or even who he was.
The youth… was Yu Jing.
It was like the foggy state humans sometimes find themselves in upon waking suddenly from deep sleep—disoriented, disconnected, unsure of place or time.
But for Yu Jing, this confusion was far deeper. His brain had once been shredded into pulp—something modern medicine couldn't hope to repair. And yet… here he was. Alive.
The plant had restored his neural structure, but his memories were a shattered mess. Fleeting images flickered through his mind—fragments of labs with cyberpunk aesthetics, a cold and eerie girl, seven strange objects, the blood-streaked slaughterhouse…
"The test… from the research facility…"
Suddenly, a piece clicked into place. Yu Jing turned his head to see the other burlap sacks stacked beside him—each one lying just as still as he had.
His breath hitched.
"One… two… three… four… five…"
He counted them aloud, then froze. Including himself, there were six bags in total. The stench of rot and freezer burn filled his nostrils. The horrible truth settled over him like ice.
"Why…"
Yu Jing staggered to one of the bags and opened it. Inside lay a corpse—a man he recognized.
"Old man…?"
Nausea surged up, but he didn't vomit.
One by one, he unzipped the bags. None of the bodies inside were intact. Limbs were missing. Faces were mangled. Some were barely human anymore.
And then he opened the last one.
Jiang Tian.
Her lifeless, pale face stared up at him. Her eyes were open, glassy, empty of soul.
Yu Jing collapsed to his knees before her body. His face remained stiff and numb, but a single tear trailed down his cheek.
...
"Easy money," the driver chuckled to himself as he guided the truck up a lonely, uninhabited hill. "These bastards always find a fresh batch of 'cargo' every now and then. Keep this up and I'll be living the sweet life before long."
He parked beside a series of ten freshly dug pits—clearly a routine job.
Just in case, the driver took the pistol from the glove compartment and tucked it into his waistband. With a flashlight in his right hand, he made his way to the rear of the truck.
"Six bodies—still not enough. I already dug ten pits ahead of time. Guess I'll just have to fill the rest in," he muttered. "Wonder if there's a complete woman in this batch. That shipment three months ago? Still can't get it out of my head."
As the thought crossed his mind, his tongue slid across his lips, and a perverse grin twisted his face—one that only the most depraved would wear.
He moved with practiced ease, unhooking the iron chains on the rear door and yanking it open. A burst of icy air spilled out, making him rub his thick arms against the cold. He swept his flashlight across the truck's interior.
All six burlap sacks were lined up just as they had been—nothing out of the ordinary.
The veteran driver grabbed the nearest sack and dragged it down, unzipping it to check for "prime goods."
"Damn it, that's nasty…"
He'd done this too many times to count. One by one, the sacks were dumped into the pre-dug pits, covered over with dirt and debris. The second sack followed—equally unappetizing. Then the third. Fourth. Fifth. Nothing but disappointment.
"What a letdown. Just one left."
The beam of his flashlight landed on the final sack tucked in the back of the truck. With a glimmer of hope, he unzipped it.
Inside lay a complete, unblemished young man.
"A guy? What a damn waste of a perfect body."
He reached out and grabbed the youth's arm—but froze.
The flesh was warm.
Not the lingering warmth of a freshly dead body. No, this was body heat. Real body heat. No one—dead or alive—should still be warm after hours inside a refrigerated truck.
Suddenly, with precise and fluid motion, the youth sprang upright. In one swift movement, he snatched the pistol from the driver's hands.
The muzzle pressed cold and firm against the man's forehead.
The youth's voice was calm, deadly focused:
"Are you with the research facility? Where are we?"