After the grueling tests, Ryan trudged back to the cramped sanctuary of his home, the weight of the day pressing down on him like an invisible shroud woven from equal parts elation and disillusionment. The sun hung low in the smog-choked sky, casting elongated shadows that danced mockingly across the twisted alleys of the slums. Kai, along with Max and Nen, had been whisked away for advanced evaluations—their genetic potentials marking them for higher echelons of development, where evolution pills and specialized training awaited. Ryan, however, had been selected for the low-rank soldier tier, a bittersweet victory that stirred a storm within him. Joy flickered briefly at the thought of finally contributing, of stepping into the legacy of his parents, but it was swiftly eclipsed by a hollow ache. Why him in the dregs, while Kai ascended? The disparity gnawed at him, a subtle poison seeping into his veins.
He attempted to reach Kai, dialing his number repeatedly as he navigated the familiar labyrinth of narrow streets. The phone rang out into silence each time, an unanswered echo that amplified his isolation. Frustration mounting, Ryan collapsed onto his thin mattress, the fabric worn thin from countless restless nights. He stared upward at the cracked ceiling, where faint stains bloomed like abstract constellations, mapping out the uncertainties of his future. His mind wandered, replaying the tall recruiter's words with crystalline clarity, each syllable a chisel carving away at his dreams.
"Low-rank soldiers receive a weekly salary of 1500 credits," the man had intoned, his voice a monotonous drone laced with bureaucratic indifference. "You'll be issued a high-tech uniform for basic protection and a standard-issue gun for defense. No additional high-tech equipment will be provided by the force—though you're free to purchase your own, at your expense. Wearing the uniform is compulsory at all times during duty." The details had unfolded like a contract from some dystopian ledger: training and work commencing in one week, shifts stretching from 9 AM to 7 PM, an assigned area where he'd pitch a tent and stand vigil. Emergencies demanded immediate response—rushing to the scene, reporting in, containing the chaos. His primary duties? Apprehending petty thugs, ensuring citizen safety, providing security escorts wherever dispatched. It sounded less like the heroic exploits of a defense force warrior and more like the mundane drudgery of a glorified security guard, patrolling the fringes of society while the true battles raged elsewhere.
Ryan's superhero visions—those vivid fantasies inspired by his comics, where he soared through peril with unyielding might—shattered like fragile glass under the weight of this reality. He rose with reluctance, no appetite for his usual training regimen, yet a fierce hunger clawed at his stomach, accompanied by an odd restlessness that prickled his skin like static electricity. Joining felt like a reluctant surrender, but as his thoughts turned to the credits, a pragmatic light pierced the gloom. He could ease the burden on Romi's shoulders, those broad pillars that had carried their household for so long. The notion softened his mood, a gentle balm on his frayed nerves. With a sigh, he dragged himself from the bed and descended the stairs.
In the sparse kitchen, he rummaged for an instant noodle packet, only to find it empty, the wrapper crumpled and discarded like a forgotten promise. Hunger intensified, a gnawing void that demanded satisfaction. "I'll eat out today," he muttered to himself, checking his credits: a meager 50, barely enough for a single cup noodle. He slipped on the shoes Kai had given him—sturdy, with subtle enhancements for speed—and tucked the sword into the back of his hoodie, its hilt concealed yet reassuring against his spine. Stepping out, he locked the door and directed his steps toward the store four alleys away, nestled near the bustling main street where vendors hawked their wares under flickering neon signs.
He walked slowly, deliberately, lost in the labyrinth of his own thoughts, the world around him blurring into a haze. The alleys twisted like veins in a decaying body, lined with overflowing dumpsters and the occasional flicker of bioluminescent graffiti that pulsed faintly in the dying light. Suddenly, his reverie shattered as four figures materialized from the shadows, encircling him with predatory intent. Each clutched a weapon: crude bats scarred from prior use, iron rods glinting with rust, and improvised clubs fashioned from scavenged debris. Ryan's instincts flared, but before he could pivot, he collided with the foremost assailant—a burly man whose muscular frame loomed like a wall, his face split by a creepy, tooth-baring smile that promised malice.
The man lunged, his thick hand shooting forward in a grab, fingers splayed like claws aiming for Ryan's collar. Time seemed to dilate; Ryan twisted his torso with explosive precision, jerking backward in a single fluid motion that evaded the grasp by mere inches. The air whistled where the hand had been. In that heartbeat, Ryan activated his gear: the shoes hummed to life with a subtle vibration, enhancing his agility, while the sword's hilt warmed in his grip. From his mask, a thin yellow film deployed over his eyes, augmenting his vision with tactical overlays—thermal signatures, motion predictors, a 360-degree feed streamed directly from the sword's embedded cameras.
A bat swung from his right, the assailant—a wiry thug with a scarred cheek—putting his full weight into the arc, aiming for Ryan's ribs. Ryan sidestepped with effortless grace, the enhanced boots propelling him just enough to let the weapon slice through empty air. He countered seamlessly, spinning on his heel in a pirouette that brought him behind a bald-headed brute who had been closing in from the rear. The sword's view fed him the scene: the bald man's arm rearing back for a downward strike with an iron rod. Ryan's hand moved like a shadow—gripping the sword's hilt firmly, he thrust it upward in a precise underhand arc, the blade's edge catching the rod mid-swing with a metallic clang that reverberated through the alley. The force jarred the bald man's grip, sending vibrations up his arm; Ryan followed through, pivoting his wrist to redirect the momentum, sweeping the sword in a horizontal slash that connected with the man's knee. The thug crumpled with a guttural yelp, his leg buckling as if the bone had turned to jelly.
Three remained, but Ryan's blood sang with the thrill—this was the first true fight where he'd wielded the boots and sword in unison, and it felt like an extension of his body, a symphony of technology and instinct. The scarred-cheek thug recovered, lunging with his bat in a overhead smash, hands choking up on the grip for maximum force. Ryan ducked low, feeling the whoosh of air ruffle his hair, then exploded upward, his left hand snapping out in a palm strike to the man's solar plexus—fingers rigid, knuckles driving deep into the soft tissue. The impact expelled the air from the thug's lungs in a wheeze, staggering him backward. Before he could recover, Ryan's right hand, sword in tow, whipped around in a backhand slice, the flat of the blade slapping against the man's temple with controlled force, sending him sprawling into the dirt.
The remaining two—a lanky figure with a club and another with a jagged pipe—charged in tandem, their movements uncoordinated but fueled by desperation. The lanky one swung his club in a wide, sweeping arc from the side, aiming to hook Ryan's arm; Ryan anticipated it via the yellow overlay, which highlighted the trajectory in glowing lines. He parried with the sword's guard, metal meeting wood in a splintering crack, then twisted his blade to lock the club momentarily. With a sharp yank—his fingers curling tighter around the hilt—he disarmed the man, the club flying free. A quick elbow strike followed, his arm bending at a precise 90 degrees to drive the point into the lanky's jaw, snapping his head back and dropping him like a puppet with cut strings.
The last assailant hesitated, pipe raised defensively, but Ryan was already upon him. Feinting a high slash with the sword—hand raised overhead, blade glinting—drew the man's guard up, exposing his midsection. Ryan's boot-enhanced kick landed true: his leg chambered briefly, knee lifting high, before snapping out in a front thrust, the sole connecting squarely with the thug's abdomen. The impact folded him in half, pipe clattering to the ground as he gasped for breath. Ryan finished with a sweeping leg hook—his foot arcing low to tangle the man's ankles—sending him tumbling into a heap with his comrades.
Adrenaline surged through Ryan; he felt invincible, yet a pragmatic voice whispered that this was mere practice. These foes were fodder; true threats lurked in the shadows ahead. He sheathed the sword and deactivated his gear, the yellow film retracting with a soft whir. Entering the store—a dimly lit haven crammed with shelves of glowing energy drinks, synthetic snacks, and scavenged gadgets—he eyed the temptations: shimmering crystal-infused bars that promised enhanced focus, holographic comics that danced in mid-air. But his credits limited him. "One instant cup noodle," he said to the clerk, a wiry old man with augmented eyes that whirred as they scanned the barcode. "Medium spicy, cook it here."
The clerk nodded, extracting the packet with practiced efficiency. He punctured the lid, poured in boiling water from a dispenser that hummed with internal heaters, then added a sachet of sauce—fiery red, swirling into the broth like blood in water. Into the microwave it went, timer set for five minutes, the device beeping softly as it rotated the cup. The aroma built gradually: steam rising in tendrils, carrying notes of synthetic chili and umami essence that made Ryan's mouth water. When it dinged, he claimed it, settling into a rickety chair beside the counter. He peeled back the lid, the heat warming his palms, and slurped the noodles methodically—each strand coiling on his tongue, the medium spice igniting a pleasant burn that chased away the edges of his hunger.
Satisfied, if not sated, he donned his mask once more and stepped into the cooling evening air. The path home wound through the familiar decay, his gaze drifting upward to the distant silhouette of Silver City. Towering spires pierced the heavens, aglow with high-tech facades that pulsed like living organisms—holographic billboards advertising luxuries beyond the slums' grasp. In a week, he'd breach those barriers, permit in hand, as a defense force recruit. Slum dwellers were barred otherwise; only workers with clearance could enter, a divide as stark as the polluted river that separated worlds.
Arriving home, exhaustion claimed him—physical from the tests and skirmish, mental from the whirlwind of shattered illusions and budding resolve. He collapsed into bed, sleep enveloping him swiftly, a merciful void.
The moon crested near its peak, a swollen orb bathing the night in ethereal silver, fuller than usual, rendering shadows crisp and the world unnaturally clear. No veil of darkness tonight; the luminescence turned the slums into a ghostly tableau, where every rut in the dusty roads gleamed like polished bone.
A compact van rumbled along one such path, kicking up plumes of dust that shimmered in the moonlight. Inside sat five figures, the vehicle's exterior freshly emblazoned with "Member of White Eye" in stark white letters, the paint so new it still carried a faint chemical tang, betraying their novice status. At the wheel was a young man, twenty to twenty-two, his face gaunt with dark circles hollowing his eyes like craters. "Once this job's done," he declared, voice laced with manic ambition, "we'll be official White Eye members. No more cowering from the Scorpion Gang scum. We'll show them who's the real boss."
From the back, a chuckle erupted from a man whose left eye had been replaced by a robotic implant, its green light flickering like a malevolent star. "Why bother showing? They'll beg to make us their bosses." Laughter rippled through the van, raw and unrefined.
Another gripped a green crystal tablet, its surface etched with faint energy veins. "This is the real deal," he boasted, waving it like a trophy. "Pop one of these, and I could take down an elephant. That's the beauty of XVE-90—it turns you into a beast. Remember that enforced low-rank soldier we offed? My speed was unreal; his high-tech boots, sword, gun—useless against this raw power."
"Yeah," the driver added, "if we had this always, imagine the chaos."
"I've heard people are dropping dead from it," interjected a third, rubbing his hands nervously, palms slick with sweat.
The robotic-eyed one scoffed, his implant whirring as it focused. "All lies. Rumors to keep the power from spreading. If everyone got strong, who'd control us? Nah, I say we build a big team, dose 'em all, and storm the defense force HQ. Take it over!" More laughter, escalating into hysterics.
"Open the box," another urged. "Who knows? Maybe there's high-level evolution pills in there. We'd be unstoppable—could even seize White Eye itself."
From the rear, the leader—who had been dozing in silence—stirred, his voice cutting through like a blade. "Shut your mouths, you fools. You have no idea who White Eye is. Their leader's commander-level, two or three stars at least. Even the defense force won't hit them head-on. He's got a full team of ten rank-1 soldiers, all F-rank evolved. And rumor has it, his three vice leaders are trans-human level already. Touch nothing in that box. Drive quiet, deliver on time, collect the payment. No idiotic behavior—and you've already screwed up by painting the van like this. We look like fresh recruits begging for trouble."
Abruptly, a sharp pop echoed—the tire bursting like a gunshot. The van lurched, balance shattered, swerving wildly across the rutted path. Brakes screeched, the vehicle fishtailing before grinding to a halt in a cloud of dust.
"Watch how you drive!" a voice yelled from the back. "Don't you get how big this deal is?"
The dark-eyed driver protested, "I didn't do anything! Something got under the tire—probably a puncture." They piled out, scanning the ground under the moon's unforgiving glare. The leader remained inside, watchful.
One shouted, "Boss! This was deliberate—look, traps laid out!"
"Surround the van," the boss ordered, his tone steely. "If it comes to it, take the pill."
"But they said only one per day—high dose could kill us!"
"Better that than dying here. Identify the threat first."
From the shadows, a figure emerged slowly, footsteps deliberate—a silhouette in a mask and hoodie emblazoned with a red and white eye, motifs that screamed affiliation or mockery.
"Just a kid," the robotic-eyed thug sneered.
"Don't underestimate," the boss cautioned. "Chase him off. Check for backups—a kid's gang, maybe."
Before the words fully escaped, the intruder—Smoke Ghost—struck. His fist rocketed forward in a piston-like jab, knuckles clenched white, connecting squarely with the robotic-eyed man's jaw. The impact twisted the head sideways, a tooth fracturing with a wet crack, sailing into the dirt amid a spray of blood. The victim reeled, hand instinctively rising to clutch his face, fingers trembling as pain bloomed.
Before reactions could coalesce, Smoke Ghost's black sword flashed—a downward chop from overhead, blade gripped in both hands for leverage, slicing through the air with a hiss. It severed the man's fingers in a clean arc, the green pill tumbling free as severed digits hit the ground. The thug howled, but Smoke Ghost pressed: a swift horizontal slash, sword pivoted at the wrist, caught the man's extended tongue mid-scream, severing it in a gout of crimson. Soundless agony contorted his features, mouth working futilely as blood poured forth.
Smoke Ghost whirled to the exterior quartet, who fumbled for their pills in panic. The first reached his pocket, fingers delving deep—but Smoke Ghost closed the distance in a blur, leading with a feint punch that drew the man's guard high, then sweeping low with the sword in a scything motion, blade angled at 45 degrees to hamstring the legs. The thug collapsed, clutching his wounds. The second swung a improvised club wildly, arms flailing in overextended arcs; Smoke Ghost parried with the sword's flat, then countered with a rising uppercut slash, hand twisting to drive the edge into the armpit, disarming and disabling in one fluid twist.
The third and fourth converged, one thrusting a knife in a stabbing motion—hand extended straight, elbow locked—while the other flanked with a overhead smash. Smoke Ghost dodged the stab with a sidestep, his left hand snapping out to grab the wrist mid-thrust, fingers locking in a vice, yanking downward to unbalance. Simultaneously, his right hand brought the sword around in a circular parry, blade rotating to deflect the smash, then reversing into a piercing thrust that skewered the flanker's shoulder. With a wrenching pull—wrist flexing sharply—he withdrew the blade, spinning to deliver a backhand elbow to the knife-wielder's temple, crumpling him.
At the van's gate, Smoke Ghost advanced—only for a explosive blast to erupt, a concussive wave that hurled him backward, body twisting mid-air as he clutched his stomach. He landed in a crouch, rising slowly, pain etching lines on his masked face.
From within emerged the leader: tall, broad, muscular, with long black hair cascading over his eyes like a veil. His breath came in labored rasps, voice a growl: "Wrong crew to tangle with, kid. This stuff's hard-won from the defense force, and you think you can rob us?" His eyes burned red, veins bulging with unnatural fury, as if blood itself fueled his rage.
He lunged, hand thrusting in a straight punch, fingers curled into a hammer fist aimed at Smoke Ghost's chest. Smoke Ghost parried with the sword's guard, blade held horizontally, the impact jarring his arms. The leader followed with a sweeping kick, leg chambering high before snapping out; Smoke Ghost leaped back, the boot grazing his hoodie. Hair barely missed in the evasion—strands whispering past his cheek.
Smoke Ghost retaliated with a black flip: hands planting briefly on the ground, body inverting in a acrobatic arc, legs scissoring overhead to land behind. The leader whirled, extending his hands—palms outward, fingers splaying as bony protrusions elongated into projectiles, thickening like organic bullets.
Smoke Ghost's instincts screamed; he anticipated the barrage from the unnatural growth, the way the fingers twitched with building pressure. He dove sideways, body rolling in a tight somersault, a bone bullet grazing his leg—fabric tearing, skin burning hot as it skimmed flesh.
Ducking behind the van for cover, Smoke Ghost fumbled in his pocket, extracting a cigarette pack labeled "High Concentration Nicotine." He unzipped the face chain of his mask with trembling fingers, exposing his mouth, and lit one—inhaling deeply, the acrid smoke flooding his lungs. The nicotine hit his bloodstream like lightning, pupils dilating wide, arm hairs standing erect as a faint vapor began to emanate from his pores. Smoke billowed around him, thickening into a obscuring fog that swirled with ethereal menace.
The leader approached warily, peering into the haze—only to meet two glowing red eyes advancing, growing larger, more ominous. Panic seized him; he fired blindly, hands thrusting forward in rapid jabs, bone bullets launching in staccato bursts—fingers recoiling with each ejection. They pierced the smoke harmlessly, dissipating into wisps.
From the side, a shadow burst forth—Smoke Ghost materializing like a specter. His sword descended in a two-handed overhead cleave, blade arcing down with precision, severing the leader's hands at the wrists in twin sprays of blood. The motion was a blur: initial downstroke for the right, immediate pivot and horizontal follow-through for the left. So swift, the leader didn't register until agony hit; he glanced down, only to find his legs similarly targeted—Smoke Ghost's blade sweeping low in a figure-eight pattern, knees buckling as tendons parted.
The leader toppled, a ruined heap, watching helplessly as the shadow claimed the box, vanishing into the night trailing clouds of smoke like a phantom's wake.
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