That radiant dawn seemed to carry a challenge from Kanto itself, the land I was now forced to call my temporary "home." I left the cave with my body still heavy from last night's long dream, memories of my old life lingering in my mind like ghosts that refused to fade. My giant footsteps lightly shook the ground, leaves scattering with each stride. The dense forest gradually thinned out, giving way to low bushes where I quickly picked a few ripe wild fruits to line my stomach. They had a mixed sour-sweet taste, not delicious but enough to dispel the gnawing hunger. I devoured them ravenously, juice dripping down my chin, while my mind still swirled with images from the dream: the orphanage, school, office – all now distant like another lifetime. "I have to survive," I told myself, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand, then continued forward, heading toward the jagged rocky hills I could see in the distance.
The path sloped upward, gravel crunching underfoot making me cautious not to slip. This new body was powerful, but still unaccustomed to the enormous weight, turning each step into a small earthquake. The sun rose higher, casting blinding rays through the sparse foliage, making sweat pour down my back. Finally, I climbed to the highest rocky peak, where strong winds carried the acrid smell of distant smoke and fire. From here, the view opened up to all of Kanto – not the prosperous urban area with skyscrapers I'd imagined from the manga, but a vast sea of ruins after the horrific great earthquake. Buildings collapsed into piles of rubble, streets cracked like a giant spiderweb, and thick black smoke columns rising from distant makeshift camps, like unhealed wounds on the earth's flesh. Further away, I saw collapsed mountain ranges, rivers and lakes filled with debris, and vague silhouettes of groups of people moving like ants amid the desolation. My heart tightened; this wasn't a game, but real hell, where humans fought for every scrap of survival. "One month to leave here," I muttered, clenching my fists, feeling the power surging in my veins. But was that power enough to withstand the madness of this world?
I continued down the hill, heading toward the smoke columns – where there might be signs of life. The sun reached its zenith, scorching my skin though my body now endured it better. My stomach growled again, but I didn't dare stop long, fearing encounters with monstrous beasts like yesterday. The wind whistled mixed with unfamiliar sounds: rustling leaves, distant bird calls, and then, at noon, a roar echoed from the valley below. It was engines – large motorcycles, growling like wild animals. I hid behind a large rock, observing from above. A biker gang sped through the dusty road, shiny black leather jackets with ghastly white skulls painted on the back, helmets covering their faces, and weapons dangling at their sides: daggers, iron clubs, even a few handguns. There were about ten of them, moving like a pack of hunting wolves. They called themselves henchmen of the Slum King – I overheard faintly through their savage shouts and laughter – the brutal overlord ruling Kanto that I knew from the implanted system knowledge.
They stopped beside a group of refugees trudging along the road: about a dozen people, men, women, and children, in tattered clothes, carrying meager bags. A few bodies already lay motionless on the ground, bloodstains indicating a recent attack. The biker gang surrounded them, booming laughter erupting as they dragged a young girl out of the group. She struggled, screaming for help, but the others only dared to watch in fear, not intervening. A large biker, probably the leader, unzipped his pants, grinning lewdly while his comrades held the girl tight. The scene made my blood boil – not out of heroism, but from deep-seated anger, reminding me of injustices I'd witnessed in my previous life. I didn't think anymore. The instincts from the Violence Jack gene surged, propelling me down like a meteor from the hilltop, wind whistling in my ears, heavy body but fast as lightning.
I landed among them, the ground cracking under my feet, dust flying everywhere. Horrified screams rose from the bikers as they realized the intruder: a giant with a fierce face, rippling muscles, tattered clothes revealing skin hard as steel. "What the hell are you?" the leader growled, drawing his handgun and aiming at me. But I gave him no chance. My right hand swung up, grabbing his collar, lifting him like a chicken. He pulled the trigger, the bullet embedding in my shoulder, stinging but the wound immediately closed, flesh regenerating rapidly. I hurled him into the nearest motorcycle, the clash of metal screeching, the bike crumpling under the weight, gasoline spilling and igniting into a small flame. He lay motionless, spine shattered, blood foaming from his mouth.
Two others charged from the sides, one swinging an iron club at my head, the other stabbing a dagger into my side. I dodged the club easily, the upgraded power making their movements slow like slow-motion film. My left hand grabbed the wrist of the club-wielder, squeezing until bones cracked, him screaming in pain before I twisted it backward, snapping it clean. The other stabbed my side, the blade breaking in half against the tough muscle layer. I spun around, punching his chest, the force caving it in, sending him flying backward, crashing through a collapsed concrete wall by the road. The impact thundered like thunder, dust billowing, and he lay still, blood pooling. The remaining three started their bikes to flee, but I leaped up, landing among them. A sweeping kick flipped two bikes, wheels spinning in the air, gasoline exploding into fire. The last biker drew his gun and fired repeatedly, but I charged, grabbing his throat, lifting him high then slamming him down. His spine snapped with a crack, he twitched a few times then went still.
In just three minutes, five motorcycles were reduced to smoldering scrap heaps. Two with broken spines lay twisted like broken dolls, another dangling from the concrete wall with a gaping hole. The air reeked of bloody stench and burning gasoline, crackling flames mixed with weak moans from a few still gasping. I stood there, panting, hands covered in blood, looking around. The refugees huddled together, eyes on me full of horror, as if I were the real monster. An elderly man backed away, stammering: "You… who are you? Stay away!" Children wailed, hiding behind adults. The girl I saved – about twenty, long disheveled hair, torn clothes – shakily stood, eyes red but trying to stay calm. I realized then: in this world, saving people also terrified them. My power wasn't hope, but a new horror, like Violence Jack in the story – the wanderer amid ruins, carrying violence like fate.
But then, the shock hit. I looked down at my hands, fresh red blood sticky everywhere, and suddenly my stomach churned. This was the first time I'd killed people – not animals, but humans, even if they were villains. The image of the biker hurled through the wall flashed: bone-cracking sound, blood splattering, his eyes desperate before going blank. I dropped to my knees, vomiting up all the wild fruits from breakfast, tears streaming uncontrollably. "What have I done?" I thought, hands trembling as I wiped my mouth. From childhood to adulthood, I'd never hit anyone to draw blood, let alone kill. Office memories flooded back: days at the desk, avoiding conflict, living peacefully. Now, these hands had extinguished lives, easily as crushing an egg. Fear mixed with guilt surged: "Am I becoming a monster? This gene… it's turning me into a killer." I sat there, gasping, mind in chaos. It took a few minutes to calm down, telling myself that if I hadn't acted, that girl would die, and the others too. But the psychological wound still simmered, like an unhealing scar.
The girl approached, voice trembling but firm: "Thank you… You saved us. If not for you, we…" She paused, looking at the surrounding corpses, then continued: "Our village is nearby. Come there, we'll repay you." The others were still wary, but seeing her speak, they nodded reluctantly. I stood, nodding silently, following them to the village – a makeshift camp built from concrete scraps and rotten wood, not far away. On the way, she introduced herself as Aiko, telling that the village was a shelter for earthquake survivors, but often raided by Slum King's minions. I listened, trying to banish the bloody images from my mind, but each step felt heavy with guilt.
Arriving at the village in the afternoon, the atmosphere was tense. The villagers – about fifty, mostly gaunt, patched clothes – looked at me with mixed eyes of gratitude and fear. They whispered behind: "That giant… he's strong like a demon." Aiko led me to a large hut, where the village elder – an old man with silver beard – thanked me awkwardly, then warned that those bikers were just a small part, and other raiders would come for revenge. Sure enough, less than an hour later, engine sounds echoed from afar. Another raiding party – about twenty, better armed with rifles and axes – charged into the village, shouting: "Revenge for our brothers!" They fired into the air, villagers panicking and fleeing into huts.
I didn't wait for orders, charging out like a storm. The first one jumped off his bike, swinging an axe at me. I blocked the blade with my bare hand, metal bending under my grip, then punched back into his face, jaw shattering, sending him flying into his comrades. Two others shot, bullets embedding in my chest, stinging but wounds healing immediately. I leaped, landing among them, sweeping hand sending three flying, ribs breaking. A burly one charged with a knife, stabbing repeatedly into my stomach, but skin repelled the blade. I grabbed his throat, hurled him up then slammed down, bone-cracking sound echoing. The rest panicked, firing wildly, but I moved like a ghost, punching one's head to pulp, kicking another's leg to snap. Blood splattered, screams of pain mixed with metal clashes. Again, the shock returned: each life extinguished under my hands tightened my heart, images of them falling in slow motion, red blood pooling on the ground. "Stop," I thought, but instincts wouldn't allow – they'd kill the villagers if I stopped. I suppressed the pain, continuing: hurling one into a motorcycle, exploding into fire; punching through the last one's chest, him twitching then silent.
Dusk fell as the last raiders lay scattered. Villagers looked at me with changed eyes: fear still there, but mixed with awe. Aiko ran over, bandaging small wounds on my hand – though they healed fast. The elder arranged a separate hut for me, and a simple meal: dry bread, boiled vegetables, and some jerky from reserves. Not tasty, but warmer than wild fruits. I sat eating in silence, mind still turbulent with the lives taken. Day two ended, but the obsession with killing had just begun.
Dusk of the second day fell over the village with the last rays dyeing the makeshift huts red, carrying the smell of smoke from the smoldering raider corpses on the village edge. I sat in the hut the elder arranged, nibbling the last piece of jerky, trying to dispel the lingering bloody images in my mind. Aiko sat not far away, her eyes still a bit wary but mixed with gratitude. "Long, you should stay a few days," she said softly, "our village needs someone like you. And you need rest too." I nodded, not saying much. My initial plan was to leave immediately, but Kanto was vast and ruined, and I needed information to find a way out within a month. This small village was an ideal stop to gather news from wandering survivors. So I decided to stay temporarily, at least three days, to listen, observe, and prepare.
The first day began with a gentle dawn, rooster crows echoing through the wooden scrap huts. I woke early, my giant body making the bamboo bed creak under the weight. Outside, the air was cool, carrying the smell of damp earth after the night rain. Villagers had started work: men repairing fences, women cooking from scarce ingredients, children running and avoiding mud puddles. Aiko led me on a tour of the village, introducing people cautiously. "This is Mr. Hiroshi, the old blacksmith," she said, pointing to a middle-aged man hammering a twisted metal piece. He looked at me, eyes flashing awe and fear, then nodded hello. I smiled, introducing briefly: "I'm Long, a Vietnamese wanderer here." They asked about my homeland, how I came to Kanto, but I shook my head, smiling it off. "Long story," I said, and they didn't dare ask more, perhaps due to my enormous build and fierce face making them uneasy.
In the morning, I helped repair the fence – simple work with my strength. Alone lifting heavy logs that three men could barely carry, driving them deep into the ground to reinforce defenses. Villagers watched me work, whispering about that "supernatural" power. When a curious boy asked: "How are you so strong?" I just smiled, no answer, then patted his head. My mindset then was still haunted by yesterday's battles – blood on hands, bone cracks – but gradually, I realized killing here wasn't a choice, but necessity. If I didn't act, this village would be destroyed, and I'd be no different from the coward in my previous life, always avoiding conflict. Slowly, the guilt faded, replaced by cold acceptance: this is Kanto, where the weak die first.
By noon, engine sounds echoed from afar – another raiding party, about fifteen, charging madly on makeshift off-road vehicles. They shouted, wielding weapons: spiked clubs, machetes, and a few old hunting guns. Villagers panicked into huts, but I charged out to meet them. The leader, a scarred face with yellow teeth, shot at my chest from afar. The bullet embedded deep, stinging like a bee, but the wound closed instantly, ejecting the bullet. He gaped in shock, but I leaped to him, right hand grabbing his collar, lifting him off the bike. The bike crashed on, smashing into the fence, but he struggled, stabbing my arm. The blade snapped, and I squeezed, hearing neck bones crack before hurling him into the followers behind. He flew like a ball, crashing into two others, sending them tumbling, blood splattering from crushed heads.
Three others charged from the sides, one swinging a spiked club at my head, the other two slashing machetes at my legs. I dodged the club, feeling wind whistle by my ear, then punched back into his gut – force rupturing organs, him doubling over spewing blood, collapsing. The second slashed my thigh, blade chipping but my skin only scratched lightly, healing immediately. I spun, kicking across his chest, hearing ribs snap repeatedly, sending him flying into a nearby tree, dangling with caved chest. The last panicked, slashing wildly, but I grabbed his wrist, twisting to snap it, then punched his face – jaw shattering, teeth flying, him going still. The rest fired chaotically, bullets whizzing, a few hitting my shoulder and back, but I charged like a whirlwind, hurling one into his bike, exploding into fire. Two fled, but I leaped, landing in front, punching through one's chest, blood gushing like a fountain, then kicking the other's leg to snap, leaving him moaning.
The battle ended in under five minutes, corpses scattered, bloody stench mixed with burning vehicle smoke. Villagers ran out, cheering gratitude, but I turned away, dry-heaving from the sight. However, this time the shock was milder – I was getting used to it, seeing killing as a survival tool, not crime. From the corpses, I collected items: some dry food bags, bottled water, and a set of old leather clothes from the leader – spacious enough for my giant frame, replacing the tattered office attire. In the afternoon, I sat with the elder, listening to him tell of Kanto: ruined roads, ruling gangs, and ways to leave – head north through dangerous areas. He mentioned Evil Town vaguely, an underground town where people divided into factions, full of violence and monsters.
The second day, the village woke to a calmer atmosphere, thanks to the fence I repaired. I helped dig a new well, using strength to lift large rocks, making villagers marvel. Aiko brought lunch: thin porridge with forest greens, and we talked. She asked about Vietnam, I briefly described bustling Saigon, avoiding personal details. "You're so strong, like Violence Jack in legends," a man named Kenji said as I helped repair a hut roof. I smiled, no reply, but inwardly thought of that gene – it saved the village, but also turned me into a killer. My mindset had changed: killing no longer haunted like at first, becoming a reflex, like eating to live. I told myself: "Here, pity kills you first."
That afternoon, a larger raiding party – twenty, equipped with makeshift machine guns – attacked from two directions. They sprayed bullets into the fence, villagers hiding behind huts. I charged into the smoke, dodging the first volley by instinct, grabbing one and hurling into comrades, disrupting them. A bomb-holder threw at me, but I caught it, throwing back – explosion, bodies flying apart. Two charged with swords, slashing at my neck, but hard skin repelled the blades. I swung the Jack Knife, severing one's arm, blood spraying; stabbing through the other's chest, withdrawing with tearing flesh sound. The rest fired, bullets hitting but healing, I charged, slashing across three, bisecting them, guts spilling. The leader drew a handgun, shooting point-blank at my face, bullet hitting cheek but I punched his head to pulp, brains splattering. The battle ended, I stood amid corpses, wiping the blade, mindset now calm – killing was necessary, like breathing in Kanto.
After three days, I had a route: north through Evil Town. Collecting enough items – food, water, new leather set, and Jack Knife – I bid farewell to the village, Aiko seeing me off with tears. I left at dusk, heading toward that underground hell.