Putato stared at the orange-haired woman's severed head and Ikus's mangled corpse. A wave of horror washed over him, followed quickly by a surge of fury.
People died so easily here; it was like a goddamn joke!
"You—you haven't undergone Prosthetic modification. How can you expect to join the Brotherhood?"
Consta and Arnold were excitedly rummaging through the bodies and collecting commission files, while Mo stood guard at the entrance.
Mo sized Putato up and down, still shaking her head in disapproval.
Her words made Putato break out in a cold sweat. He quickly retorted: "Hey, that's not how you do the math."
By now, Putato had grasped the knack of communicating with people in The City—appeal to their emotions, then talk about the money.
"Firstly, I just became a regular employee at Good Office. Goodman had already paid me a full month's salary."
"Since he's gone, you can logically hire me for a month for free. Consider it a signing bonus."
"Secondly, selling commissions takes time. You'd have to constantly watch your back around me if I were an outsider."
"But if we're on the same side, I'd obviously prioritize long-term benefits. Following you is certainly more profitable than following Goodman, right?"
"Worst case, you can just fire me after I've sold the commissions. It's all advantages for you, no downsides!"
Consta, carrying a large bag, nodded in agreement.
"What—what he says seems to make sense."
"No—but I just saw, this Office seems to only have Goodman, a Grade 9 Fixer. Everyone else is just an intern."
"You—you being able to become a regular employee does show some actual skill."
Damn it!
Goodman, you're dead!
The usually quiet Arnold, on the other hand, pulled out a wristband.
"But—but to ensure you won't take the money and run, you have to wear this."
The powerful steel arm didn't give Putato time to object. Putato was forced to put on the wristband.
Putato knew in his gut that this was trouble, but a person under another's roof has no choice but to bow their head.
"This—this is a timed syringe I used before my Prosthetic modifications. It's filled with high-purity Enkephalins. I've always kept it."
"If—if it don't receive a cancellation signal by Noon, it will automatically inject. A normal person would probably die of pure pleasure."
Damn it!
Putato now wished he could tear off the wristband, but unfortunately, the device was made entirely of metal, and the strap adhered to his skin in a disturbingly seamless way.
If he tried to forcibly pull it off, his skin would likely tear away with it.
Mo saw this and nodded in satisfaction.
"Just—just bring back the money from selling the commissions, and we'll unlock it for you. Then we can get rich together."
"So, I'm considered to have joined the Brotherhood of Iron then?"
"Of—of course, but only as an intern."
Putato suppressed his anger and stealthily checked his Work Business Card, feeling a spark of joy in his heart.
[Congratulations on your appointment to the Brotherhood of Iron]
[Acquired Work Talent: Cyborg]
[Description: Flesh is weak, machine ascends!]
[Effect 1: Your compatibility with Prosthetics is greatly enhanced; no rejection reactions will occur.]
[Effect 2: You acquire Cyborg modification techniques.]
Two effects! Could it be that the stronger the organization he joined, the more powerful the Work Talent he would acquire?
Putato dared not imagine what kind of powerful abilities he could gain if he joined a Wing of The City like Lobotomy Corporation. Perhaps he'd directly transform into an Abnormality and bash these rascals to pulp.
"Al—alright, time to move out."
Mo used Ikus's head to write "Brotherhood of Iron" in blood on the ground, then told the three of them to leave.
Rushing on their way, Putato looked up at the three brass-colored backs ahead. Strange knowledge flooded his mind, and he immediately noticed at least eighteen Prosthetic flaws on their bodies.
From a professional Prosthetic modification perspective, this entire setup was just a bunch of shoddy work!
The power source device on their chests, for example, not only lacked additional armor but even had visible hot spots on the engraved cooling fins.
"This knowledge is unexpectedly useful."
Putato looked down at the wristband, realizing that the formidable Cyborg modification techniques had made him a mechanical master. At the very least, disabling the wristband would be easy.
Now, he just lacked the tools to immediately disarm this deadly device.
"Meow—meow meow."
Snapping back to reality, Putato realized they had arrived at their stronghold.
The place was littered with garbage, with all sorts of weeds and vines occupying the walls and floor. A calico cat was sleeping in a pile of hay.
"Uh, bosses, is this the Brotherhood's temporary hideout?"
Mo and Consta were enthusiastically feeding the cat, while only Arnold, lounging on the sofa, replied to him.
"This—this was our previously shared rented room. We haven't cleaned it since our Prosthetic modifications. These plants are actually quite nice."
"That—that damned landlord actually thought it was garbage. I buried him here to fertilize the soil—consider it waste utilization."
Putato watched the pile of dirt protruding in the middle of the living room, with a wooden board serving as a tea table on top. He guessed the landlord's body was buried underneath.
The joy brought by his appointment quickly vanished. Putato realized his situation within the Brotherhood was extremely dangerous; he was merely a tool to sell commissions.
Perhaps once they got the money, they would "utilize" him as waste too.
Having witnessed those two deaths, Putato finally understood: this was no thrilling video game world. This was the harsh reality that had claimed Khaji's life.
Whether for Khaji's sake or his own, Putato swore to reach the pinnacle of The City, regardless of the cost.
With his life goal clear, Putato watched the three iron-men lounging on the sofa, playfully feeding the cat. He immediately realized he was being isolated.
This was a dire situation; the Brotherhood of Iron was a brutal Syndicate that had just slaughtered dozens. He had to act.
"I truly admire you!"
"You—what are you suddenly shouting for?"
Arnold was annoyed that his daze had been interrupted, while the other two uneasily raised their combat Prosthetics.
However, Putato's tearful expression caught them off guard.
"I heard Lobotomy Corporation once conducted an experiment, forcing people from The Backstreets to run through a snowdrift."
"They didn't record their times. Instead, they watched to see if the subjects would shed their heavy clothing to reduce their burden."
"Lobotomy Corporation categorized those who stripped completely as the experimental group and the others as the control group. They made an astonishing discovery!"
Putato spoke with such conviction that his yearning for a Wing of The City captivated the iron-skinned men.
"What—what did they discover?"
"Five years later, every member of the experimental group had achieved fame and fortune. Most of them were living in the Nests."
"This experiment proves that to achieve greatness in The City, you must first be willing to lose everything!"
The three suddenly understood, startling the calico cat so much that it fell off the sofa.
"From the moment I heard of the Brotherhood of Iron, I felt a profound sense of reverence for you."
"Even with a factory guarantee, isn't full-body Prosthetic modification incredibly dangerous? It is a surgery where you could easily die!"
Even Mo, the leader, looked at Putato differently. In The City, no one had ever understood or validated them like this. Everyone was constantly struggling against one another, with no room for personal style, let alone empathy.
"Yet, all of you possess the enlightenment of sacrifice. This is the true spirit of The City!"
"I have to ask—where else could one possibly stand out more than here?"
"This is why I am willing to stay, even as an intern."
"I'm not here to beg; I'm here to genuinely learn from you."
Mo touched her mechanical hand, only then realizing she possessed the "spirit of The City"—certified by Lobotomy Corporation no less.
"Wait—hold on. you aren't just trying to gloss over the commission sales, are you?" Mo's tone suddenly shifted, breaking the atmosphere Putato had carefully crafted.
The moment money was mentioned, the three immediately reverted to their cold, suspicious states.
Putato inwardly cursed these iron-hearted bastards, yet he maintained the look of someone whose loyalty had been deeply insulted.
"Loyalty! That is the essential virtue of an intern!"
"Rest assured, I will contact the Offices right away."
Putato had no idea which Office would buy stolen commissions. Any Office desperate enough to deal with him would likely be too low-tier to matter. Even looking at them would make him feel cheap.
The uncleaned bloodstains on the chainsaw reminded Putato of his potentially tragic end.
Consta hesitated, then spoke up for him.
"Don't—don't talk to the intern like that. At the very least, I'll go with him. I think you two should act like proper seniors and set an example."
"Come—come pet the cat. We adopted it from the landlord."
"The cat—Meow Meow still prefers bare hands. You pet it for me; the Prosthetics have gaps and easily pinch the fur."
The other two looked at Consta as he handed the calico cat to Putato. Their cold hearts were stirred. Truth be told, this was the first time they had ever been admired, let alone viewed as mentors.
Putato accepted Meow Meow with feigned trepidation. He looked moved to tears by their approval, spouting endless praises. Inwardly, however, he realized his eloquence was surprisingly effective—perhaps a boost from his Good Person talent.
"Bosses, have all the documents been retrieved? I need to confirm the types and quantities of the commissions first."
"You must understand, low-quality commissions might be difficult to sell."
The moment money was mentioned, Mo immediately piled all the documents from her bag in front of Putato, looking at him with intense expectation. Putato saw the greed in her eyes and knew that if they caught him in a lie, they would skin him alive.
"Finding pets, unclogging drains, killing rats in shops... the rewards for these commissions are quite low, aren't they?"
"Are they—are they difficult to sell?!"
"Not necessarily, but we'll have to bundle the major commissions with the others. Otherwise, no one will take these low-quality ones."
"No—no problem. As long as we get the money, it's fine. At worst, we'll just raid a few more Offices. All the Syndicates are doing it lately anyway."
Mo's electronic voice sounded joyful. To her, making money was never too much trouble. The other two also looked at Putato with newfound respect, not expecting to have recruited such a talent.
"Wait—I'm still paying off my Prosthetic modification loan. I want to upgrade to high-grade Prosthetics. Even black tea doesn't taste right anymore."
"This—what is this? We're already saving on food and Enkephalin expenses."
Arnold seemed influenced by Consta; his attitude toward Putato had improved significantly. He looked at Putato wearing the wristband and froze for a moment.
"Why—why don't we remove Putato's syringe? The high-purity Enkephalins inside shouldn't be wasted."
"Af—after all, he's one of us."
Putato was overjoyed. Although he had the skill to remove the wristband, he still lacked professional tools. Attempting it bare-handed risked killing him with "pure pleasure." Moreover, if he were caught, even an idiot would know he planned to escape.
However, Putato noticed that Consta and Arnold were both looking at Mo, who hadn't replied. The leader still hadn't fully accepted him. This was going to be difficult!
"Loyalty!"
"This is a trial! Only when I sell these commissions and bring back the money will I be qualified to remove the wristband and become a regular member!"
"Without first having the enlightenment of losing one's life, how could I ever possess the glittering spirit of The City that my seniors have!"
The poor quality of their Prosthetics made the Brotherhood members stammer and showed a slight decline in their intelligence, but even they knew that in The City, no one would willingly dedicate their life to another so easily.
Now, even Mo, whose every thought was consumed by greed, stared blankly at Putato.
This feeling of being needed, of being truly admired, was unprecedented in the lonely, cold void of The City.
Mo questioned herself: if she were in Putato's position, there was no way she would refuse to have the wristband removed.
"Al—alright, Putato. As long as you bring back the money, you're one of us."
"No—no one in their right mind would refuse a guy with a natural talent for making money."
"We'll—we'll even set you up with a loan for Prosthetic modifications. They might be low-tier, but they'll be enough to help you hold your own around here."
Putato inwardly exhaled in relief; he had finally secured a concrete promise from them.
Once he found a way to become a regular member, he would squeeze every bit of value out of this small Syndicate, then promptly turn them in to the Association.
He wouldn't let Mo's honeyed words deceive him. He had been fed enough empty promises in his life to recognize the bitter aftertaste.
Putato would never forget Khaji's silent, final cries. In The City, the only soul he could truly trust was a dead man.
Grrr! Grrr!
The heavy atmosphere was abruptly shattered by the loud rumbling of Putato's stomach.
...
The Backstreets.
A mysterious meat concoction was shoved into a grease-stained paper bag.
Consta handed it over to Putato.
The two main members headed out to handle the commission sales. Passersby went out of their way to avoid them; even a pair of mohawked punks who were mid-brawl paused their fighting just to let Consta pass before resuming their violence.
Putato recognized this as the raw power of the Brotherhood of Iron—a reputation forged in blood, and the very path he was now walking.
"Eat—eat it while it's hot. It's a damn shame I can't taste a thing anymore."
"Thank you, Senior. By the way, do you usually get your Prosthetics serviced at a Workshop?"
A Workshop was an specialized organization in The City that focused on manufacturing and maintaining weaponry and hardware.
"We—we only go when something is about to snap. Maintenance is daylight robbery. All the credits we painstakingly strip from corpses end up in their pockets anyway."
As Consta grumbled, Putato's mind began to race.
He was a master of Cyborg modification, after all.
"If you go too long without a tune-up, your reaction time starts to lag, and your sensory signals get fuzzy, don't they?"
"How—how the hell do you know that? I never mentioned it."
"It's obvious. Your jacket is stifling the heat sink, and it's positioned way too close to the cerebral fluid line. You just need to reroute the hose."
Consta became instantly animated, peppering Putato with endless technical questions about Prosthetics.
"So—so you're a natural at Prosthetic engineering too! When we get back, I'll talk the others into making you a regular member ahead of schedule."
Ignoring Consta's chatter, Putato swiftly refined the plan he had formed after reviewing the commissions.
This Good Office had clearly specialized in retrieval and paperwork—essentially scavenging for scraps.
After all, the Offices of The City weren't mere death squads; they were commercial enterprises meant to generate profit.
The catch was that in The City, money was earned with one's life and spent the same way. That was why higher-tier Offices commanded more respect—they were simply better at killing.
Goodman, a Grade 9 Fixer, had managed to survive primarily through his silver tongue and a decent web of connections.
In the scattered documents, Putato had found a link between Goodman and Yun's Office, providing him with a much-needed glimmer of hope.
In the game, this was considered a bottom-tier Office. Aside from two Grade 8 Fixers, the rest were mere Grade 9 cannon fodder.
Their overall combat strength was roughly on par with the Brotherhood of Iron, making them the perfect target for negotiation.
"Is—is that the Office you were talking about?"
Putato looked where Consta was pointing. A mob of street thugs was currently laying siege to a building marked with the sign for Yun's Office.
From a second-story window, a blonde man leaned out, watching the chaos below while exhaling a slow plume of cigarette smoke.
Putato recognized him instantly: Yun, the representative of the Office. He watched as Yun barked orders at the Fixers charging out to meet the mob.
"Confirmed. Just some desperate rats. No other Syndicates involved."
"If you lot don't wrap this up quickly, I'm docking your pay!"
A moment later, the thugs armed with makeshift clubs and pipes were decimated by the Fixers.
The greedy frenzy of the mob instantly dissolved into primal terror as limbs were severed and blood sprayed the pavement.
It might take half a day for rats to gather, but it took only a heartbeat for them to scatter.
"Bastards, now we're stuck with extra overtime."
"Even the street rats think they can raid an Office these days. No class at all."
Suddenly, Yun turned his head from the window and locked eyes with Putato below. His gaze was sharp, filled with scrutiny and suspicion.
Putato's heart hammered against his ribs, but he forced himself to maintain eye contact, feigning a calm he didn't feel.
This is bad.
He had momentarily overlooked the inherent hostility between Offices and Syndicates. There was no trust in this relationship; how could he possibly negotiate a sale?
Furthermore, an Office could claim a significant bounty from the Association just for wiping out a notorious Syndicate like theirs!
"Can you hold your own against that Grade 8 Fixer, Yun?"
"Never heard of him. But if we call Mo and Arnold, it won't be a problem."
"If—if a fight breaks out, I can cover your retreat. You can always use that Enkephalin syringe to check out early."
Putato was fuming but had no time to argue. At Yun's signal, the Fixers who had just dispersed the rats were now rapidly closing in on them.
Their body language made it clear: they were being treated as rats too.
Putato turned to bolt, but a heavy steel hand clamped onto his shoulder.
Consta looked at him, completely bewildered.
"Why—why are you running? Didn't you say you were acquainted? He's literally coming over to see you now. What are you so afraid of?"
"Could—could it be that all that talk about the 'spirit of The City' was just a load of crap?!"
Hearing Consta become emotional over a misunderstanding, Putato felt as though the entire world was about to collapse on his head.