In short, Monster Company had begun assigning work orders.
Evidently, the two sides had very different ideas about how much work should be done for a monthly salary of twenty-five hundred credits. Although Li Pan had tried to take the initiative by requesting that headquarters send a technical department head to take the blame, the main office refused to dispatch anyone for on-site support.
What a joke—did he have any idea how expensive an interdimensional business trip allowance was? Let alone for a permanent technical department posting?
Still, given that Site 0791 really was short-staffed and Li Pan's "let it rot" attitude had reached a critical level, HR made an exception and sent over some special assignments.
"Personnel recruitment?"
"Normally, the HR department only accepts resumes from fresh graduates whose overall academic performance ranks in the top 95% during university, with a Six Sigma 'excellent' rating, in order to sign a formal contract—six-month probation period.
In urgent circumstances, however, we can make an exception for temporary workers guaranteed by an existing employee, with a three-year track to full-time status, subject to HR review.
As for certain special individuals of interest to the company, they can be recruited directly by the general manager or the head of HR."
Figures. Big corporations always have hidden academic thresholds. A graduate from an elite school and some guinea pig rookie recruited as a temp? No way they'd be treated the same. The odds of going full-time and the starting benefits were worlds apart.
Wait a second—so if HR followed the official process to hire an elite, they'd be full-time in six months! They could kick this temp general manager aside just like that!
Damn. Vile, underhanded office politics.
Li Pan was thoroughly displeased, even disgusted. Sure, as acting general manager, he technically had veto power over any HR hire, but the problem was that if they followed the process, all recruits would be six-month probation formal hires—and with so much work piled up, there was no way he could handle it all alone.
Besides, from a purely operational perspective, it was hard to say whether a temp worker's term would last more than six months anyway. In his own experience, without a string of absurd coincidences, most didn't survive three days…
So, after some thought, Li Pan decided to go ahead and recruit someone. Yes, it was like dragging people into the fire pit, but judging from the resumes HR had sent, most of them were already in the pit.
After the board meeting ended, the company's only two current employees boarded a hovercar and headed out to recruit a third.
"You're really going to recruit this one? He doesn't seem easy to get along with."
Li Pan reassured A-Seven.
"Oh, you mean the guy with a hundred seventy-four first-degree murder charges, half of them involving his own relatives?
Relax—even if he has an episode, I doubt he can kill you."
"But if he does have an episode, your safety would be in danger too, wouldn't it?"
Hard to say. I'm level four now—who's to say who threatens who…
Li Pan picked at his nose.
"Don't worry, I've got plenty of experience dealing with cyberpsychos. Their spirits are always top-notch. For the kind of head-losing work we do, I'd feel bad hiring a normal person. Bottom-feeding scum like this guy are perfect workhorses—no regrets if they die."
"Arrived. Old Capital District, Chiyoda Prison."
Yes, prison. These days, prisons still existed—and most were privately run, part of a chain across worlds.
In truth, "prison" was closer to a sanatorium. Petty thieves and small-time murderers didn't qualify for a spot here.
Real prisons mostly housed the "VIPs" sent in by the Public Safety Special Operations Bureau—corporate dogs scapegoated for their bosses' crimes, hackers who'd stolen the wrong data, legion terrorists still dreaming of toppling the Safety Committee, fallen gang bosses without their old protection, and of course, cyberpsychos with countless kills and mysterious backgrounds.
Without millions in ready cash, you couldn't even pay the consultation fee for a law firm. Public defenders had waiting lists years long.
For most people, breaking the law meant a few days in a holding cell at best; more often, the NCPA would summarily execute justice—confiscating offline assets, zeroing credit, stripping illegal cyberware, and tossing the offender onto the curb.
But for true criminals, things were different. Even a hundred seventy-four murder charges could be handwaved with "insufficient evidence" or "procedural errors," recasting you as a promising youth gone astray—a "victim" of defective cybernetics and substance abuse. So you'd pay a hefty fine and "serve" your sentence in prison.
Your term depended on your account balance; with extra cash, you might even get parole. Plenty of people checked in voluntarily, using it as a vacation from the vendettas and gang wars outside.
In short, the prison held "valuable monsters"—people someone still wanted alive. Competitors, in a way.
With headquarters pulling strings, Li Pan and A-Seven entered the visitation area without trouble. Treatment varied wildly based on the crime.
Some bosses lived in villas, hosting open-air barbecues just shy of having a spa. Others—like certain killers—were locked down under high security, their cyberware disabled, pumped full of muscle relaxants and sedatives every eight hours, their physical stats reduced to baseline human, escorted by four armed robots, collars rigged with explosives and toxins, allowed only to speak through bulletproof glass at the bottom of a pit.
Li Pan tilted his head, looking down at a gaunt man in prison garb. Hair over his eyes, lean muscle stretched tight over bone, body fat maybe ten percent.
"I want to speak to him alone. Face to face."
He looked at the prison security captain.
The man frowned. "You know who he is, right?"
Li Pan couldn't be bothered to argue—he just wired the money.
Not his own, of course—this was all mission budget, processed through company finance.
Money made the captain cooperative; the robots withdrew, the cameras shut down.
Li Pan descended into the pit, sat across from the killer, and got straight to the point.
"You're this generation's Fuma Kotarou?"
The man hunched, staring coldly like a leopard ready to spring.
Li Pan dropped a faxed printout of his mugshot and a thick dossier on the table, along with a business card from TheM Company.
"No comment? Then I'll just call you Kotarou. I'm a Monster Company manager here to hire a temp."
Kotarou glanced at the file.
"Fine. I'll do it."
Li Pan ignored him and kept reading.
"…Kotarou, grandson of the last head of the Takamagahara Oniwa ninja corps, heir to the Fuma clan.
After the war, Takamagahara was dismantled. The Fuma clan, hereditary leaders of the Oniwa, were wiped out—some say by rogue ninjas, others that you lost your mind and killed your whole family.
Whatever the truth, the Oniwa are gone, the ninjas scattered, and you're the last Fuma, locked away here.
According to the Yashiro family, better to keep you jailed for life than risk revenge plots and turf wars."
Kotarou slammed a fist on the table.
"What do you want me to do?! Just get me out!"
Li Pan picked his nose, eyeing Kotarou's pants.
"Well, look at you—fresh trousers for the interview. What's the matter, not enjoying your stay? You're looking pretty slim and pale, handsome too… heh. What, do they drug you up and let the guards 'develop' your Oniwa every day?
No wonder you're still alive—your enemies probably pay good money for the custom braindance footage. If it were me, I wouldn't let such an amusing toy die either."
"AAAH—!!"
Kotarou lunged, smashing his head on the table, gripping it with white knuckles.
"Please! Take me out! Anything! I'll do anything!"
Li Pan grinned, flicking his booger onto Kotarou's head.
"Originally, I just wanted a killer. An heir to a ninja clan with both skill and motive sounded perfect. But seeing you in person… I'm disappointed."
He grabbed Kotarou by the neck like a cat.
"Tell me honestly—how many of those hundred seventy-four did you actually kill?"
Kotarou glanced away.
Thought so. Li Pan could always recognize his own kind—and this guy wasn't it.
"Then you're useless. I'm out."
He shoved Kotarou aside and stood.
"W-wait!"
Kotarou's scream was pure desperation. He lunged for Li Pan's neck, aiming for a chokehold.
But the difference in ability was like heaven and earth—Li Pan lifted him one-handed and slammed him to the ground.
Waving off the incoming robots, Li Pan looked down.
"What's wrong? Giving up already? The outside world's no paradise. Maybe prison diarrhea's the easier life."
"Please… take me with you…"
Kotarou clung to his leg.
Li Pan considered.
"Fine. One chance."
He projected a 3D recording from his cybernetic palm—footage of ninjas battling the Whirlpool Gang in Warehouse 7.
"Recognize her?"
Kotarou's pupils shrank.
"Ittouryuu! Air-Splitting Slash! It's Akiyama! From Iga! We were… classmates…"
Li Pan shrugged. "Really? Then maybe you're worth something. How do I find her?"
Kotarou hesitated, then gritted his teeth.
"Old Capital District! Akiyama Dojo!"
Heh. Selling out a "classmate." Maybe he wasn't completely rotten before, but the rot had started.
Li Pan kicked him away.
"Interview over. Wait for news."
Back in the control room, Li Pan asked A-Seven,
"What do you think?"
"Won't live three years."
Li Pan agreed. The kid was just a pampered heir with expensive cyberware. Without it, he was a cripple—useless against real monsters. His name and connections might bring in some actual ninjas, but that was it.
The Takamagahara Oniwa had once ruled with an iron fist, their ninjas all heavily cyberized level-four combatants, masters of assassination and intelligence. Even after Takamagahara's fall, those who joined the Aka-Tengu were still prime enemies of Cerberus and the Night Stalkers.
But this Kotarou was a disgrace—without family or gear, he couldn't even break out of prison. Neither Yashiro nor Aka-Tengu would bother with such trash.
Usable, but barely. That was Li Pan's verdict.
"Next."
Another prisoner was brought in.
This time, it was a young girl.
"Number 18… unregistered genetic code, illegal augment."
Not quite an android, but close.
She was a hacker from Takamagahara's secret cyber-ghost division—genetically engineered illegal bioware operatives.
After the conglomerate's breakup, Yashiro took the main assets, but many subsidiaries and hidden holdings scattered.
Number 18 had belonged to an underground facility that trained cyber-ghost hackers for Takamagahara. When Cerberus raided it, the adult, connected operatives were all killed; the underage, unfinished trainees were placed under centralized control in prison facilities.
In the modern virtual ocean, hackers—now called "cyber-ghosts" or "net phantoms"—were among the most valuable assets. These hacker child-soldiers had already undergone specialized surgery and education, with clean records, so Cerberus preferred to sell them off quietly through the prison system rather than kill them outright.
Such hackers required heavy investment and were essential to any company. Even Monster Company, despite being physically air-gapped, still needed one or two for technical support.
With the rapid evolution of QVN, corporate firewalls, ICE counter-intrusion, and data warfare between AI systems had become too advanced for hobbyists.
Through surgical and pharmaceutical alteration of their neural networks, these operatives could participate in virtual ICE-vs-electron battles.
The cost: severe physical or mental defects. Number 18 had genetic disorders, possibly from inbreeding, plus mental instability—depression, mania—requiring medication.
Takamagahara's tech could have fixed it, but why bother? Cyber-ghosts peaked between ages fifteen and twenty-five; they were consumables. Why extend their lives or grant them a full, healthy existence?
Despite her flaws, Number 18's skills met the company's standards. She was exactly eighteen.
"All right, I'll take her."
As general manager, Li Pan could choose one hacker from her batch—not as a person, but as "equipment."
No need to look at the rest. They were all the same, and they'd all be replaced when their time was up.
.
.
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⚠️ 30 CHAPTERS AHEAD — I'm Not a Cyberpsycho ⚠️
The system says: Kill.Mercs obey. Corporates obey. Monsters obey.One man didn't.
🧠💀 "I'm not a cyberpsycho. I just think... differently."
💥 High-voltage cyberpunk. Urban warfare. AI paranoia.Read 30 chapters ahead, only on Patreon.
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