Leaving Aiko's village under the blazing red dusk, I felt the heaviness in every step, even though this giant body had now grown accustomed to its terrifying power. The last sunlight dyed the sky red, like a bloody warning for the journey ahead. Three days in the village not only helped me gather information but also turned me into a part of this world – an unwilling protector, with hands stained in blood that increasingly caused me less torment. Memories of Aiko and the villagers lingered: their smiles, simple meals, and grateful eyes when I eliminated the raiders. But now, I had to move forward, unable to stop. The Jack Knife – the machete transformed into a giant dagger – dangled at my side, its sharp blade reflecting the dusk, a reminder of the deadly power I possessed. The old leather outfit clung to my rippling muscles, frayed seams from previous battles, and my bag full of dry food and filtered water made me ready for the path ahead. The route north through Evil Town was the only choice, despite the stories about that place chilling me to the bone: an underground hell full of violence, where humans tore each other apart in the darkness. The villagers' tales echoed in my mind – about ghosts underground, cannibals, and a monster ruling it all.
I walked along the dusty dirt road, the night wind carrying the rotten smell from roadside ruins. Each of my footsteps lightly shook the ground, my over-two-meter-tall body standing out like a moving mountain in the wasteland. The night air was cold, seeping through my thick skin, but the power from the Violence Jack gene kept me from feeling tired. Not far from the village, engine roars sounded from behind – a lone raider, perhaps a remnant from previous groups, speeding on an old motorcycle, his black leather jacket gleaming under the crescent moon. He wore a long, tattered leather coat patched with metal, and a cracked helmet on his head. His face revealed under the moonlight, full of scars and bushy beard, eyes gleaming with greed as he spotted me – a solitary target. He didn't recognize me immediately, just shouted something about "territory" and charged with an iron club, studded with spikes glistening under the moon. Instincts surged, I dodged to the side, my body unexpectedly agile despite its size, right hand grabbing his collar as he zoomed past, lifting him off the seat like a doll. The motorcycle continued a few meters then crashed, wheels spinning in the air, dust billowing. He struggled, stabbing a knife into my arm, the blade chipped but my skin repelled it, the scratch healing instantly with horrifying speed, leaving only a faint red mark. "What the hell are you?" he growled, eyes bloodshot with fear mixed with rage, his foul breath hitting my face. I didn't answer, just squeezed tighter, hearing neck bones crack before dropping him to the ground, motionless. No more torment like the first times, I just thought: "One more life to survive." I checked his body, taking useful items like a knife and some ammunition, then commandeered the motorcycle, checking the fuel – half tank, enough for a long stretch – and revved the engine, the roar echoing in the night, propelling me forward at dizzying speed, wind whistling in my ears like the howl of demons.
The journey lasted about thirty minutes, wind whistling in my ears carrying dust and the foul stench of death. Each turn on the bumpy road made the motorcycle sway, but my strength held the handlebars steady, muscles clenching like steel cables. The road gradually led into the outskirts of what was once a city, now just ruins: high-rises half-collapsed, concrete exposing rusted rebar, shattered glass scattered like crystal snow; rusted cars strewn about, some with dried corpses inside, hands clutching steering wheels as if trying to escape disaster; and dangling severed wires like giant spiderweb threads, occasionally sparking with crackles when touching the ground. The moon cast a hazy light, enough to see dark shapes moving in the distance – perhaps wild beasts or wandering survivors, staggering figures like zombies in horror films. The motorcycle jolted on the rough terrain, wheels sinking into mud pits, but I accelerated, overcoming without slowing. The deeper I went, the heavier the air, as if space was compressed by an invisible weight, pressure on my chest making breathing harder. The foul stench rose from stagnant puddles, mixed with the charred smell of flesh from somewhere, perhaps from raider campfires. I slowed, turning off the engine when spotting the city edge – or more precisely, the edge of Evil Town, where, according to tales, a massive shopping center had sunk deep underground after the earthquake, turning into a hellish maze.
Stopping the bike by a cracked concrete wall, surface full of spiderweb-like fissures, I observed carefully, ears attuned to every slightest sound. The area was a sea of wreckage: collapsed stores with twisted signs, "Sale" still faintly visible on faded red backgrounds; overturned trucks spilling rotten goods, cans leaking and torn wrappers fluttering in the wind; and scattered corpses – some fresh, dried black blood under the moon, bodies torn with clear bite marks; others just white bones with rotting flesh swarming with flies, their buzzing like background music for hell. The insect hum echoed, mixed with wind howling through cracks, creating a symphony of death. I stepped down, feet crunching on broken glass, the corpse stench hitting my nose making my stomach churn, though my power had accustomed me to horrific sights. Not just bodies, but severed parts: a severed arm clutching a gun, fingers curled as if trying to pull the trigger one last time; a head with staring eyes looking skyward, mouth agape in a silent scream. This wasn't accident – torn wounds, exposed bones proved savage violence, likely from fights over resources. I advanced deeper, ears listening to every sound, Jack Knife ready in hand, the cold blade touching my skin like a reminder of impending death.
From behind a pile of rubble, a staggering figure emerged – a gaunt man, tattered clothes, face full of crisscrossing scars like a hellish map. He raised trembling hands, unarmed, eyes panicked scanning my giant form, pupils dilating under the moon. "Don't… don't kill me," he stammered in Japanese, voice hoarse from thirst, lips cracked and bleeding. I stopped, gesturing for calm, and asked in a deep voice: "Who are you? What happened here?" He collapsed, gasping, chest heaving as if about to burst, then began telling, his voice intermittent as if fearing discovery any moment. His name was Tanaka, one of the rare survivors who escaped from Evil Town. It was once a bustling shopping center, with hundreds of brightly lit stores, crowds shopping busily, but after the quake, the whole thing sank deep underground, becoming a dark underground maze where sunlight never reached. At first, people united, sharing food from stockpiles, building temporary order, but then food ran out, water contaminated, and madness erupted like a plague. They divided into sections: Section A of ordinary people – office workers, families – trying to maintain order, building a fair distribution system; Section B of bikers and thugs, ruling by violence, robbing and killing mercilessly. Tanaka told, voice trembling: "Section B… they're monsters. Under Mad Saulus, a mad giant with terrifying power, taller than you, with muscles like boulders and eyes red as blood." He paused, eyes red-rimmed, telling of raids: they burst from underground like demons, kidnapping women as sex slaves, killing men for meat, and dragging bodies back for "food" in savage feasts where laughter mixed with bone-gnawing. Tanaka escaped through a collapsed tunnel, but lost his wife and daughter to them – he detailed that fateful night, his wife's screams echoing in the dark, and the image of his daughter dragged across concrete. "Don't go in there," he warned urgently, "it's hell. Section A once tried to fight back, organizing counterattacks with makeshift weapons, but was wiped out in a night of blood and fire. Now only Section B rules, and those ghosts down there, mutants from radiation leaked by the quake."
Tanaka's tale made the surrounding air even more oppressive, as if darkness was swallowing everything, night wind carrying chill from a nearby pit. I gave him some water from my bag, cool from Aiko's village spring, he gulped it ravenously, water spilling from his mouth corners. Then I asked more about the entrance – a large pit not far, leading down to the underground maze with shattered concrete stairs. He shook his head, advising me to turn back, telling more about traps below: ceiling iron nets, homemade smoke bombs, and aggressive patrol squads. But I couldn't: the way out of Kanto lay through there, and I'd promised myself to survive to reclaim memories. Suddenly, footsteps sounded from behind – not one, but many, leather boots scraping on dusty ground. Tanaka panicked, face paling, whispering: "Them… Mad Saulus's scouting party." I pushed him behind the rubble, shielding with my giant body, drawing Jack Knife, the blade gleaming under the moon like a scythe of death. They appeared: about eight, in black leather with red-threaded skull emblems, armed with machetes and spiked clubs, faces covered in dirty rags. They moved stealthily, like a hunting wolf pack, crouched low, eyes scanning the darkness, probably patrolling the edge to capture survivors as slaves or food.
The leader, a tall one with rippling muscles, face full of coiling dragon tattoos, spotted me immediately, shouting: "Who the fuck are you lurking in Section B territory?" His voice raspy, full of authority, and they charged without waiting for a reply, the first three swinging spiked clubs horizontally with astonishing speed. I dodged the first, wind whistling past my ear carrying his foul sweat stench, then swung Jack Knife back into his arm – the sharp blade severing it, blood gushing like a fountain, him screaming in agony collapsing, severed arm twitching on the ground. The second stabbed a machete into my stomach, blade bending against my skin, I punched his face shattering jaw, teeth flying like corn kernels. The third swung from above, aiming head, but I blocked with my arm, metal bending under grip, then squeezed snapping the club, punching his face – jaw shattering, teeth scattering, him going still. The rest charged chaotically, two shooting arrows from makeshift bows, tips embedding in my shoulder, stinging but wounds healing instantly, skin contracting as if uninjured. I charged, slashing across one bisecting from shoulder to hip, guts spilling foully, stench rising; the other panicked, turning to run but I leaped, landing in front with a heavy thud, stabbing Jack Knife through chest – blade withdrawing with tearing flesh sound, him twitching then expiring, blood pooling blackly.
The last three attacked from three directions, one hurling a smoke bomb at me, smoke billowing obscuring vision, sulfur stench stinging nostrils. They exploited, charging from darkness: right one swinging axe at legs, blade gleaming; left stabbing knife into back, curved like a sickle; middle punching with spiked gloves, spikes like beast teeth. I dodged the axe, foot stomping blade snapping it with metal shatter, then turned punching his gut – organs rupturing, him doubling spewing fresh blood, collapsing. The back-stabber hit skin, knife chipping, I swung elbow backward hitting face shattering nose, blood splattering, him retreating screaming pain. The middle punched shoulder, spikes tearing skin but wound healing, I grabbed his throat, lifting high then slamming down – spine snapping with dry crack, him motionless, eyes wide. Smoke cleared, revealing chaos: I stood amid corpses, blood sticky on blade and hands, panting but no longer shocked – killing now instinct, part of me in this Kanto world, like breathing, like heartbeat.
Tanaka rushed from hiding, face pale, eyes wide in horror: "They… they'll know. Mad Saulus will send more, he has eyes everywhere." But then, from the nearby pit, maniacal laughter echoed, sound like from hell, resounding from depths. A rope was thrown up, hooking my leg with lightning speed, sturdy like steel cable, tightening around ankle. I startled, trying to stomp it free but rope held, and pulling force from below dragged me toward the pit, dust scraping my skin. Tanaka yelled: "Run! It's his trap!" but I was yanked, sliding on dust at dizzying speed, then free-falling into underground darkness. Cold air enveloped, rotting stench rising from below, and I landed on cracked concrete with echoing thud, darkness swallowing everything. Laughter echoed from deep within, luring me further into Evil Town's underground center – real hell awaiting, with dark secrets and enemies stronger than ever.
The underground darkness enveloped me like a second skin, cold and damp, carrying the rotten smell of decaying flesh and stagnant sewage, mixed with rusted metal from exposed bars. The maniacal laughter still echoed from deep in the maze, like a deadly invitation from hell, hoarse like a wounded beast's growl. I landed on cracked concrete with a heavy thud, my giant body lightly shaking the ground, dust billowing obscuring vision. Two iron chains still wrapped tight around my legs, constricting like venomous snakes, dragging me a few more steps before I regained composure, cold chains touching skin making me shudder. Without hesitation, I drew Jack Knife – the machete transformed into giant dagger, blade faintly gleaming in darkness, reflecting from flickering torches – and swung hard down. The sharp blade severed the first chain, metal cracking then snapping, fragments scattering like buckshot. The second met the same fate, I gripped tight, slashing clean across, feeling power from Violence Jack gene surging, turning fall pain into controlled rage, blood boiling like lava.
From the darkness ahead, two giant black figures emerged, nearly my height – about two and a half meters – with rippling muscles under scarred rough skin, scars crisscrossing like stone veins. Each held an end of the severed chain, whipping it hard to the ground, creating ear-piercing echoes like leather lashing flesh. Clearly they were the ones who pulled me down, gatekeepers of Evil Town, with bloodshot eyes gleaming under dim light from wall-hung torches, flames greenish from leaking methane. They said nothing, just growled like beasts, heavy breathing exhaling white mist in cold air, then charged with unexpected speed. Each wielded two spiked maces – crude weapons from scrap iron studded with long spikes like fingers – swinging with terrifying power, wind howling as they smashed down, sounds like hammers on stone.
I charged back, combat instincts surging like a raging river, adrenaline heightening every sense. The left one swung first, aiming straight at head, force enough to crush rock, mace heavy creating howling wind. I dodged right, feeling wind from mace lash face, skin burning, then swung Jack Knife into his side. Blade cut deep into flesh, blood gushing foully, tearing revealing white bone, but he only growled in pain without falling, spinning back swinging second mace into my chest with astonishing speed. I blocked with left arm, spikes tearing skin but wound healing immediately, upgraded power pushing him back steps, his feet sliding on blood-slick floor. The right one exploited, charging from behind, two maces crashing down on back like sledgehammers, force shaking air. I twisted, taking one on shoulder, stinging pain spreading but not slowing, then punched hard into his gut – force rupturing organs, him doubling spewing fresh blood mixed bile, but still surging stabbing mace into my leg. Spikes pierced skin, blood flowing but I clenched muscles, holding him, then slashed severing one mace-holding arm. He screamed horrifically, blood gushing from stump, retreating clutching wound, remaining hand trembling.
The two coordinated attack, left one charging with remaining mace, swinging horizontally at waist, while right using remaining hand picking fallen mace charging front with mad eyes. I leaped up, avoiding horizontal swing, landing behind left with heavy thud shaking floor, stabbing Jack Knife through back – blade withdrawing with tearing flesh, him twitching then collapsing, blood pooling on floor. Right turned, growling charging, two maces raining down like storm, each swing howling wind. I dodged one, blocked one with knife, metal clash sparking brightly in dark, then kicked hard into chest – ribs snapping like dry twigs, him flying back crashing wall, wall cracking further. He surged up, blood foaming mouth, charging final time mace aiming head, eyes bloodshot full hatred. I slashed across, severing neck, head rolling on floor with clattering, blood spraying like red rain. Two corpses lay motionless, blood pooling large, my panting echoing in confined space, mixed with dripping water from ceiling. No more torment, I wiped blade on one's jacket, leather absorbing red blood, then began journey deeper into center – by Tanaka's account, about three hours in this dark maze, with dangers lurking everywhere.
Evil Town's underground maze was a network of cracked concrete corridors, interspersed with collapsed areas with dangling severed wires, sometimes touching puddles sparking; water dripping from ceiling like drizzle, creating slippery mud puddles underfoot. Dim light from crude torches or broken flashlights along walls, casting long shadows like reaching ghost hands. I advanced, ears attuned to every sound: distant moans like desperate pleas, stealthy footsteps of lurkers, and increasingly thick foul stench, fresh blood and rotting flesh mixed. Air heavy, as if each breath inhaled hellish poison, lungs burning despite protective power. Just minutes later, I encountered the first group – a small leader squad with minions, about ten, gathered around a fire in a large room once a fashion counter, now full of tattered clothes. They wore torn leather, armed with machetes and iron clubs, sharing looted food from human corpses, raw meat still bloody grilled lightly over fire. The leader – a short squat with face full of grotesque tattoos, squint eyes and crooked smile – spotted me, shouting: "Take down that giant! His meat'll last a week!"
They charged chaotically, first four swinging knives horizontally with fierce speed. I dodged first, swung Jack Knife severing one's arm, blood spraying, him screaming collapsing, severed arm twitching. Second stabbed gut, knife chipping on my skin, I punched face shattering jaw, teeth flying like rain. Remaining two swung clubs from sides, I blocked one with hand, squeezing snapping club with metal shatter, then kicked across other's chest, bones snapping dryly, him flying crashing wall, wall shaking. Leader shot handgun from afar, bullet embedding shoulder, stinging but healing swiftly, I charged, slashing across severing his leg, him rolling screaming horrifically, severed leg gushing blood. Remaining minions panicked, three charging with knives, I severed one's neck, stabbed through chests of two, blood splattering walls. Last two fled, but I threw knife into one's back, him faceplanting; caught the other, punching head to pulp with watermelon-like burst. Corpses scattered around fire, charred flesh stench mixed fresh blood, I collected a few handguns and ammo, checking each bullet, then continued, mind colder – killing now journey's rhythm, like steady footsteps in darkness.
Deeper still, corridors narrowing, walls moldy full of fungi, I witnessed first heart-wrenching scene: a group of five torturing a prisoner hung upside down from beam, using knives to slice skin slowly, screams echoing like knives in ears. They laughed booming, tearing raw flesh chewing ravenously, blood dripping to floor in red puddles. Prisoner a middle-aged man, gaunt body full old wounds, eyes begging rescue. Rage surged, I charged, slashing rope dropping prisoner with thud, then horizontal knife bisecting first two, guts spilling foully, organ stench rising. Remaining three charged with spiked clubs, I dodged first swing, punched through one's gut, organs spilling hot on hand; severed arms of other two, they screamed retreating, I finished with chest stabs, blade withdrawing with blood dripping. Prisoner thanked trembling, kneeling, telling of widespread cannibalism from hunger and madness post-quake, sleepless nights fearing being dragged away. I let him go, giving some food from bag, then continued, image etched deep, realizing Evil Town not just physical maze, but soul hell, where humanity eroded daily.
About an hour later, I encountered another minor leader – a tall lanky with grotesque appearance: skin ulcerated full pus-oozing boils, bulging eyes like about to fall, likely from quake-leaked radiation mutating genes. He led ten minions, armed with makeshift guns from pipes and nails, gathered in wide area once main lobby, now full trash and dried corpses. They were raping captured women, echoes of cries mixed savage laughter, women in shredded clothes, eyes full despair. Rage surged like fire, I charged from shadows, swung Jack Knife severing first's head, head rolling with eyes open, blood spraying high. Minions panicked, firing wildly, bullets embedding chest and legs, wounds stinging but healing like magic. I dodged barrage, charged punching one's head to pulp, brains splattering ceiling; slashed across bisecting two others, bodies severing collapsing with heavy thuds. Grotesque leader laughed maniacally, charging with two curved knives, slashing fast as lightning into side, blades tearing skin, blood flowing but I turned, kicking chest, bones snapping, him flying crashing concrete pillar. Three shot from afar, I used comrade corpse as shield, bullets thumping into dead flesh, charged slashing one's arm off, stabbing two chests. Leader surged up, ulcerated skin oozing yellow pus, charging again, stabbing shoulder. I clenched, twisting snapping knife with metal shatter, then punched face – head pulping like watermelon, pus and blood splattering. Rescued women trembled thanks, kneeling crying, but I nodded, giving them water and advising escape, then continued, witnessing more mutations: people with twisted limbs like dry branches, blistered red skin, blinded eyes from radiation, wandering cannibalizing each other in dark corners, bone-gnawing echoing.
Next, sudden ambush: crossing narrow corridor, moldy walls full fungi, iron net dropped from ceiling abruptly, wrapping me like spiderweb, heavy net constricting. From both walls, two squads about twenty charged, armed spiked clubs and handguns, shouting "Kill the intruder! Meat for Saulus!" They wore tattered Section B uniforms, faces scarred and tattooed. I swung Jack Knife cutting net, metal snapping with cracks, then charged left squad. First shot gun, bullet hitting arm, I slashed across severing gun and hand, blood gushing like hose. Two swung clubs, I dodged, punched one's chest caving, kicked other's leg snapping with bone shatter. Right squad sprayed fire, bullets embedding back stinging, I spun, throwing knife into one's chest, him falling; charged punching two others' heads to pulp, brains spraying. They ambushed more, throwing homemade smoke bombs, smoke billowing stinging eyes, charging from darkness with knives and clubs. I dodged stab, slashed severing one's leg; punched through another's gut, guts spilling hot. Smoke cleared, I stood amid corpses, blood sticky all over, continuing journey with steady breath.
About two and a half hours, I rescued an armed group – about ten, in rags but holding rifles and knives, surrounded by radiation-mutated freaks: blistered skin like burns, elongated arms like octopus tentacles, bulging red eyes. They charged group, biting one, blood spraying, gnawing sounds gruesome. I charged, slashing one's head off, head rolling with yellow pus; punched another's chest to pulp, bones exposed white. Resistance group shot support, bullets thumping into freaks, but they numerous, charging me like wolf pack. I swung knife across bisecting three, mutated flesh spilling yellow foul pus; kicked another's neck snapping with dry crack. A large freak charged, biting shoulder, teeth piercing skin but I clenched neck, twisting snapping with terrifying force, hurling into rest like boulder. Group cheered, leader – middle-aged man with gray chin beard, sharp eyes, named Kato – thanked: "Who are you? That power… like a demon." I introduced briefly: "Long, wanderer from the south." They claimed as resistance, remnants from Sections A and C, once trying to maintain humanity, now overthrowing Mad Saulus by sabotaging his supplies. Kato detailed history: Section B under Saulus ruled by violence, cannibalizing and raping like animals, mutations from quake radiation making them stronger, thick skin like armor, astonishing endurance. I joined temporarily, going deeper with them, sharing bag food and surface exit info, they telling of secret tunnels and traps.
With resistance, we advanced to center, witnessing more hell: room full tortured prisoners, skin peeled strips with hot knives, screams echoing; cannibal groups, chewing raw bones like bread; gang rapes, victims' cries like heart-cutting knives. We attacked guard squad, I leading slashing two heads off, punching three chests to pulp; group shooting rest with resounding bullets. Finally, to center – large hall full flickering torches, red light illuminating horrific scene. In middle, I saw a giant sitting on piled women corpses like throne, naked flesh full old and new wounds, dried blood stains like grotesque patterns. Mad Saulus – over three meters tall, rippling muscles carved from granite, each fiber like steel cables under thick rough skin, crisscrossed scars from battles, some oozing fresh blood. His face a nightmare masterpiece: square jaw with shark-like pointed teeth, some yellow crusted with flesh bits; bloodshot eyes like embers, pupils abnormally dilating from radiation, bushy brows shading part, creating shadows over mad eyes; broad flat nose with wide nostrils, heavy breathing like howling wind; long disheveled black hair matted with blood and pus, draping broad boulder-like shoulders; one ear stubbed, jagged cut like bitten off. Whole body covered grotesque tattoos: laughing skulls, snakes coiling fists, Section B symbol – torn heart. Skin uneven, pale white patches, red raw from mutation, veins prominent like blood rivers under skin. Hands enormous, fingers curled like beast claws, long black nails; legs sturdy like pillars, thigh muscles rippling, ready to crush anything. Around, countless minions knelt in worship, bloodshot eyes full fear and adoration. Kato whispered: "That's Mad Saulus." He raised head, laughing maniacally, power emanating making air heavy, like death incarnate, his breath carrying corpse and blood stench, eyes locking on me like deadly challenge.