Chapter 590: I'm Done Being Human!

Chapter 590: I Refuse to Be Human!

If one were to name the most complex and precise instrument on this planet, it would undoubtedly be humanity itself.

Every artifact born of the Prosperity Era pales in comparison to the masterwork of nature.

Even after exhausting their brief lives, the scholars of old could not fully unravel all the secrets the Creator had hidden within this organic body.

This "machine" was nearly omnipotent.

Though the problems it left unsolved always outnumbered those it had solved, in the face of time, every known problem seemed ultimately solvable.

However, this machine was not designed for a single purpose, so in specific domains it inevitably had its limits.

And to break through those limits—

one must abandon the identity of being human.

From the moment he awoke at the resurrection point, Midnight Chicken Slayer had made his decision.

To become stronger—

he would no longer be human!

At least, not in this life!

……

"Have you thought it through? Once you set foot on this path, heavy shackles will accompany you for life, and you will never have a chance to turn back… Gah gah gah."

Megalith Military-Industrial Building.

Cybernetic Modification Laboratory.

Looking at the man lying on the operating table, Ibis wore a twisted smile.

Though he could have smiled more kindly, he didn't particularly want to.

The engineers and doctors nearby had long grown accustomed to their boss's morbid taste and were no longer surprised.

Saws, wrenches, hammers, and countless flexible mechanical arms and various blades suspended above the operating table—all tools were ready.

As soon as the client nodded in front of the camera lens, signing the final life-or-death agreement, they could immediately begin the drastic work on this fellow.

Yet what slightly disappointed Ibis was that the man on the table showed no fear or hesitation at his words.

That crisp reply was as if the person lying on the table wasn't himself at all, but something else entirely.

"Hurry up! Stop dawdling."

Watching this man who was instead urging him on, Ibis was briefly taken aback, then laughed.

"As you wish."

With that, he waved his hand.

The waiting doctors and engineers wasted no words, immediately picking up their equipment and starting work.

Midnight Chicken Slayer, lying prone on the table, was equally straightforward—he closed his eyes, refusing to watch the bloody scene, and simply logged off to do other things.

Human bones determine the basic framework of a person, and also determine their limits.

Even if a powerful Awakened far exceeds ordinary people in a certain domain, they do not leave the realm of humanity to become monsters.

Therefore, the first thing Megalith Military-Industrial did was replace his entire spine, as well as the bones of his legs, arms, and other parts—substituting calcium salts with titanium alloy, and replacing complex bioelectrical and chemical signal exchanges with pure electronic control units.

Then, the workers replaced his original organic skin with sheets of 10mm-thick special prefabricated steel plates, and filled his now much larger frame with complex and sturdy motors and power units.

The operating room was filled with clanging and banging.

One moment the sound of sawing bone, the next hammering metal, then the hissing and buzzing of arc welding—blood splattered everywhere, and burnt carbon slag littered the floor.

This place hardly seemed like an operating room; it was more like a workshop.

And indeed it was.

Under the flickering of electric sparks, a nearly three-meter-tall, imposing "metal giant" gradually took shape.

His left arm was fitted with a one-meter-long chainsaw that could be swapped with the front mechanical hand, while his right arm was a 19mm caliber barrel identical to the XB-1 "Roarer" bolter—also foldable and interchangeable with the forearm's mechanical hand, just like the chainsaw.

It could serve as a heavy rifle firing armor-piercing rounds, or as support equipment firing airburst grenades of the same caliber.

As for the armor's power source, it was a three-kilogram metal-hydrogen battery with a battery life of up to a week.

Without exaggeration, he was a walking lumberjack plus a self-propelled recoilless cannon, and he also had a 30mm-thick front armor plate.

His helmet was the hardest part.

After all, that was where the most flesh remained on his entire body, and also the central hub for the armor's information processing—naturally it required heavy protection.

If possible, Midnight Chicken Slayer had actually wanted to install two rocket launchers on his chest.

But unfortunately, this armor wasn't custom-ordered by him; it was a new experimental product from Megalith Military-Industrial. As a "guinea pig," he only had the right to choose whether to wear this free gear, not the right to DIY.

The entire armor was designed by Megalith Military-Industrial's Product R&D Department, and the project was called the "Powered Warrior" plan.

As the name suggests, it replaced the redundant burdens on the human body with wearable power armor, creating a self-propelled armor driven by a person.

Under this design, even if the heart was pierced, one could still live—because there was no such thing as a heart; instead, a simple blood pump took its place. The digestive system was completely omitted, replaced by an input port for nutrient fluid and an output port for metabolic waste.

As the modification progressed, this weapon system named "Powered Warrior" had completely become part of Midnight Chicken Slayer's body.

Ibis, standing by the operating table watching, wore an intoxicated smile, contentedly admiring his conceived masterpiece gradually taking shape.

This was a brainwave he had after watching the combat footage of the Jungle Corps.

Those green-skinned fellows, in pursuit of greater power, had actually transformed themselves into half-flesh, half-machine iron lumps.

In his view, this brainwave was simply brilliant!

It deserved to be vigorously promoted in organic society!

If all residents of Megalith City had such high awareness and pursuit, Megalith Military-Industrial would have long become the world's number one military enterprise!

But unfortunately, most people were repulsed by replacing their body parts with mechanical cybernetics; instead, those "flashy but impractical" bionic prosthetics were more popular.

Most mercenaries only cautiously installed one or two when they absolutely had to.

Fortunately, however, in the Alliance there was never a shortage of good people with refined tastes and pursuits.

Their concepts were completely different from ordinary people, even reaching heretical levels in the eyes of the common folk, and their acceptance of all kinds of bizarre mechanical cybernetics was extremely high—they would install any random part on their bodies.

With the support of such lovely people, and possessing more professional equipment and rich experience in combat cybernetic design, Megalith Military-Industrial had no reason not to create something even more badass!

Ibis was full of confidence.

His "Powered Warrior" plan would innovate beyond the traditional concept of "power armor," completely merging man and weapon into one!

This would be unprecedented!

Of course, because many bionic parts were too scarce and expensive, his design approach was even more crude and straightforward than the cybernetics on those mutants—directly using mechanical structures to replace parts that would normally require bionic organs.

As for the power source, due to a lack of nuclear fuel, even though the Alliance had black boxes capable of making fusion batteries, he had to temporarily use chemical batteries instead.

Yet despite countless inconveniences, they could not diminish the power of this war machine.

This equipment was practically tailor-made for the Jungle Corps!

However, unlike Ibis, who was full of admiration and intoxication, the lead surgeon standing beside the operating table had a look of utter horror on his face.

Especially when he saw the intestines and minced meat discarded in the plastic bucket at his feet, he couldn't help but click his tongue.

"...That guy's probably lost his mind."

"Be more confident—change 'probably' to 'definitely,'" an engineer in a safety helmet wiped blood off his tablet terminal and couldn't help but quip. "If he had any sense at all, who would turn themselves into that?"

No doubt about it.

If he ever changed himself like that, his wife would divorce him before the next day.

No one would want to live with a monster. Becoming like that basically meant abandoning every human attribute.

Why chase power to such an extreme?

Wasn't it better to stay human?

"Are those guys in the shelters all freaks?"

"Whatever. Hand me a saw."

"Here."

Of course, aside from those who shared his thoughts, there were also those casting admiring glances at the iron hunk on the operating table.

To pursue ultimate power to fight the evils of the wasteland and give up being human—these guys were true warriors!

The engineer operating the tools, full of respect, installed the 19mm barrel that symbolized his identity and tightened the last screw.

A power warrior costing as much as 500,000 was complete!

Midnight Chicken Killer was still asleep, not yet awake.

Ibes stared at this perfect steel shell for a while, and when his gaze lingered on its face, he suddenly let out a soft "huh" and rubbed his chin.

This face...

The more he looked, the more familiar it seemed.

He felt like he'd seen it somewhere.

Just then, Midnight Chicken Killer, lying on the operating table, shook his head, woke from his dream, and sat up abruptly.

The doctor beside him was startled and quickly said,

"Sir, you'd better not move too much right now. Even though we used tissue repair fluid to speed up wound healing, you should still take it easy."

Hearing this kind reminder, Midnight Chicken Killer gave a simple smile, raised his massive arm, and scratched the back of his head with his still-unfamiliar mechanical hand.

"It's fine. I feel like I've pretty much recovered."

A strength-type player's recovery speed, though not as fast as a physique-type's, was still outstanding compared to other types.

Right now, he felt better than ever!

He couldn't wait to head to the nearest district and find a few Crawlers to practice on.

No—

With his current gear, practicing on Crawlers would be a waste. He'd need to find something like a Tyrant or a Corrupted Knight, an evolved form.

Otherwise, how could he show off this gear's combat power?

Watching Midnight Chicken Killer jump off the operating table, Ibes set aside his earlier suspicion, a satisfied smile on his face as he said,

"Your recovery speed is indeed extraordinary. Normally, even after full recovery, post-surgery phantom pain and discomfort last about three or four days... Anyway, how do you feel?"

Knocking on his chest armor with his fist, hearing the crisp thud, Midnight Chicken Killer grinned.

"I feel full of strength—like I could even twist my own head off!"

Hearing this, Ibes coughed and quickly warned,

"I'd advise you not to do that... After all, this gear is worth 500,000. If you die accidentally before hitting the battlefield, I won't be able to recover the valuable experimental data."

Midnight Chicken Killer laughed.

"Don't worry. I'm not stupid. Why would I twist my own head off for fun?"

With that, he headed for the door.

Seeing him about to leave, the doctor quickly called out,

"Wait! To prevent possible rejection reactions, I suggest you stay here for a few hours of observation before leaving."

Any foreign tissue entering a host with immune activity inevitably triggers rejection reactions of varying severity.

Though this could be eliminated technically, they had never implanted so many prosthetics into a single client at once.

Midnight Chicken Killer waved his hand, unconcerned.

"It's fine, it's fine. If anything feels off, I'll come back and check. I just got a mission, so I need to head out now."

"A mission?!"

The doctor was stunned, staring at him as if he were a monster.

Midnight Chicken Killer laughed heartily and nodded.

"Yeah, what a coincidence. A job just came in."

While he was offline browsing the official site, he suddenly saw a pop-up on the mission board. Unable to resist the itch, he immediately came back online.

And by a stroke of luck, when he logged in, the NPC beside the operating table had just tightened the last screw on his "Power Warrior" system.

The surgery was finished right on time!

"But..."

The doctor still looked hesitant, clearly wanting to persuade him further, but Ibes stopped him.

"Let him go."

Watching the young man head for the elevator, Ibes wore an appreciative smile and continued unhurriedly,

"Such an eager kid, and you'd have the heart to dampen his enthusiasm... Tsk tsk, so inhumane."

The doctor turned back, staring at his boss in disbelief.

Inhumane, huh...

Who's really the inhumane one?

After a pause, Ibes added in a cheerful tone,

"Besides, I want to see this gear's combat data as soon as possible, so I can improve the next version."

He was immensely glad he'd made that decision.

Joining the Alliance was the best thing ever!

...

Pinecone Farm.

The winter sun wasn't strong—it was even a bit cold, its touch on the face icy and chilling, like soaking in cold water.

A dazed expression was stamped on every face in this settlement.

People looked at each other with terror, as if staring at a wild beast, afraid it might suddenly go mad at any moment.

In a sense, in a vast settlement like Pinecone Wood Farm, the serfs living here could be considered free men. They did not work in chains, but were bound to the land, forbidden from leaving the soil beneath their feet without permission.

They were slaves, but not entirely; they worked fifteen hours a day instead of twenty-four. They owned property, but not fully—only the right to use that portion which the master permitted them to use.

An ordinary family here typically had a wooden house, a few children, a small plot of arable land—or a "share"—and a few fruit trees.

The grain from the share was mostly for their own consumption, but besides tilling their own land, they also had to farm the landowner's fields.

And if they wanted to use the landowner's mill, machinery, fertilizer, or other tools, or the occasional high-yield seeds brought by wastelanders, they had to pay an extra tax.

Since there was no currency here, the type of tax was often not fixed—sometimes three chicks and fifteen eggs, sometimes two jars of jam, usually announced at the start of the year.

That was for the farmers.

But for those who ran inns, made paper pulp or furniture, or other craftsmen, the tribute would become something else.

Hammer was a serf here, the most ordinary kind.

The name was a bit strange, but at Pinecone Wood Farm, it wasn't odd at all.

His neighbor had a young man named Bench, but last night his own wife had gnawed off half his face, and he was gone.

The memory of last night was not very clear; he only remembered going to sleep early, waking up not in bed but standing on the street with many others.

At the time, he was scared half to death, thinking it was a miracle from the Son, and quickly knelt to pray to the Son...

It wasn't until later that the Union broadcast what had happened during the night, and he saw bodies being carried out of the settlement for burial, that he gradually recalled that hazy memory and realized what had happened to him and others...

It was truly a nightmare.

He only felt fortunate that he and his family were still alive—mad, yes, but not eating people, nor being killed.

Before dawn, he went to his neighbor's house and saw that the madwoman had hanged herself, leaving only a child wrapped in swaddling clothes, crying babble.

Perhaps it was maternal instinct, or perhaps she had gnawed on her husband's corpse long enough—in any case, she hadn't eaten the child.

Hammer couldn't bear it, so he carried the poor child back to his own home and gave him a name as sloppy as his father's.

From then on, Bench went from a young man of twenty-one or two to a half-grown child.

He would have to inform the overseer later.

He trusted that the lord would understand and register the child under his name. That way, he could pay a little less in rations this winter.

To change his mood, Hammer stepped outside and took a deep breath, but the lingering smell of blood refused to lift his spirits.

But now was not the time to daze.

By the rules, he had to reach the cowshed with his tools before dawn, waiting for the overseer to assign the day's work.

Running through several muddy paths, he pushed through the fence, panting, and entered just before being late.

Under the shabby wooden shed stood many people.

Seeing that almost everyone had arrived, Hammer's heart sank; he thought he'd surely get the whip, but he braced himself and walked over.

Yet then he was surprised to see that the overseer who usually stood at the gate was gone.

Strange!

The sun must be rising in the west today!

Entering the shed, Hammer soon found his joy premature—the overseer hadn't not come; he was standing with several servants under the steward, discussing something.

His heart tightened again as he timidly approached.

"Sir..."

He was about to explain Bench's family situation and ask if he could pay less rations at year's end, but the overseer impatiently waved him away.

"Scram, I've no time for you."

Without even glancing at Hammer, he warned the mud-foot with his eyes to get lost, then continued whispering with the servants.

"Chiliarch Luo Feihui seems to be dead too..."

"Doesn't he have a brother?"

"His brother's just a centurion—what use is he?"

"Troublesome. He seemed the most thoughtful."

"What about the other officers? What do they think?"

"Hard to say..."

Catching fragments of their whispers, Hammer's face showed bewilderment.

What were they talking about?

But what unsettled him most wasn't their treasonous words, but that they stood here speaking so brazenly.

This settlement seemed on the verge of upheaval...

Unable to join that circle, Hammer went where he belonged, standing with the farmers gathered in small groups.

Perhaps seeing the overseers openly gossiping about the lord's family, these usually timid fellows grew bold.

"The lord is gone... what will we do?"

"Ha! If he hadn't planted those fruits and brought those chanting priests from the south, this would never have happened!"

"Exactly! Wasn't camu camu good enough?"

"The lord had no choice. Camu camu wasn't selling—the factory owners up north suddenly stopped buying it this year."

"Sigh!"

The more they talked, the more they sighed, worrying at each other but helpless.

They weren't entirely anxious about the uncertain future; more than that, they didn't know who to blame.

Yes.

Who to blame?

The factory owners of River Valley Province for not supporting their business? The farms of Sunset Province for stealing their trade? Or the slanderers by the lord's side, or the lord himself for being a little foolish?

Of course, the Union was no good either.

If they hadn't sneaked in and provoked those priests, they wouldn't have done something so extreme.

Pinecone Wood Farm was the largest settlement in Jinhe City—what benefit could sacrificing it bring the church?

They had long joined the Torch Church, giving everything to the supreme Son—there was no reason for those people to harm them.

It made no sense at all.

A shepherd might take one sheep from the pen to slaughter, but no madman would kill all the sheep at once.

There was no benefit!

Seeing the others shaking their heads and sighing, Hammer couldn't help but speak.

"What are you all saying... Didn't the lord's daughter survive?"

They exchanged glances.

A wrinkled man couldn't help but remind him.

"She is only eight years old."

"So what? Even if she's only eight... she still carries the master's blood, she's the heir to this farm. With such a big thing happening, she ought to look after us, shouldn't she?" As he said this, Hammer harbored a sliver of selfishness in his heart.

The master was not easy to fool, and he was hard-hearted, but a child should be easy to deceive—a few tears and sniffles would surely soften her resolve.

If that young lady truly became the farm's owner, life in the days ahead might be a bit easier. After all, he was just a farmer; what did it matter for whom he tilled the soil?

A nearby farmer chimed in agreement.

"Someone really does need to take charge."

Though he didn't believe an eight-year-old could manage anything, he agreed with the latter part of that statement—someone indeed had to step up.

The other farmers nodded in assent as well.

Just then, a booming voice came from the side.

"That's right! Things can't go on like this—someone really does need to take charge!"

As he spoke, the overseer walked over.

When the crowd saw his face, they scattered in fear, yet to their surprise, the man who was usually fierce and menacing now wore a gentle, warm smile.

Hammer was the most astonished.

Only a few minutes ago, the overseer had shot him a vicious glare.

That look, like a rabid dog...

Had nearly scared the soul out of him.

Paying no heed to the frightened expressions of the crowd, the overseer continued with a smile.

"Whether it's the esteemed young lady, some high-ranking officer, or a capable man under the steward's command... someone must come forward to take charge."

Watching the murmuring crowd, some nodding in agreement, the overseer's smile grew even brighter, though there was a hint of mockery lurking behind it.

These people were born livestock, like sheep in a pen. Even if you led them outside, they wouldn't wander far.

The farm's world had turned upside down, yet these fools were still thinking about what work to do today and whether they could hand in a little less grain tomorrow.

Truly, a slave remained a slave for life.

But he was different.

Others saw the sky falling; he saw the chance to rise above the rest.

Seeing the smile on the overseer's face, Hammer suddenly shuddered.

What made him shudder wasn't the coldness hidden in that smile—he wasn't sharp enough to notice that—but the fact that, just hours after such a horrific event, this man could still smile.

The overseer didn't even look at him; he continued in his booming voice.

"Right now, the future farm owner needs us. Let's go together to the manor gate and petition. Whoever is willing to take charge, we'll support them."

"Who's coming with me?"

If he could stand by the future master's side in their time of greatest need, with that merit, he might even become the farm's steward—a leap to the top!

But he was cautious enough to cleverly use the phrase "future farm owner," so that even if he bet on the wrong horse, he could smoothly change his tune without leaving a handle for criticism.

What if?

What if the officers reached a consensus and decided to support the young lady? That wasn't entirely impossible.

The crowd exchanged glances, not sharing his many schemes, but simply feeling a raw fear.

There was an unwritten rule on this farm: unless the steward ordered them to work at the manor, they were not allowed near the master's estate.

Besides, farming was their job.

If they left their work unfinished and ran around, it wouldn't be something a few lashes could settle—they might even get shot.

Seeing the hesitation in their eyes, the overseer smiled and continued.

"Don't worry, today is an exception! I promise, even if no farm work is done today, no one will punish you!"

Hearing this, the crowd finally set aside their fears, stirring with excitement and nodding in agreement, fully siding with the overseer.

Under his call, the people picked up their tools and headed toward the manor. Hammer didn't want to get involved—he just wanted to do his farm work—but seeing everyone else go, he had no choice but to follow reluctantly.

Perhaps because of the nightmarish horror from the previous night, the usually wide streets were nearly empty, and they didn't even encounter any patrolling soldiers.

But when they reached the manor gate, the overseer was stunned. In front of the grand entrance, a sea of people had already gathered—people of all kinds.

Clearly, he wasn't the only one with opportunistic ideas, and everyone had coincidentally thought the same thing.

Yet, unfortunately, the one crucial person to step forward and take charge was precisely missing.

No one was vying for the position of farm owner here.

He saw neither the powerful officers, nor the eight-year-old young lady, nor the master's trusted steward.

Only a few Alliance soldiers stood at the gate.

Watching the growing crowd on the street, Quit Smoking, standing at the entrance, felt a headache coming on.

The Alliance's Guard Corps had already subdued the officers in the farm. Those fellows, after witnessing the power of the mental interference device, had cooperated fully. But now, the last group expected to cause trouble—the serfs—had stirred up a commotion.

Kill Dagger glanced nervously at Quit Smoking.

"What the hell do they want..."

They just stood there, not saying a word.

Quit Smoking swallowed hard.

"How should I know..."

Just now, they had received intelligence from the Army Command that mutant troops were on their way here, though the exact direction was unclear.

The Administrator had ordered them to be extremely careful and protect the mental interference device located in the annex.

At this critical moment, they had no time to deal with these people.

Staring at each other like this wouldn't solve anything. Quit Smoking cleared his throat and shouted in his not-so-standard People's Union language.

"Friends of Pinecone Farm, what brings you here?"

A stir ran through the crowd.

After a moment, someone gathered the courage to shout back.

"We want to know... who the new farm owner is, and where the steward is. Someone has to arrange today's work."

Soon, others echoed, and the crowd nodded repeatedly.

"That's right!"

"Please... could you call the master out for us?"

Ah!

Is that all?

Quit Smoking laughed at that and answered without a second thought.

"Don't worry, from now on, there is no farm owner here!"

"You are liberated! The grain you grow is all your own. Go home!"

The act was complete. Jie Yan awaited cheers, but no sooner had his words fallen than the once-calm scene erupted into chaos.

Hearing there was no longer a farm owner, Hammer, standing among the crowd, felt a surge of panic. Just as he was about to speak, the overseer beside him, his face turning ashen, cried out before him.

"How can that be!"