The societal structure of the NHF was fundamentally made of two worlds: those living inside the massive protective walls, and those scraping by on the outside. Officially, the boundary separated the awakened citizens from those who lacked an opened Gene Lock. But in reality, the inner government and military upper echelons viewed the unawakened population outside the walls as mere farm crops—assets that needed to be strictly managed and "harvested" from time to time. The military only maintained a superficial, defensive presence in the outskirts because those desperate populations served as humanity's primary meat shield, absorbing the devastating brunt of the devil attacks before they could ever reach the city gates.
Inside the wall, however, existed a completely different reality. To an outsider, the inner city looked like an impossible dream from the pre-fallout era. Towering skyscrapers pierced the upper atmosphere, their glass facades shimmering with massive holographic commercial advertisements and flashing news bulletins. Sleek transport ships and helicopters navigated predefined flight paths, while high-speed bullet trains propelled themselves at astounding velocities through glowing, circular rings of energy suspended between the buildings. Naturally, every single luxury in this high-tech metropolis was powered entirely by harvested devil crystal cores.
The streets below were a chaotic, fast-paced blur. Citizens rushed blindly to their individual destinations, their eyes glued to their personal communicators, completely indifferent to the sea of people surrounding them. Yet, amidst the beautiful chaos, a heavy martial law lingered—armored personnel vehicles (APVs) and heavily armed military detachments were stationed like clockwork every 300 meters along the main thoroughfares. In the NHF, civil police simply didn't exist; the military handled everything from standard city policing to fighting wars against the devil race.
Walking briskly through the dense, preoccupied crowd was a white-haired young man clad in crisp military camouflage. Though he was only eighteen years old, the uniform commanded immediate authority. Wherever he went, the civilian crowd instinctively parted to give him a wide berth. Young children stopped to stare, pointing at his insignia with a distinct glint of pure admiration in their eyes.
It had been a full year since Graves had been formally adopted into the medical unit. Over the past twelve months, he had deployed on several grueling field operations. Some had ended in the brutal deaths of his immediate comrades; others had concluded with him desperately pumping the chest of a mangled soldier who ultimately bled out right beneath his hands. The relentless, mounting death toll was taking a severe psychological toll on his mind. Lately, his sleep was plagued by recurring nightmares—haunting images of towering pikes piled high with dead soldiers, his deceased mother's face, and a massive Spider Devil perched atop the mountain of corpses. He routinely woke up in his tiny barracks room, drenched in cold sweat and completely breathless.
Today, however, he was navigating the sprawling city grid to fulfill a highly classified personal arrangement. Having walked these specific sectors countless times over the past year, he knew every hidden alleyway, and his standard-issue camo uniform allowed him to pass through the security checkpoints without delay.
Reaching his designated coordinates, Graves slipped inside a dimly lit, noisy bar. He tucked himself into a secluded corner table and ordered a basic can of water, which cost him exactly 1 NHF coin.
A short while later, the entrance doors slid open, and a figure wrapped in a dark, oversized hoodie slipped inside. The fabric was pulled low, completely obscuring most of his facial features. The man scanned the crowded room, locked onto Graves's white hair, and navigated the tables to pull up a chair directly opposite him. Beneath the blasting, rhythmic bar music, an intense, unspoken tension hung between the two men.
After a few grueling moments, the rigid atmosphere broke, and they both let out quiet, guarded chuckles. The figure finally hooked his fingers beneath his hood and pulled it back.
"Took you long enough to call me up," Graves said, keeping his voice low but half-joking. "I was starting to think you either got locked up by the MP or died out in the ruins."
"Ah! Please, a guy like me doesn't die that easily," the man scoffed, waving his hand dismissively.
His name was Blade. He was a veteran soldier in his early thirties with a rugged, full beard—half of which he had eccentricity sprayed a stark, artificial white.
"So, let's get right down to it," Graves said, his expression instantly hardening as he leaned across the table. "Is there any good news? Did you find anything?"
Blade let out a slow sigh, raising a hand to signal a nearby waiter. He ordered a heavy beer, and Graves simply watched him in silence, long accustomed to Blade's seemingly bottomless thirst for alcohol. After receiving his glass and taking a massive, appreciative gulp, Blade finally shook his head.
"I did everything I could, kid, but I came up completely empty-handed," Blade responded honestly. "I had my trusted contacts search every sector we could access outside the wall. We pushed so deep into unverified territory that we almost got flagged by my commanding officer."
Graves's expression instantly turned wistful, a profound weight settling in his chest. The man he was desperately searching for was the sole reason he was alive and standing within the military infrastructure today: Old Man Lee. It had been six months since Graves had first established a secret pipeline with Blade, hiring the veteran to track down his old savior. Utilizing a highly advanced, visualization artificial intelligence, Graves had been able to construct a near-perfect digital sketch of Lee based on his own vivid memories. Of course, he was paying Blade handsomely for the illegal off-the-books investigation.
"I can't just let it go," Graves muttered, his knuckles tightening against the table. "I have to find out what happened to him."
Blade stared at him through the amber glass of his beer, his eyes narrowing slightly. "Look, I know it's technically none of my business... but I've asked you before if this old guy was a blood relative, and you said no. Why are you constantly running these massive personal risks to find a random old man? You're risking your entire career and your freedom."
Realistically, Graves knew that even if Blade miraculously found Old Man Lee alive, there was absolutely no legal way to smuggle an unawakened outskirts survivor inside the safety of the inner walls. But the unresolved debt tore at his conscience. He simply needed closure.
"I just want to know if he's still breathing. Nothing more," Graves replied with a sharp, defensive shrug. He paused, looking directly into Blade's eyes. "Now let me ask you a question. why do you risk your freedom taking these jobs for me?"
Blade chuckled quietly, leaning back in his chair. "That's simple, kid. I love money. Whatever generates a solid profit, I'll do it—so long as it doesn't require me to murder someone. I can survive having my freedom taken away for a few months in a military brig, but I can't survive losing my life. It's just business."
Graves nodded slowly in understanding. Reaching into his camo pocket, he discreetly slid a sleek, unmarked transaction card across the sticky surface of the table. The card contained a substantial amount of encrypted NHF coins that Blade could seamlessly wire into an anonymous account. In this era, these temporary cards were widely used to transfer funds outside of official personal banking profiles. Of course, if the high command launched a full forensic cyber investigation, the transaction could eventually be traced back to Graves's medical salary—but with a little operational caution, the risk was manageable.
Blade offered a sharp nod of approval, smoothly palming the card and sliding it into his tactical vest. Glancing over his shoulder at the shifting shadows of the bar, he stood up and pulled his hood back over his distinctive beard. "I've gotta roll. High command has eyes everywhere."
As a soldier specifically deployed to the exterior sectors to guard government assets and military infrastructure outside the walls, Blade possessed the perfect operational cover to run these illicit private contracts.
As Blade melted back into the crowd, a beautiful woman advanced toward Graves's table, her hips swaying to the heavy bass as she provocatively displayed her cleavage, trying to catch his eye. But Graves didn't even look up; he simply waved her off with a cold, dismissive gesture.
This seemingly flawless human being was actually a highly advanced, android robot. Coming from the harsh realism of the outskirts, Graves absolutely detested the concept of finding comfort or attraction in a humanoid machine—especially one engineered to mimic real human flesh.
Standing up from his chair,he threw down enough coins to cover both his water and Blade's beer, turning his back on the flashing neon lights as the blasting music slowly faded behind him.