The Afterlife.
The paradise for Night City's mercenaries. Many in this city killed and died just for the chance to enter this place, to see their name on the drink menu, to become part of the legend. The converted old morgue, now a sanctuary for those who traded in professional violence, was packed as usual.
The air was thick with the mixed scent of expensive alcohol, electronic cigarette smoke, sweat, and the subtle metallic odor of recently cleaned weapons. Blue and purple lights bathed the main space in supernatural hues, while red neons outlined the coffin-shaped bar that was the establishment's heart.
In every corner, a deal was being made. At every table, contracts were negotiated in coded whispers. Veteran mercs with real and cybernetic scars told exaggerated stories while drinking cocktails named after fallen colleagues. Corpos, fixers, and intermediaries of all kinds circulated like well-dressed vultures, sniffing for opportunities in others' misfortune.
"To Adam Smasher!" shouted a man with excessive cybernetic arms, raising a glass.
"To Adam Smasher!" echoed the chorus, followed by laughter and the clinking of glasses.
They drank as if there was no tomorrow—which, for many of them, might well be true.
In the VIP areas, separated by holographic smoke curtains and guards with expressions promising instant violence, the dealings were subtler but no less deadly. Here, business was measured in millions of eddies, and the consequences of failure weren't simply a bullet to the head, but a person's complete disappearance.
In one of the most exclusive VIP rooms—famous for being the preferred spot of a certain rising legend—the atmosphere was calmer, but the tension was palpable.
Rogue, the queen of the Afterlife, sat with her usual relaxed alertness. Her eyes scanned the environment even here, in her own domain's sanctuary. Next to her was Weyland, a solo who worked as her personal bodyguard, a man whose modifications were subtle but whose reputation for efficiency was anything but.
And they waited.
The third chair at the table was empty.
"He knows how to make an entrance," Rogue commented, taking a sip of her drink—something colorless and expensive. "Being late is part of the spectacle."
Weyland, a middle-aged man with ocular implants that made a soft buzzing sound when adjusting, gave a dry laugh. "Considering what he wants to buy, a little theater is the least I'd expect."
Before Rogue could respond, the holographic smoke curtain at the room's entrance dissipated.
Wukong entered without ceremony.
He was a figure of contrasts even in this environment of contrasts. The long black coat seemed to absorb the room's bluish light, while the golden lines on his suit pulsed with a life of their own. His mask hid the lower half of his face, but his eyes—those golden eyes that seemed to see through matter—shone intensely even in the dim light.
"Rogue," he greeted, his filtered voice sounding like a digital whisper. "Weyland."
"Wukong," Rogue replied with a nod. "We were starting to think you'd find entertainment elsewhere tonight."
"Charter Hill traffic was particularly... lively," he responded, sitting down. The chair made no sound—no creak, no scrape. He was simply there, as if he'd always been. "A misunderstanding between the Tyger Claws and the Mox. Curious how these things happen exactly when certain traffic light systems fail simultaneously."
Weyland looked at Rogue, then at Wukong. "I don't even want to know."
"Wisdom," Wukong agreed. "So. The smuggler."
Rogue checked her internal clock—not a visible device, but an implant projecting the time in her peripheral vision. "Should be here any moment. And Wukong..."
"Yes?"
"Try not to kill him before concluding the negotiation. It's hard to find smugglers willing to deal with parts at the level you need after you... well, you know."
Wukong tilted his head. "No promises."
It was then that the holographic curtain dissipated again, and the men entered.
There were two, but they seemed to occupy all available space in the VIP room. The first was large—not just tall, but broad, with shoulders suggesting cybernetic modifications beneath an expensive but questionably tasteful coat. His face had the stereotypical Slavic hardness: high cheekbones, narrow eyes, a carefully trimmed beard that couldn't hide a square jaw.
The second was slimmer, almost delicate in comparison, with long fingers that drummed nervously on his own leg. His eyes moved constantly, cataloging exits, assessing threats, calculating odds.
Behind them, ten bodyguards took position outside the VIP room—men and women with obvious combat modifications and expressions that clearly said they'd kill on command and perhaps for pleasure.
The large man smiled, revealing perfectly white, artificial teeth. "My apologies for the delay," he said in English laden with an accent that sounded deliberately exaggerated. "Traffic in Night City is... how do you say? A beast."
He took a cigar from his coat's inner pocket, put it in his mouth without lighting it, and smiled openly at the three occupants. Then he sat down uninvited, his chair groaning under his weight. His slimmer companion sat beside him, eyes still moving.
The large man's gaze settled on Rogue. "So this is the famous Afterlife. And you must be the famous Rogue. I've heard stories. Though I must say..." He looked around, his expression dismissive. "...the reality is less impressive than the legend."
Rogue's expression didn't change, but something in her eyes cooled several degrees. "And you are?"
"Ah, where are my manners?" He laughed, a deep, forced sound. "Viktor Orlov. And this is my associate, Dmitri."
Dmitri, the slim man, gave a small, nervous smile.
Viktor's eyes then moved to Wukong, his narrow gaze assessing. "And this... this must be the child everyone is talking about. The so-called 'Monkey King.'" He chuckled. "You people in Night City and your dramatic names. Back home, we're more... direct."
Wukong didn't respond. Just looked.
Viktor seemed slightly uncomfortable with the silence but continued. "Rogue, my dear, I must say I expected more from the queen of Night City's mercenaries. This place, these people..." He waved a dismissive hand. "...it's all so provincial. So... small-time."
Rogue's voice was icy. "The drinks are good, the music isn't terrible, and I don't tolerate disrespect in my establishment. State your business."
"Straight to the point! I like that." Viktor leaned forward. "I have the parts your... associate here wants. Rare pieces. Very expensive. The kind of things that disappear from corporate labs and never reappear."
He pulled out a data shard, placing it on the table. "Prices are listed here. Payment upfront. Delivery in seventy-two hours."
Wukong finally spoke. "Forty-eight hours."
Viktor laughed. "The child speaks! And makes demands! How adorable." His expression hardened. "Seventy-two. My terms."
Wukong turned his head slightly, looking not at Viktor, but at Dmitri. "You are partners?"
Dmitri seemed surprised to be addressed. "Well, yes. Yes, we are."
"The partnership. Is it fifty-fifty?"
Dmitri glanced at Viktor, then back at Wukong. "Well, technically, Viktor has sixty percent, I—"
He didn't finish the sentence.
Wukong's eyes glowed.
It wasn't like in the factory—not an explosion of light. Just a subtle increase in the golden brightness of his irises, as if a flame had been blown by a sudden wind.
Viktor screamed.
It was a short, guttural sound of pure agony. His hands flew to his head, his fingers contorting like dying spiders. From his temples, where neural implants should have been, small blue sparks erupted, followed by a thin stream of smoke. His eyes rolled back, showing the whites, and then he fell forward onto the table, the glass surface cracking under his weight.
The silence that followed was absolute.
Outside the VIP room, the bodyguards began to move—hands going to weapons, cybernetic systems initiating combat sequences.
Then, one by one, they also fell.
No screams this time. Just the sudden, simultaneous sound of ten heavy bodies hitting the floor, like puppets with their strings cut. One or two twitched for a second, legs kicking the floor in neural spasms, then lay still.
Dmitri was paralyzed, his glass still suspended in mid-air, his face a mask of pure terror. He looked at Viktor, then at Wukong, then at Rogue, who was watching the scene with a perfectly polished expression of boredom.
"You..." Dmitri choked. "You..."
Wukong ignored him, turning to Viktor's body on the table. "Now you own one hundred percent of the business."
Dmitri didn't respond. Just trembled.
"The price," Wukong said, his voice as calm as before, as if nothing had happened. "For the parts."
Rogue finally spoke, her voice laced with dry amusement. "I think you should answer, Dmitri. Your former partner was, as the Chinese say, courting death."
Dmitri swallowed dryly. His hands shook so much the liquid in his glass formed ripples. Slowly, with spasmodic movements, he put the glass on the table. Then, with even more care, he took a data shard from his coat's inner pocket.
"The... the prices are here," he stammered, extending the shard as if it were a poisonous snake. "Everything you asked for. Availability, prices, delivery locations..."
Wukong took the shard. He didn't insert it into any slot—just held it between his fingers, and the golden particles dancing on his hand intensified for a second. His eyes blinked once, processing.
"I accept," he finally said. "Thank you for the discount."
Dmitri blinked. "Dis... discount?"
"Yes. Sixty percent discount. Very generous of you." Wukong tilted his head. "Or did I misunderstand?"
For a moment, Dmitri seemed about to protest. Then his eyes landed on Viktor's body, still smoking slightly, and then on the ten motionless bodyguards outside. His face took on an expression of horrible understanding.
"No! No, you understood correctly!" he said quickly, his voice rising an octave. "Sixty percent! Yes! Must have been a... a miscalculation on my part. I must have drunk too much. Yes."
He stood up so quickly his chair almost fell. "I... will expedite your order immediately. Everything will be delivered within forty-eight hours. With the... discount."
He was almost at the holographic curtain when Wukong spoke again.
"Take your trash with you."
Dmitri froze. Looked at Viktor's body, then at Wukong. "But... he's..."
"Trash," Wukong repeated, his voice cold. "You brought it. You take it."
For a moment, Dmitri seemed about to panic. Then some of the Afterlife's own security—men and women with professional expressions and discreet combat implants—entered the VIP room.
"We can assist with removal," one said, his voice neutral.
Dmitri just nodded, his face pale. He watched as two security personnel lifted Viktor's body as if it were a heavy garbage bag, dragging it out. The other bodies were handled with equal efficiency. In less than a minute, the only evidence of what had happened was the cracked table and the subtle smell of burnt flesh and melted electronics.
When Dmitri finally left, stumbling in his haste, a heavy silence filled the VIP room.
Rogue was the first to break it. "As always. Everything ends well."
Wukong gave a low laugh—a dry, humorless sound. "He was trying to gain leverage. Testing weaknesses."
"And you showed him the error in that assessment."
"I did." Wukong picked up his drink—not alcohol, but an expensive, obscure soda he seemed to prefer. "People underestimate what they don't understand. It's a common mistake."
Rogue studied him for a moment. "Those parts you're buying... they're not just rare. Some are practically mythical. Prototype technology that should never have left corporate labs."
Wukong took a sip of his soda. "I know what I need."
He stood up. "I need to go. My parents don't sleep until I'm home."
Rogue smiled—a genuine expression, surprisingly soft. "They still give you a curfew? The Monkey King, taking down corporations by day and obeying curfew by night."
"Everyone needs anchors," Wukong replied, his voice a bit softer. "Or we get lost."
He left, his dark figure disappearing through the holographic curtain and being swallowed by the Afterlife's controlled chaos.
---
Days passed.
The parts arrived, as promised, within forty-eight hours. Dmitri, apparently, had taken the lesson seriously—the components were exactly what Wukong ordered, impeccable quality, with a sixty percent discount that would probably financially ruin the poor smuggler.
In the secret basement below the "Immortal Peach," Wukong began his real work.
The laboratory was a space that defied the physics of the building above—larger than should be possible, extending under the street, equipped with technology that would make corporate research labs seem like children's toys. Workbenches filled with molecular precision tools, 3D printers capable of working at nanoscale, scanners mapping not just matter but energy fields.
And in the center, on a worktable illuminated by cold, precise lights, was the Project.
Wukong wasn't building a simple android. He was creating life—or the closest technology could come to it. Chloe, based on the memory of a game from another life, but transcending that inspiration. He wasn't replicating; he was creating something new, something unique.
But the challenge was immense. He was trying to create something from another world with the technology of this one. The parts before him were advanced, some cutting-edge, but they were still Cyberpunk technology. He needed to adapt, to reimagine, to bridge the gap between what he remembered and what was possible.
He would study the components, understand their limits, then push beyond them. But that was work for another time. For now, he had only just received the parts. The real creation would come later.
---
While Wukong studied his components, the world above continued its usual course of violence and greed.
And as always, some people had more chrome than neurons.
Kang Tao, in particular, seemed to have developed an obsession with what they called "the Wukong problem." To the prodigy, this was incomprehensible on a logical level. He had thwarted their attacks, yes. Counter-attacked, yes. Publicly humiliated the corporation, yes.
But that was business. It happened. You lost, you learned, you moved on.
Apparently, Kang Tao didn't follow that logic. Or perhaps—and this was a possibility Wukong briefly considered—wounded pride was a more powerful motivator than profit. Maybe it was because he used a Chinese name and aesthetic without being Chinese. Maybe it was the embarrassment of being defeated by a child.
Well, come to think of it, maybe it made sense.
But then they crossed the line.
---
It was a normal afternoon in Night City. As normal as any afternoon could be in a metropolis where shootouts were classified as "traffic disruptions" and cyberattacks as "network fluctuations."
The "Immortal Peach" was packed.
Mika Sato's impeccable cooking combined with Hiroshi's characteristic warmth—a genuine smile, a well-placed joke, genuine concern for customers' well-being—had turned the modest restaurant into a popular gathering spot. And of course, there was Wukong's own fame. The fact that the "Great Sage," the "Monkey King," had grown up here, that his parents still ran the place, that he still came here to eat his mother's special ramen... it gave the place an aura of authenticity rare in a city built on lies.
The result was a diverse clientele. Veteran mercs sitting next to corporate executives. Netrunners discussing security protocols while eating gyozas. Tourists venturing outside safe districts just to say they'd eaten where the Monkey King ate.
The atmosphere was warm, noisy, alive.
The front door opened, and a young Asian man entered.
He looked ordinary—short black hair, rounded face, brown eyes. He wore simple clothes, a thin jacket against the city's perpetual chill. He smiled, a shy, almost teenage smile.
He walked to the counter, his eyes scanning the menu handwritten on a chalkboard above. He stood for a moment, as if indecisive.
Hiroshi Sato approached, his face lighting up with his characteristic smile. "Welcome! First time here? I don't remember seeing you before."
The young man looked at Hiroshi, his smile widening slightly. "Yes. Just passing through. Came to deliver a package to someone."
"Ah, a courier!" Hiroshi laughed. "Hard work, huh? The streets are dangerous today. Want something to eat while you wait? The house ramen is excellent, if I may say so."
The young man seemed to consider, then his eyes moved to the kitchen. Mika was there, stirring a pot, her face focused on the task. When she approached the counter to pick up an order, the young man saw her.
He then looked back at Hiroshi, and his smile changed.
Not gradually. Not subtly.
One moment, he was smiling shyly. The next, his face was a mask of something not exactly hatred, nor triumph, but something cold and calculated and horribly empty.
"Kang Tao sends their regards," he said, his voice clear and calm.
And then he stabbed himself.
Not in the chest. Not in the throat.
In the stomach.
The knife—which no one had seen him carrying—went in deep, and he twisted it.
Hiroshi had time only for his eyes to widen, for his mouth to open in a silent "no."
Then the world exploded.
---
In the underground laboratory, Wukong was immersed in his work. His hands moved with precision beyond human, soldering connections at molecular scale, adjusting energy fields with the sensitivity of a neurosurgeon.
He was in the middle of a critical sequence—studying the compatibility of neural matrices with synthetic substrates—when his expanded senses detected something.
An energy signature. Tiny. Almost imperceptible.
But wrong.
His mind went into superspeed.
The world around him slowed to almost a stop. The glow of tools, the movement of dust particles in the air, the flow of energy through circuits—all became a frozen frame in time.
In his accelerated perception, Wukong analyzed.
The signature was chemical. Explosives. Not the cheap types used by gangs—this was military-grade. High yield. Compact. And it was on the level above. In the restaurant.
He accessed the security cameras—not just the restaurant's, but the street's, the neighboring buildings', anything networked that he could access in milliseconds.
Saw the young man entering.
Saw him talking to his father.
Saw the change in his expression.
Saw the knife.
And saw, through thermal and materials analysis, what the knife had triggered. A chemical detonator. And inside the young man's body, compacted in a surgically created cavity, perhaps weeks or months ago...
...advanced plastic explosives.
The human bomb.
Wukong calculated.
Explosive mass: approximately five kilograms.
Type: RDX mixed with plasma accelerants.
Destructive potential: enough to vaporize everything within fifteen meters, and structurally destroy everything within fifty.
The restaurant was twelve meters wide.
His parents were two meters from the young man.
Customers were on average five meters away.
There was no time for evacuation. No time for disarmament. The sequence was already activated—the stabbing was the final trigger. In less than two seconds in real time, everything would become plasma and fragments.
In his accelerated time, Wukong had perhaps the equivalent of ten minutes of thought.
He analyzed why he hadn't detected the bomb before. The young man was completely organic—no cybernetic modifications, no implants, no electronic devices. Even the bomb was chemically triggered. It was a primitive approach, almost medieval. And for that very reason, invisible to modern sensors looking for electronic signatures, transmissions, cybernetic anomalies.
They had studied his defenses. And found a gap.
That was a thought for later.
Because now he had 1.8 seconds in real time to act.
Options.
His parents had personal shield generators—simple energy deflectors he'd given them for protection. They were always active, triggered by sudden kinetic impact or energy surges.
The bomb would trigger them.
But the shields were designed for bullets, for shrapnel, for energy weapons. Not for a point-blank, high-yield explosion.
They would be overwhelmed. His parents would die.
In his accelerated perception, Wukong's mind—the mind that functioned like a superintelligent AI, that could process information at speeds beyond human comprehension—raced through possibilities.
He couldn't move his body at superspeed. Only his perception was accelerated. He couldn't physically reach them in time.
But he could send a signal.
In 0.3 seconds real time, Wukong sent a command through the local network—a command to overload, to reinforce, to push the personal shields beyond their designed limits. To channel all their energy, to create a combined defensive barrier around both his parents, even if it meant burning out the devices completely.
0.7 seconds.
The young man on the floor above was beginning to glow—literally. The energy in his body reaching critical point, light leaking through his skin, through his eyes, through his open mouth in a scream that hadn't yet reached the air.
1.1 seconds.
Wukong's command reached the shield generators. They flared to life, not as separate bubbles, but as a combined dome of blue energy enveloping Hiroshi and Mika. The devices whined with strain, circuits burning out from the overload.
1.5 seconds.
The young man was now a human-shaped torch, light so bright it bleached the colors from everything around him.
1.8 seconds.
The world exploded.
---
The explosion was deafening even in the underground laboratory.
The floor jumped as if struck by a giant. Tools flew from workbenches. Monitors exploded in showers of sparks. The lights went out, and for a moment, only the emergency lights bathed everything in bloody hues.
Wukong rose from the floor where he'd fallen. He didn't worry about the laboratory—about the destroyed tools, the damaged projects. He climbed the stairs leading to the restaurant.
The door at the top was warped, jammed. He placed a hand on it, and the golden particles flowed. The metal became incandescent, then liquid, then vapor. He passed through.
What remained of the "Immortal Peach" was a nightmare.
The front of the building simply didn't exist anymore. Where there had once been walls, furniture, people, now there was only an opening to the street, with melted, smoking edges. The customers closest to the young man—to the bomb—had been vaporized. No ashes, no remains. Just absence.
Further away, the effects were less absolute but no less horrible. Burned, dismembered bodies. A woman still trying to crawl, her legs ending in charred stumps. A man seated farther back was intact but dead—the shockwave having exploded his internal organs without leaving an external mark.
Wukong ignored everything. His golden eyes scanned the debris, finding what he sought.
In the center of the destruction, where the counter had been, a dome of blue energy flickered and died. Beneath it, his parents.
He walked to them, his feet stepping on charred debris and melted glass. Hiroshi and Mika were alive, but not unharmed.
Hiroshi was in critical condition—third-degree burns on forty percent of his body, internal blunt trauma, cerebral hemorrhage. Mika was better—more protected by her position, with serious but not fatal injuries.
Wukong analyzed their vitals, his mind working with icy clarity.
The Trauma Team would arrive in fifty-two seconds.
Meanwhile, other signals approached. Vehicles. Not ambulances. Combat vehicles. Energy signatures matching Kang Tao.
They had come to witness. Perhaps to clean up any survivors. Perhaps to capture him in his moment of vulnerability.
Wukong felt something then. Something that wasn't calculation, wasn't analysis, wasn't logic.
It was cold. It was focused. It was absolute.
He carefully arranged his parents in a stable position. Then stood up.
In his mind, he reached the Net.
The Kang Tao vehicles were three blocks away. Four armored vehicles, twelve elite soldiers, netrunner suppression equipment.
Wukong didn't bother hacking their systems. Didn't bother disabling their weapons.
He simply sent a pulse.
A simple, clean, absolute neural overload command.
In the vehicles, twelve elite soldiers screamed in unison—a short, sharp sound—then fell silent. Their brains, their implants, their cybernetic systems—all fried in an instant.
The vehicles, without drivers, crashed into each other, creating a barricade of crumpled metal in the middle of the street.
The Trauma Team arrived exactly fifty-two seconds later. The AV hovered, the ramp opened, and the team descended with professional efficiency.
The lead paramedic—the same gray-haired woman from the factory—saw Wukong first. Her eyes passed over the destruction, over the bodies, over Wukong's injured parents. Her professional expression didn't falter, but something in her eyes hardened.
"Trauma level one," she ordered. "Two patients, severe burns and blunt trauma."
As her team worked, she approached Wukong. "Your family?"
Wukong nodded, his golden eyes fixed on her. "Yes."
"We'll take care of them." She paused, then added: "The corporation that did this..."
"Is already being dealt with," Wukong interrupted, his voice colder than the vacuum between stars.
The paramedic looked at him, and this time, she saw. Saw not the child prodigy, not the legendary netrunner, not the dangerous mercenary.
Saw something ancient. Something primordial. Something that shouldn't exist in a thirteen-year-old body.
"I understand," she said simply.
Wukong tilted his head. "Take good care of them. If they aren't treated well... the Trauma Team would be better off relocating to another city. Because I wouldn't let any of you live here."
The paramedic held his gaze. In her mind, Wukong could see the calculations—the corporate training versus street experience, the logic that no individual could face a corporation, the certainty that the Trauma Team was untouchable.
And he saw the moment she understood that none of those rules applied here.
"They'll receive the best possible care," she promised, and this time, there was genuine respect—and perhaps a little fear—in her voice.
Wukong nodded. "Good."
He watched as his parents were loaded into the AV. Mika was conscious now, her eyes meeting his. She tried to speak, but words didn't come out. Just her lips formed a word: "Emanuel."
Wukong nodded to her. "I'll handle this, mother. Sleep."
The AV took off, disappearing into the gray sky.
Wukong stood alone amid the destruction of his family's restaurant. The rain began to fall again, washing soot and blood from the streets.
He looked around. At the bodies. At the destruction. At what had been his home.
Then turned and descended to the underground laboratory.
The netrunning chair—an elegant construction that looked more like a throne of technology—was intact. He sat down.
Closed his eyes.
And thought.
Kang Tao believed in rules. In hierarchies. In corporate power. They believed that an individual, no matter how talented, couldn't face a structure so vast, so entrenched, so powerful.
And they were right.
For a human individual.
But Wukong wasn't human. Not completely. And he had chosen his name for a reason.
Sun Wukong, the Monkey King, hadn't just challenged heaven. He had fought the entire heavenly army. And won.
It was time to show the world why he had chosen that name.
---
In the history of the world, there were defining moments. Corporate wars. The DataKrash of 2020. The Fourth Corporate War. Events that redefined the world, that changed the course of history.
But in 2060, a new event would join that list. An event that didn't involve armies, or nuclear bombs, or even conflicts between megacorporations.
It involved an individual.
And his wrath.
Wukong entered cyberspace, and for the first time since arriving in this world, unleashed his full capacity.
It wasn't a hack. It wasn't an invasion.
It was a declaration.
He started in Night City.
The city had more cameras than people—on every corner, in every building, in every vehicle. Private security systems, corporate monitoring networks, live media feeds, even personal cameras in ocular implants.
Wukong invaded them all.
Not one by one. Not system by system.
All. Simultaneously.
It was as if the city itself gained consciousness—and that consciousness was Wukong.
Through these millions of electronic eyes, he saw everything. Every street, every building, every person. And in every person with a neural implant—which was practically everyone in Night City—he planted a virus.
Not a destructive virus. Not a virus that stole data or caused damage.
A connection virus.
In instants, every person in Night City with a neural implant became a node in a network. A cybernetic biological network. A collective mind of which Wukong was the center, the controller.
And then he did something that had never been done in human history.
He took control.
Not of systems. Of people.
Millions of people in Night City suddenly found they couldn't move their bodies. Couldn't speak. Couldn't blink. They were trapped in their own flesh, helpless spectators as something—someone—used their implants, their systems, their bodies as... infrastructure.
Wukong transformed Night City into a biological supercomputer.
Every human brain became a processor. Every cybernetic neural system became a storage unit. Every connection between implants became a data transmission line.
And with that processing power—power exceeding all the world's supercomputers combined—Wukong launched his attack.
Against Kang Tao.
First in Night City. Then beyond.
He couldn't access the entire world—the DataKrash had left global networks fragmented, isolated. But he could reach what was connected. Kang Tao's assets in North America. Their data hubs in Europe. Their research facilities in Asia that were linked to the global corporate networks.
He didn't hack servers. Didn't break firewalls.
He simply... erased.
In Night City, every Kang Tao asset—every employee, every system, every vehicle, every weapon—simply stopped functioning. Neural implants overheated, frying their users' brains in microseconds. Electronic systems emitted one last burst of energy before going inert.
In connected facilities worldwide, the same happened. Servers didn't burn—they melted. The heat generated by data overload was so intense metal flowed like water, silicon vaporized, and the buildings housing them caught fire from the inside out.
In two minutes, Kang Tao ceased to exist as a functional global entity.
Two minutes.
That's how long the attack lasted.
Wukong stopped not because he was satisfied.
But because he couldn't reach more. The disconnected parts of their empire—offline servers, isolated facilities, employees in disconnected regions—survived. Kang Tao wasn't completely destroyed. But its global network was shattered. Its connected assets were gone. Its data was corrupted beyond recovery.
And the collateral effect...
The global internet faltered.
Not like the 2020 Crash—not a permanent collapse. But for three hours, the entire global communication system simply... stuttered. Satellites lost connections. Data transmissions ceased. The internet—the real, global one—went silent.
It was as if the entire world had held its breath.
And then, slowly, systems came back. Connections were reestablished. Life continued.
But nothing would be the same.
Because the world had seen something it never thought possible.
An individual. A single individual. Shattering a global megacorporation's network in two minutes.
Wukong's true power—his true nature—was revealed to the world. And people understood, on a visceral level, that what he had done wasn't humanly possible. No netrunner, no matter how talented, could do what he did. No human brain, no matter how modified, could process the data he processed.
Corporations began researching frantically. What was he? Where did he come from? How was it possible?
Some found fragments of Project Transcendence. Just crumbs—corrupted data, fragmented reports, mentions of a "fusion experiment." But it was enough to understand Wukong wasn't human. Not completely.
And it was enough to understand they shouldn't look further. Because if his creators—the sentient AIs of the Old Net—were involved, then there were levels of power at play that not even corporations could comprehend, let alone confront.
The event—which would come to be known as "The Two-Minute Silence" or "The Monkey King's Judgment"—changed the power dynamic in Night City forever.
Because it showed a truth many suspected but never dared believe:
That corporations weren't invincible.
That control systems weren't absolute.
That even the heavens—the power structures that seemed so high, so distant, so unattainable—could be challenged.
And in Night City, there was now a young man who embodied that truth.
Sun Wukong. The Great Sage. The Monkey King.
Equal to Heaven.