For people in the City, getting a prosthetic wasn't anything unusual.
People who "mysteriously" ended up missing arms and legs were everywhere.
In the Backstreets, fully converting your body into prosthetics wasn't rare at all—if anything, it was common. A clever way to struggle on and stay alive.
As long as you replenished your brain fluid on schedule, you didn't need to eat or rest. A body built from alloy sounded far more reliable than flesh and blood.
Still… there are always weirdos waving banners like "the purity of humanity." A few days ago I heard the chef next door saying some inexplicable cult popped up in Alley Nine.
Better stay far away from those lunatics.
Ke Ming touched his overly long left arm and sighed.
It had been attached—yes—and it really was useful. But the fact that it hung past his knees made it hard to adjust.
"Kid, having one at all is already good enough."
That was what the Head Chef said—utterly unreliable as always when it came to this sort of thing.
Yeah… at least it's genuinely a high-end workshop's premium product. If I sold all the meat on my body, I probably couldn't even afford a single component.
He casually carved a deep dent into the wall. Ke Ming nodded with satisfaction.
With a basic level of safety secured, he finally dared to wander the street alone.
The Head Chef was holed up at home tinkering with who-knew-what. These past two days, everything—from acquiring ingredients to cooking—had been handled by Ke Ming.
After the prosthetic was installed, the staring eyes on him noticeably decreased.
Of course, so did the number of customers.
So that's why Chef's "going into seclusion" to research new recipes!
He'd heard about the new dish from that black-suited man who'd visited before. The Head Chef himself hadn't mentioned a word.
Apparently, every so often Xinxu Garden would close for a few days. Each time it reopened, there would be free tastings of a new dish.
Must've gotten a sudden burst of inspiration and forgot to tell me.
…
White bone stabbed out from the elbow. The joint hollow had been crudely cut open. Broken bone dangled straight down, still barely connected—undeniably Ke Ming's left arm.
The Head Chef's lips were smeared with bloody foam. His yellowed teeth were dyed red, and between them were bits of fresh meat pulp left from chewing.
"The heat… is right…"
He craned his neck and split into a grin.
"Delicious!"
His cloudy eyes bulged wide, the whites webbed with bloodshot veins.
"I found it… the formula."
He twisted his head and waved at an empty room, blood dripping down his hand and off his skin.
"Yes, yes… that familiar taste."
"Haa… hahahahaha!"
His hysterical laughter slammed into the walls and bounced back, filling the entire room with a shrieking echo.
…
Looks like an ordinary brick wall, but the soundproofing is surprisingly good.
Ke Ming watched residents outside surge forward and divide up a corpse. He shrugged.
Even if they couldn't afford Xinxu Garden's food, picking some unlucky bastard to cook themselves wasn't a bad alternative. That was why at mealtimes the streets were always jammed with noisy crowds.
Of course, the ones waiting to scavenge scraps were usually the poor—people who couldn't afford "delicacies."
So many people, packed into that corner… with that little "ingredient," is there even enough to go around?
Once you came to Alley Twenty-Three—the Alley of Cuisine—you had to be prepared to eat, and to be eaten. Most of the unlucky targets were young outsiders: either tourists wanting to "try something exotic," or rookie Fixers full of arrogance who came to "clean up the neighborhood."
After all, to the outside world, cannibalism was a "vice."
And besides—this alley was small. Everyone saw each other every day. People knew exactly how much weight the others could throw. Whether you could strike and whether you should strike—that was the wisdom of survival in the alley.
"What a shame. Ran into a tough one—looks like a lot of people died."
The Head Chef came slowly down the stairs, wiping blood from his hands with a rag.
"Chef?"
"Chase those pieces of trash away from the door."
"Yes, Chef."
Thunk.
A dull, heavy impact as metal struck flesh.
Ke Ming struggled to swing his left arm, smashing it down hard onto a resident—his mouth full of blood, hatred burning in his eyes.
It wasn't so much a punch as it was a slam—like swinging a baseball bat purely with brute force.
The victim's belly caved in. With a look of disbelief, he stared blankly toward Xinxu Garden, coughed up a mouthful of blood, and collapsed.
"Third one."
"You still not leaving?"
Ke Ming bent down and poked the unlucky guy on the ground.
No breath.
He straightened up and looked back at the clustered residents—tense and bristling like startled rats.
"Hurry up, go, go. Stop making trouble here."
He planted his right hand on his hip and stood tall.
A middle-aged man who seemed to be the leader waved his hand, and the crowd began to retreat.
"Wait. Clean up what's on the ground."
From within the crowd, an old man—maybe sixty or seventy—suddenly dropped to his knees with a thud, hands clasped together, trembling.
Another young man lightly kicked him, then dragged him back into the shadows by the old man's half-severed left leg.
Soon, the crowd dispersed.
The ground was clean—except for the stains of blood.
"Rats."
The Head Chef pushed open the door and motioned Ke Ming inside.
"Come in. We're getting up early tomorrow."
"Not enough ingredients?"
Ke Ming shook his overly long left hand, trying to scratch his head—only to misjudge and smack himself instead.
"It's to get you used to your new hand. I heard you nearly smashed my decade-old reputation."
"…Got it, Chef!"
-------
My : pat*eon*com/RuneA
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