11-15

Chapter 11: No Surprise, It’s Night City 

“You don’t want to kill, but I sure as hell do.” 

Riku grinned, baring a mouth full of sharp teeth, looking every bit like a man-eating demon. Which, well, he technically could be. 

But these scavs—could you even call them human? They were more like beasts in human skin. Just the smell of them turned his stomach. 

“Son of a bitch! You think you can flex on me? Die!” 

The scav didn’t waste any more words, unloading his entire clip at Riku. That smooth trigger-pull was practically a required skill in Night City. 

“Tat-tat-tat!!!” 

The rapid chatter of the submachine gun filled the alley, echoing off the walls. 

In the dim light, the only thing visible was the muzzle flash, kicking up the acrid smell of gunpowder. 

“Damn it! Sure, there’s no market for him, but maybe some weirdo would pay for the novelty! Couldn’t you be a bit gentler?!” 

The knife-wielding scav, eyeing the bullet-riddled Animal gang brute in front of them, couldn’t help but snap at his partner. 

In their line of work, you never turned down extra merch. What if someone did want it? 

“Shut up, you idiot! I’m not letting this guy’s claws rip me apart!” 

The submachine gun scav shot back, already swapping in a fresh clip, ready for another burst. 

“Didn’t you see the shell casings on the ground? You forgot why we came here? That homeless guy was shooting too!” 

They’d been drawn to the alley by the sound of gunfire, hoping to scavenge some leftovers. They knew a fight had gone down. 

The reason he hadn’t fired right away was because something felt off. Shell casings, bullets, bloodstains—but why didn’t this guy have a single wound? 

“Gotta say, you’re not as dumb as you look.” 

Riku quickly showed him why. His wounds healed in seconds, bullets popping out of his body like they were nothing. 

“Clink, clank.” 

The bullets hit the ground, ringing out crisply. The two scavs stared, jaws practically on the floor. 

“Zzt, zzt.” 

A weird noise cut through the air. The knife-wielding scav’s busted cyber-eye suddenly retracted. 

“Shoot, damn it! What are you waiting for?!” 

The knife scav roared at his submachine gun buddy, then turned and bolted without a second thought. 

The submachine gun scav froze for a split second, then cursed under his breath and ran too. 

If that didn’t kill him, what was the point of fighting? What kind of freak experiment did some corpo cook up?! 

“Trying to run now? Too late.” 

Riku lunged forward in a single bound. He couldn’t dodge bullets and wasn’t as fast as that Demon Slayer girl from before, but against these two scavs? Speed wasn’t an issue. 

In a few strides, he caught up to the submachine gun scav. Without hesitation, he swiped a claw at the guy’s neck. 

“Damn it!!!” 

The scav felt death closing in. Instead of turning to fight, he fired wildly ahead. 

“Splat!” 

Riku’s claw clamped down on the scav’s neck, sharp talons slicing clean through. Blood sprayed as the scav’s head, eyes wide with shock, rolled across the ground. His lifeless body collapsed in the dim alley. 

Riku didn’t spare him a glance, moving on to the knife-wielding scav, who was crawling desperately along the ground. 

“Real tight-knit crew you got there.” 

Riku’s mouth twitched at the sight of the gunshot wound on the scav’s back. That wasn’t his doing—it was the submachine gun scav’s parting gift. 

Knowing he was doomed, the submachine gun scav had decided to take his buddy down with him. How touching. 

“Splat!” 

Riku ended the knife scav with a single swipe. Unlike that Demon Slayer girl, he didn’t have a taste for toying with his enemies. 

[Ding! Experience +5.] 

[Ding! Experience +1.] 

The [Limit System] popped up with notifications, but not during the fight—only after it was over, settling the score in one go. 

Riku had a theory. Maybe the [Limit System] only ran its combat tally when it confirmed the area was safe? 

Could he use this to gauge danger? If the system started settling experience after a fight, it meant no enemies were nearby. If it didn’t, something was still lurking. 

It was just a hunch, though. He didn’t have enough evidence to confirm it yet. 

“Looks like holding a gun really does make a difference. Both scavs, but the one with the submachine gun gave 5 experience points, while this guy only gave 1.” 

Riku rifled through the knife scav’s gear. Surprisingly, the guy really didn’t have a gun—just surgical knives, tweezers, and other tools. 

“Pretty clear division of labor. This guy’s gotta be the one who handles the organ harvesting.” 

It made sense to Riku. Among scavs, the organ harvester was practically a skilled trade. They didn’t just carve out kidneys—they made sure nothing went to waste. 

Cyberware and organs that could fetch a price were sold on the black market. The leftover scraps? Either bulk-sold, burned, or tossed out to feed the rats. 

If you ended up in a scav’s hands, you were done for. To them, a human was just a pile of parts to sell on the black market. 

“Compared to them, man-eating demons don’t seem all that different.” 

Riku picked up the submachine gun. He’d only been in this world a short while, and already he had two guns and three bodies to his name. Gotta hand it to Night City. 

“Gotta find a place to hole up. Dawn’s coming.” 

Glancing at the sky, Riku’s danger senses kicked into overdrive. 

Getting blasted by a gun? No big deal. But the faintly whitening sky? That felt like the end of the world. 

Sure, the city was called Night City, but it wasn’t like the sun never rose. The “Night” in Night City had nothing to do with darkness. 

It came from “Knight”—Richard Knight, the city’s founder, whose name was honored after his assassination. 

“Good thing someone delivered some cash. With eddies, you’ll never want for a place to crash in this city.” 

While looting the two scavs, Riku had found some money. Lucky for him, these guys were scavs, who often dealt in cash transactions. 

In any other line of work, finding cash on someone would be a pipe dream. In an era of brain implants, online transactions were king. 

Chapter 12: Wild Dog Bar 

Riku darted through the alleyways, quickly emerging onto the street. 

This place was a total dump. Along the way, he passed plenty of homeless folks curled up in dark corners. Maybe the overpowering scent of fresh blood on him was too much, because no one else was dumb enough to try picking a fight with him this time. 

Or maybe it was the two guns strapped visibly to his body, screaming “don’t mess with me.” 

“Dios mío, choom, did you just crawl out of a bloodbath or what?”  

As soon as Riku hit the main street, still adjusting to the blinding neon lights, someone called out to him.  

“You’re looking pretty badass, but on Valentino turf? Careful, they might take you for a demon and flatline you.” 

Before Riku could respond, the guy kept talking, acting like they were old pals. 

“And you are…?”  

Riku lowered his gaze to the guy chatting him up, squinting. His heart skipped a beat—something about this felt familiar. Exaggerated vest, shiny gold cyberware, gaudy jewelry, and tattoos of Santa Muerte and Jesus Christ. The dude looked straight out of a Mexico City barrio. 

But what really caught Riku’s eye was the hairstyle. A Latino rocking a ginkgo-shaped topknot, like a samurai from Japan.  

“Hey, choom, this is the Coyote Cojo, and you don’t know me?” the guy said, his expression over-the-top, clearly a few drinks deep, joking around with Riku. 

Riku glanced around. Sure enough, he was standing next to a bar with a strong Latin vibe—Wild Dog Bar, or Coyote Cojo.  

“What, people still buy into that stuff?” Riku asked, relaxing a bit. He’d clocked the guy’s identity: Jackie Welles, the “junior boss” of Coyote Cojo. 

“Shh, choom, don’t say that too loud. With your look, someone might actually shoot you,” Jackie said, making a hush gesture. He clearly didn’t care much himself, though. 

The guy was sprawled on the steps outside the bar, surrounded by a few empty bottles, looking like he was living his best life. Good thing he was the “junior boss” here, or he’d probably have been kicked out ages ago. 

“How much have you had, man?” Riku said, shaking his head. Not wanting to deal with a drunk, he stepped past Jackie, pulled open the door to Coyote Cojo, and walked inside. 

The sky was already lightening outside. For safety, Riku wasn’t about to go hunting for a place to crash. He’d hole up here during the day and head out again at night. Pay for a drink, sit all day—who’s gonna kick him out of a bar? Worst case, he’d toss some extra eddies their way. No way they’d turn that down. 

Inside, Riku grabbed a random seat. The bar was nearly empty—only four or five patrons left. The bartender was idly wiping glasses, looking bored. This time of morning, right before dawn, was the deadest hour for a place like this. The all-nighters had already cleared out. 

Even with so few people, Riku could feel eyes on him. Subtle glances kept flicking his way.  

Fair enough—his look was a bit much. Sporting a pair of obvious goat horns? No wonder people thought he was some kind of devil. 

Of course, in this day and age, no one would actually think he was a demon. They’d just assume he modded himself to look like this on purpose. In Night City, with its seven million-plus people, a couple of weirdos slapping goat horns on their heads wasn’t even news. 

But getting horns and waltzing into Valentino territory? That was practically begging for trouble. It was like spitting on the Valentinos’ turf—and they did not take kindly to that. 

The Valentinos were all about tradition and culture. That was their foundation. Sure, stuff like “Jesus Christ” didn’t have much pull anymore, but it was still baked into their identity. Just look at their gear—religious accessories and tattoos everywhere. They might not follow the old doctrines, but the cultural weight was still there. 

The Valentinos leaned hard into that shared heritage, binding their gang tightly to the local Latino community. They put down roots, spread out, and welcomed anyone who respected their ways, turning their turf into an ironclad stronghold. The community’s loyalty shielded the gang—cops or corpos trying to infiltrate got nowhere. In return, the Valentinos protected the neighborhood. 

“This is Heywood, Valle Vista, Valentino territory. God might not be in charge, but you’d better show some respect,” a guy slurred, stumbling over to Riku’s table. His clothes screamed Chicano culture, and he was clearly drunk, pointing and jabbering. 

“…” 

Riku was speechless. He hadn’t expected someone to actually come stir up trouble. Jackie was right—Heywood folks didn’t mess around. 

But it’s not like he chose to look like this. How was he supposed to explain that? 

The silence made things awkward. The drunk guy, clearly not a fan of being ignored, got more agitated. Drunks don’t care about your side of the story—they just feel disrespected. 

“Speak, you mute or something?” the guy snapped, leaning on the table, getting in Riku’s face. His boozy breath was so strong it almost overpowered the meaty human scent. Almost. It was like a weird mix—kinda “intoxicating,” like drunken shrimp or crab. Tempting, in a way. 

“I didn’t mean any disrespect,” Riku said, swallowing hard. His hand brushed the SMG at his side. His pistol was out of ammo, but the SMG still had some. 

“Hey, choom, give me some face. No trouble in the Coyote Cojo,” Jackie called out, stumbling over to pull the drunk away. 

As the “junior boss” of the bar, Jackie had enough clout to defuse things. The drunk muttered something about “disrespecting our traditions” but followed Jackie off, still grumbling. 

Chapter 13: Jack Wells 

“…” 

Riku hesitated a bit. Maybe he should just leave this place. Who would’ve thought that in this world, his appearance would still hold him back?! Seriously, who could’ve guessed that having demon horns sprouting from his head would make people think he’s picking a fight? This isn’t some dark medieval fantasy like Berserk, right?! 

While Riku was caught in his indecision, an elderly woman with grayish-white hair approached him, holding a glass of sake in her hand. 

“Sorry, kid. He’s just had too much to drink. He’s not like that when he’s sober,” she said softly, her voice warm and gentle, like a wise oba-san from an anime who’s seen it all. She set the glass down on the table as she spoke. 

“This drink is my apology on his behalf. Don’t hold it against him.” 

The old woman’s hair was gray, and she wore a knitted purple sweater with a sleeveless black jacket over it. No flashy gold accessories, just a grounded, practical vibe—like a retired sensei who still commands respect. 

“This…” 

Riku wasn’t used to this kind of calm politeness. He hadn’t been in this world long, but he’d already gotten accustomed to its rough, wild energy, like the chaotic streets of Night City in Cyberpunk: Edgerunners. This woman’s kindness threw him off. 

“Thank you, ma’am. I get why he acted that way, but… the reason I look like this is kinda hard to explain,” Riku said, trying to be polite in return. If she was showing respect, he’d return it threefold, like a true shounen protagonist. 

He thought about explaining the goat horns on his head but gave up. How do you even begin to explain something like that without sounding like you’re from a shounen manga with a cursed bloodline? 

“No worries, kid. Everyone’s got their own story. You don’t need to explain. That guy was in the wrong. We’ve got our traditions, but we can’t force them on others,” the old woman said with a kind smile, shaking her head. Her words were so warm and understanding, it was almost intimidating—like meeting a sage character who knows exactly how to ease your soul. 

“Thank you,” Riku said, feeling her sincerity. This wasn’t just polite small talk; she meant every word, like a mentor figure in a Studio Ghibli film. 

“Look at that! Mrs. Wells is out here solving everyone’s problems again!” a voice called out. 

Jack Wells swaggered over, throwing an arm around the old woman’s shoulders with a playful grin. He was clearly poking fun, but his tone was full of affection. 

This old woman was his mother, Guadalupe Alejandra Wells, known to everyone as Mrs. Wells. She was the owner of the Wild Wolf Bar, a legendary figure in her own right. Riku had already figured that out. No wonder everyone in the Valentino Gang—no matter how tough—treated her with respect. She was like the retired oyabun of a yakuza clan, radiating quiet strength. 

Mrs. Wells, in her youth, had been a force to be reckoned with, a true badass like Revy from Black Lagoon. Now, she’d stepped back from the action, but her presence still commanded the room. 

“Jack, how much have you been drinking? Go sober up!” Mrs. Wells said, her tone full of love for her son. Jack Wells was her pride and joy. 

“Alright, alright, Mamá,” Jack replied with a grin, his ginkgo bun hairstyle bouncing as he nodded like an obedient son. He wasn’t a mama’s boy, though—just a guy who loved his mom deeply, a bond straight out of a heartfelt anime episode. 

“We won’t bother you anymore. Enjoy your time at the Wild Wolf!” Mrs. Wells said with a warm nod to Riku before turning to leave. 

“Yeah, the drinks here at Wild Wolf? They’ll never let you down. They’re filled with Mrs. Wells’ ai—her love!” Jack added with a dramatic flourish, giving Riku a big thumbs-up. Mrs. Wells shook her head with a helpless smile, and the scene felt so wholesome it could’ve been a slice-of-life moment in Barakamon. 

“Could you mix me a drink?” Riku asked, a smile tugging at his lips as he soaked in the warm atmosphere. 

“Oh? How do you want it?” Jack’s eyes lit up. As the shounen bar heir of Wild Wolf, he knew a thing or two about mixing drinks. 

“One part vodka, add ice, lime juice, ginger beer. Oh, and most importantly… a dash of that ai you mentioned,” Riku said with a grin, watching Jack’s face light up like a character who just heard a clever quip in Gintama. 

“Nice taste, bro! Your look’s kinda weird, but I’m starting to like you,” Jack said bluntly. He’d already poked fun at Riku’s appearance at the bar’s entrance, true to his straightforward shounen energy. 

“But that drink? Gotta let Mrs. Wells mix it. My ai? Not sharing that with you, haha!” Jack laughed at his own joke, cracking himself up while Mrs. Wells gave an exasperated smile. 

“Don’t mind him, kid. He’s had too much to drink,” she said, shaking her head to make sure Riku didn’t misunderstand her son. 

“No worries. Jack seems like a good guy,” Riku said with a shrug. Even without the rose-tinted glasses of anime tropes, Jack had left a solid impression. When people are drunk, their true selves come out, and Jack had stepped in to warn Riku and help smooth things over. That showed he had a good heart, like a loyal nakama in a One Piece crew. 

As for the cocktail recipe? It was no surprise Jack thought it was classy—it was called the “Jack Wells,” his own original creation, after all. 

Mrs. Wells led the still-laughing Jack away, but soon enough, Jack came stumbling back, holding a drink and some clothes. 

“Here, a special cocktail mixed by Mrs. Wells herself, and this—your ai. Try it on, see if it fits,” Jack said, setting the drink on the table and handing Riku the clothes, which matched his own rugged style. 

“Uh, thanks,” Riku said, hesitating before taking the clothes. Honestly, he really needed a change of outfit. 

“Go wash up and change in the back. I told you, you look like you crawled out of a bloodbath,” Jack said, wrinkling his nose at the smell. The booze probably wasn’t helping his tolerance for it. 

Riku didn’t argue. He’d only planned to rest here for a bit, but a chance to clean up and change into fresh clothes? That was a godsend, like stumbling into a hot spring episode in an anime. Since getting isekai’d by that truck, he hadn’t had a proper bath or change of clothes—just a quick scrub with snow. He’d been grossed out by a homeless guy’s clothes before, but at this rate, he’d be the one stinking like a blood-soaked youkai. 

“Alright, let’s do this. Lead the way. Oh, I’m Jack Wells. What’s your name?” Jack asked as he started walking, gesturing for Riku to follow. 

“Riku,” he replied simply. 

“Got it! Tencho guy, right? I should call you Ri~, yeah?” Jack said confidently. 

“Uh… just call me Riku,” Riku said, sweating like a nervous anime character with a yellow bead of sweat sliding down his face. Being called “Ri~” felt way too awkward, like a nickname from a rom-com anime that just doesn’t stick. 

“Sure thing, your call,” Jack said with a shrug, respecting Riku’s preference like a true bro. 

Chapter 14: Cybernetic Body (Gitaisho) 

Jack Wells led Riku to the wash area. The Wild Wolf Bar had a dedicated spot for people to rest and clean up, complete with a place to take a shower. 

For the first time in a while, Riku finally got to rinse off. Man, that refreshing feeling was something else—pure bliss, like stepping out of a hot spring in a shonen anime. 

After cleaning up, Riku stood in front of a mirror, getting a real look at his current form for the first time. 

Those goat horns on his head were impossible to miss, screaming “demon king” vibes, like he was Azazel straight out of some dark fantasy anime. Add in the eerie, almost cursed tattoos crisscrossing his body, and it was no wonder people got the wrong idea about him. 

“Looks like I’ve got another thing to add to the list,” Riku muttered, a bit exasperated. He was in dire need of some “Skill Optimization Points” right about now. 

“Photophobia,” “cannibalism,” “appearance”—yeah, the list of things he needed to tweak was getting pretty long. 

He grabbed the clothes Jack Wells had lent him and tried them on. They were a bit tight, not quite a perfect fit. Jack was a pretty buff guy by most standards, but compared to Riku’s current frame? He was still a step behind. 

“Eh, it’ll do. Better than what I was wearing before,” Riku said with a shrug. 

Back when he was running around in those tattered, blood-soaked rags, he didn’t exactly have room to be picky. These clothes were at least clean, intact, and had a bit of style to them. Plus, they were a gift—can’t complain about free swag. 

After changing, Riku stepped out of the bathroom. The only real hassle now was doorways. With those goat horns, he was easily over two meters tall, so he had to duck and weave just to get through without smacking his head. 

To be fair, the horns were doing most of the height work—his actual body wasn’t that exaggerated, or he wouldn’t have been able to squeeze into Jack’s clothes at all. 

“Didn’t think I’d ever be stressing about something like this,” Riku chuckled to himself, shaking his head. But he’d have to get used to it. If he got caught in a chase and those horns got stuck somewhere, it wouldn’t just be embarrassing—it could be game over. 

“Riku, my man, you okay? Your face is pale as a ghost, no color at all!” Jack said, doing a double-take when he saw Riku step out. 

Back when Riku was covered in blood, it wasn’t as noticeable, but now that he was cleaned up, it stood out like a sore thumb. Dude was built like a tank, yet his face looked like he was one bad day away from keeling over. Total mismatch, like a character design gone wrong. 

“I’m fine, no injuries,” Riku said, shaking his head. He’d taken plenty of hits—some downright fatal—but they’d all healed up already. 

“Just chalk it up to some janky body mods gone wrong,” he added, throwing out a vague excuse. In this cyberpunk world, that kind of explanation slid by without a hitch. People bought it. 

“Man, you guys are wild, chugging random hormones and slapping animal parts on yourselves,” Jack said, clicking his tongue. “No way I’d mess with that. Cybernetic implants (gitaisho) are one thing—at least you know what they’re supposed to do. But hormones? Gene mods? Animal organs? Who the hell knows what you’ll end up as?” 

Riku didn’t take the bait, switching topics instead. Less talk, less chance of slipping up—he wasn’t actually part of some “Beast Gang” (Kemono-dan) or whatever. 

“Thanks for the clothes. How much do I owe you?” he asked. 

“Mrs. Wells’ love? Priceless, my friend. Can’t buy that with eddies. But don’t worry, it’s on the house,” Jack replied with a grin. Guy was a real character, the kind who could buddy up with anyone, like a sidekick in a mecha anime. 

“Thanks, man,” Riku said, keeping it short. No need to overthink a kind gesture. Measuring everything in money felt too crass, like something a villain in Hunter x Hunter would do. 

Not to mention, Riku was flat broke. The few eddies he’d scavenged from those two street scavs wouldn’t even cover a round of drinks at the bar. Talk about awkward. 

“The free stuff’s always the most expensive,” Riku thought, recalling an old saying. By accepting the Wells family’s kindness, he was racking up a debt of gratitude. If they ever needed help, could he really just walk away? 

Maybe some people could, but not Riku. His straightforward, almost shonen-hero sense of morality wouldn’t let him. 

Luckily, the Wells family seemed like decent folks. If they were out here pulling villain-level stunts, Riku would’ve made sure to settle the score, clear as day. 

“Alright, mission complete. I’m gonna crash for a bit. Catch you later,” Jack said, rubbing his temples. Guy looked like he had a headache coming on and needed a break. 

“Later, Jack,” Riku replied with a nod, watching him head off before returning to his seat. The bartender hadn’t cleared away his drink, which was nice. 

Sinking into the booth’s sofa, Riku picked up his cocktail glass, took a sip—and immediately gagged, spitting it out. 

“Ugh, damn it!” 

Lost in thought, he’d totally forgotten he was basically a kijin from Demon Slayer—a ghost who could only stomach human flesh and blood. Compared to the ghouls from Tokyo Ghoul, who could at least sip coffee, his situation was straight-up pitiful. 

“New clothes are honestly kinda inconvenient,” Riku muttered, realizing the downside. Back when his outfit was a shredded, bloodstained mess, chowing down was way easier. Now, in this clean, stylish getup, one meal would probably leave him looking like he’d just walked off a horror anime set. 

“Guess a bloodthirsty beast shouldn’t care about looking polished,” he quipped, shaking his head. 

But Riku quickly figured out a workaround: nibbling on his own fingers. Way less gruesome than chomping on his arm, and definitely more practical. Pain? That wasn’t even on his radar anymore—it was just part of the deal. 

Leaning back in the booth, Riku stuck his left index finger in his mouth and started gnawing, stripping off bits of flesh. The pain jolted his brain, but there was also a weirdly satisfying sense of fullness. Freaky as it was, he was starting to get used to it. 

“Gotta figure out how to get some cybernetic implants (gitaisho),” Riku thought, his mind shifting gears. In this world, cybernetic enhancements could seriously boost your combat power. Until his level, stats, or skills caught up, leaning on external gear was the fastest way to get stronger. 

Riku had no hang-ups about using external tools. He was a pragmatist—whatever worked, worked. Plus, unlike regular folks, he didn’t have to worry about the usual risks of cybernetic mods. 

Normal people who got implants couldn’t just swap back to their flesh-and-blood body—preservation wasn’t an option. But Riku? He could rip out the cybernetics and let his body regenerate, no problem. 

There was just one catch: he needed to get a handle on his regeneration ability first. Otherwise, by the time the cyber-doc tried to install the implants, his body would’ve already regrown the cut parts. 

Chapter 15: Making Money is the Top Priority 

To be honest, Riku had never consciously tried to control his regeneration ability before. Usually, he was just pushing it to work faster—because, let’s face it, having chunks of your body missing doesn’t exactly feel kawaii. 

He pulled his left index finger out of his mouth. The first two joints were nothing but pale, exposed bone. Staring at the wound—no blood, no regrowth—Riku was a bit shocked. He’d only tried controlling it for a moment, and… it worked way too fast. 

“So, my talent isn’t that bad, is it?” he muttered to himself. 

He couldn’t help but feel a little salty about it. That jerk Kibutsuji Muzan—turning him into an oni against his will and then mocking his potential as one? That was just unforgivable! It was the kind of villainous taunt that’d make Tanjiro from Demon Slayer grit his teeth and swear vengeance. One day, Riku would make Muzan regret turning him into an oni. He’d take down that Oni no Ou with his own hands! 

“But first, I need to figure out how to get some gizoido,” Riku said, shifting his focus back to the present. 

In this world, gizoido—cybernetic implants—were everywhere. Pretty much everyone had some kind of augmentation. Not having one was the oddity, like showing up to a mecha convention without a single LED on you. Gizoido in this era were like tattoos or smartphones back in the early 21st century—a mix of cultural expression, personal style, and practical tools. People got them for all sorts of reasons: tech upgrades, boosting combat skills, or just to look cho kakkoi (super cool). In Night City, a slick set of gizoido made you the flashiest shounen hero on the block. Scarcity? Nah, gizoido were hard currency, plain and simple. 

Basic cyber-components were easy to get—cheap, easy to install, and available at any street shop or beauty clinic. Getting a “light” implant was as simple as a quick surgery and some calibration. You could even take the parts home and DIY it. But if you wanted something serious, you needed connections and a fat stack of cash. Gizoido had evolved from Generation 0 to Generation 4. Gen 0 and 1 were obsolete, Gen 2 was the standard, Gen 3 was around if you had the means, but Gen 4? That was out of reach for regular folks—like chasing a legendary item in an RPG. 

“So, the real issue is how to make okane,” Riku concluded, zeroing in on his next goal. Money. It was so practical it almost didn’t feel like he’d been isekai’d at all. 

With enough okane, getting a set of high-end gizoido was no problem. Just hit up a cyber-clinic, pay up, and boom—new gear installed. Easy. 

“Looks like I’m sticking with Jack Wells for a while,” Riku decided. Becoming a saibo ronin—a cyberpunk mercenary, or “edgerunner”—was his best bet. Sure, he could dream of earning cash through a regular job, but in Night City? That was like hoping to become a pro duelist in Yu-Gi-Oh! without a deck. Even being a corporate dog required qualifications, and decent jobs were fought over like loot drops in a raid. With seven million people in Night City—more than some entire states—the competition was brutal, like a battle royale anime. 

Plus, Riku was a nobody with no background. No company would touch a shady guy like him. Who’s to say he wasn’t a corporate spy sent to sabotage things? But being a saibo ronin? All you needed was to not fear death. And at night, Riku was practically unkillable—perfect for the job. Besides, saibo ronin made bank way faster than any desk job. Why? Because their gigs were straight-up illegal, written in the penal code like a villain’s rap sheet. 

With his decision made, Riku felt a wave of calm. Now he just had to wait for Jack Wells. He was sure Jack would be happy to bring him into the edgerunner life. The only question was whether Jack had already met V. 

“Oh, crap, I forgot to ask about the time,” Riku muttered. He’d been so caught up getting cleaned up and changing clothes at the bar that he forgot to check the date. 

He stood up and headed to the bar counter to ask the bartender. Last time he asked someone about time and place, he ended up an oni. This time, it’d be fine, right? 

The bartender at Wild Wolf was a rugged, middle-aged guy with a full beard, looking like he was in his thirties or forties. A shiny cross necklace hung around his neck, glinting like something out of a JoJo’s Bizarre Adventure accessory line. 

“Hey, yo, what can I get ya?” the bartender called out as Riku approached, not batting an eye at his weird appearance. 

“No drink, just got a question,” Riku said, waving off the offer. He’d accidentally tasted a sip earlier, and it nearly made him gag—definitely not his thing. 

“You’re in luck, then. There’s nothing in Heywood I don’t know. Name’s Pepe,” the bartender said with a grin, gesturing for Riku to take a seat at the counter. It was a slow night, and he seemed bored, ready for a chat like a side character in a slice-of-life anime. 

“What’s your name?” Pepe asked, pouring a drink and sliding it over. 

“Riku. Thanks, but I don’t drink,” Riku said, pushing the glass back. He noticed Pepe’s right hand was a gizoido, gleaming gold with a cross etched into it—total bling vibes. 

“No worries, no scam here. This one’s on me, just making friends,” Pepe said with a chuckle, pushing the drink back toward Riku. He seemed like the talkative type, ready to bond like a bar regular in Cowboy Bebop. 

“I’m good with friends, but I’ll pass on the drink,” Riku said, rubbing his temples. Why was everyone in this bar so obsessed with booze? Couldn’t they talk without it? Still, he got it—it was a bar. He was probably the weird one for refusing, like a teetotaler in a shounen drinking contest. 

“Alright, fair enough,” Pepe said, his expression turning a bit odd as he took the drink back and downed it in one gulp. Leaning against the counter, he looked at Riku. “So, what’s your question? You’re not from around here, are ya?” 

Pepe had been there the whole time and had seen Riku walk in covered in blood, looking like he’d just stepped out of a Tokyo Ghoul fight scene. He figured Riku was a tough guy—someone worth befriending. You never know when a badass like that might come in handy, and Pepe was never one to turn down a new nakama. 

“Yeah, I’m new to Night City,” Riku admitted. This guy was supposed to answer his questions, but here he was asking first. 

“Can you tell me the exact time and date?” Riku asked quickly, not giving Pepe a chance to derail the conversation. He wasn’t here to kill time chatting with the bartender. 

(Chapter End)