Chapter Three: District Nine

Faelen didn't pay much attention to Beth's words. The world now was utterly different from what it had been before the disaster. Besides, a settlement with only Level Two network access could hardly guarantee its own independence. They would either be destroyed by the electromagnetic storms or swallowed up by other powers with higher access—assuming, of course, they didn't get wiped out by energy-siphoning monstrosities or some other creatures first.

To Faelen, the scavenger squad was merely a small, incidental episode on his journey. This year, the electromagnetic storms seemed to have come earlier than usual. As he walked among the ruins, Faelen could keenly sense the heavy radiation hanging in the air. It was precisely because of this that, by the time he returned to Zone Nine, the place was already teeming with people.

Zone Nine was the largest settlement in these wild wastelands and the only one with Level Five network access. That was the benefit of a high-level settlement: the higher the network access, the more energy one could draw upon, the wider the coverage, and the stronger the protection against electromagnetic storms. At first, people hadn't understood this, but once they realized the true value of a high-level network zone, everything changed.

Strolling through Zone Nine, one could see people everywhere clad in leather armor and bristling with weapons. Such was the norm in the wasteland. After that catastrophe, the global population had been reduced to less than a tenth of what it once was. Those who survived not only had to contend with natural disasters but also face monstrous armies, vast and despair-inducing, composed of what were once their own kin. In this world, they had no choice but to fight.

Faelen's presence quickly drew the attention of others, particularly because his attire, always spotless and neat, seemed glaringly out of place in a world of dust and blood. It was as if a dapper millionaire had wandered into the slums alone.

Yet, no one voiced any complaints. Most people, upon seeing Faelen, hastily averted their gazes. A few dim-witted troublemakers who considered approaching were quietly intercepted by others and dragged into the crowd for a proper "lesson." This was not out of respect for the "Doctor," but simply because no one wanted trouble—especially not when the other party was the Doctor.

To die because of someone else's stupidity was simply not worth it.

By the time Faelen stepped into the "Wild Mary" tavern, night had already fallen.

He pushed open the heavy doors and was instantly greeted by a cacophony—a mix of hoarse screams and wild rock music. Dazzling lights cut through the dim hall, and the madness induced by alcohol drove people to reckless abandon on the dance floor. They twisted and shouted, moving in time to the thunderous beat. In every corner, men and women, men with men, women with women, pressed together—regardless of gender or age, all lost in the frenzy and the intoxicating effect of drink. It was as if this revelry could make them forget the dangers outside and recapture a time that was carefree, peaceful, and joyous.

Faelen removed his hat and made his way slowly to the bar, finding a seat. Soon, a bartender appeared before him.

"Welcome back, Doctor. You're later than usual tonight."

"I just happened to do a good deed along the way," Faelen replied with a gentle smile. At his answer, the burly bartender's face went pale for a moment. The man's lips twitched before he managed to force a smile.

"Truly worthy of the Doctor. So... what can I get for you?"

"A glass of juice."

As he spoke, Faelen glanced at the black cat that had just leapt from his shoulder.

"And grilled fish."

"Certainly. Please wait a moment."

Had anyone else made such a request, the bartender would have tossed them straight into the trash without a second thought. But upon hearing Faelen's words, the man nodded without hesitation and hurried to the other side to get started, even putting aside the drinks he was preparing for other guests. Strangely, none of the patrons protested; it was as if his actions were perfectly natural, and they themselves were the most reasonable of gentlemen.

Soon, everything was ready.

"Your juice, Doctor. And grilled fish for the little one."

Placing the freshly squeezed juice before Faelen with deference, the bartender winked playfully at the black cat, then hurried off to resume his duties, leaving Faelen alone to savor the moment.

The juice in his glass exuded a fresh aroma. Faelen slowly swirled the glass, his expression intensely focused. His dark hair was meticulously parted, framing a handsome, chiseled face. On any ordinary day, such a young and attractive man would have been quickly approached by women. But now, even those most enamored of male beauty dared only curl up in the corners, watching the figure at the bar with curious, feline eyes.

Unfortunately, not everyone possessed such self-awareness.

"Hey, you pansy drinking juice!"

A coarse voice rang out, and with it, a burly figure strode over, clad in nothing but a leather jacket. Unlike most in the tavern, he carried no firearm but slung a massive iron hammer across his back. He walked like a rampaging beast, and anyone in his way would be crushed beneath his feet.

With every step, the ground shuddered slightly. He marched right up behind Faelen, fixing the slender youth with a disdainful glare. Faelen didn't even bother to look at him, merely raising his head to meet the bartender's eyes. Noticing the look, the bartender shrugged helplessly.

"Nothing we can do, Doctor. Lately, a lot of arrogant types have come to Zone Nine. We can't keep up."

"Hey, did you hear me, pretty boy? This is my spot!"

Oblivious to the exchange, the scar-faced man grinned menacingly, glaring at Faelen.

"Move it, you and your pet. This isn't a place for sissies like you. You hear me, you—"

But the man's tirade was abruptly cut off. Faelen was already standing before him, a cold, sharp scalpel pressed flat against the man's gaping mouth.

"How pitiful..."

Faelen sighed softly, then looked up with a gentle smile.

"I believe you need treatment."

Before Faelen's words had finished echoing, the crowd around them swiftly retreated, even the most inebriated drunkards scrambling away in panic, as if cursing their parents for not giving them more legs.

"You—!"

"Commencing record."

Unfazed by the man's rage, Faelen simply watched him calmly, tilting his head as he spoke.

"Patient suffers from severe mental disorder, evidenced by uncontrollable vulgar language and aggressive violent tendencies... Diagnosis: surgical removal of affected area."

As he spoke, Faelen's right hand flicked. A muffled scream sounded, and a crimson tongue shot from the man's open mouth, landing with a splash in a nearby glass, staining the drink bright red with blood.

"Aaaah—ahhh!"

The man staggered back, his mouth awash with blood, his face contorted in agony, twitching like a wild beast. His eyes were bloodshot, fixed on Faelen with malice. With a guttural roar, he lunged, seizing the hammer from his back and raising it high. Even as he did, his already massive body began to swell, ballooning like a pumped-up ball. His skin lost all color, transforming and hardening into something far more powerful. At this, many in the crowd gasped. Such a bizarre transformation meant the man possessed the ability to manipulate mass—he was a Level Four access warrior.

In the wasteland, everyone could use the network system, but only those truly gifted could awaken their own powers—like Beth before, or this man now. They could not only use the system's basic functions but even raise their access, accomplishing feats ordinary people could not—like supernatural abilities or magic.

Though there was no unified standard, most classified these abilities into five stages: Mastery—Manipulation—Control—Transformation—Creation. With two access levels per stage, the highest was Level Ten, the sole measure of power in this post-apocalyptic land.

A Level Four access warrior was considered a formidable force here.

Unfortunately, he had chosen the wrong target.

"Patient is out of control, exhibiting an aggressive personality. Final treatment: termination."

With Faelen's calm and elegant words, the man with the hammer suddenly froze, his weapon raised high. Moments later, the hammer slipped from his grip, crashing to the floor with a harsh clang. At the same instant, the man's hulking body collapsed to the ground.

A scalpel, gleaming coldly, jutted from his throat.