After gutting the massive worm, its black ichor pooling in the neon-lit ruins, Orren didn’t pause his rampage. He hefted his glowing laser sword, eyes locked on the pulsating worm nest ahead.

  Kern, gripping his battered flamethrower tight, joined Orren in a brutal sweep of the festering hive. The roar of flames mingled with the worms’ shrieking death cries, their flesh sizzling and popping in a relentless, acrid cacophony.

  Soon, every writhing maggot in the stinking chamber was reduced to charred husks by their merciless onslaught.

  Orren, drenched in sweat, slumped to the grimy floor, gasping for air in the smoky haze. Kern, still reeling, stood frozen, his mind struggling to process the blood-soaked carnage.

  “What the hell?” he finally bellowed, voice echoing in the hollowed-out ruin.

  “What’s that supposed to mean, dumbass?” Orren shot him a puzzled glare, wiping gore from his blade.

  “You never gave a shit about this crap before! It’s a thankless job, dangerous as fuck, and… that damn worm seemed to know you…” Kern couldn’t hold back, his voice cracking with suspicion.

  Today’s Orren was like a goddamn stranger. His raw power was terrifying, far beyond Kern’s memory—those slick skills, the fluid precision, the overwhelming aura made Kern feel like he was staring up at a titan. This guy was supposed to be a scumbag, a piece of trash, wasn’t he?

  “Look, I don’t know what you’re yammering about. I’ve always been loyal to my damn job. You just never saw me in action, that’s all.” Orren’s voice wavered, a flicker of guilt in his eyes—he couldn’t exactly spill that he was a transmigrator, that the old Orren was long gone.

  As for why he risked his neck to slaughter those cursed bugs? Simple as hell. Killing that worm netted Orren a juicy 90 Neural Data points, pulsing in his chip like digital gold. Sure, the last bug—a Level 3 bastard—dropped 130 points, but this Level 2 was weaker, so the lower haul made sense.

  “You never saw me in action…” Kern fell silent, his thoughts churning in the dim, flickering light. Had he misjudged this guy all along? Suddenly, he felt like he was meeting Officer Orren Bran for the first time.

  Staring at his Neural Matrix, 190 points glowing on the interface, Orren hesitated—where to dump this haul? His two new skills, Neon Sprint or Shadow Weave, or his signature Surge Blade?

  While Orren mulled, Kern roared his battered hoverbike into the crumbling building, scavenging mangled worm corpses. The big worm’s remains—especially its crystalline glands—could fetch at least 50,000 Federation credits, maybe even 100,000. Naturally, those credits belonged to Orren, the guy who did the heavy lifting.

  But the real prize? Those Neural Data points. Upgrading skills with them was worth hundreds of thousands in credits—maybe millions. Modding a Neural Chip to boost skills costs a fortune, easily hundreds of thousands, sometimes more.

  “Whatever your reasons, Officer Orren…” Kern muttered, hauling a charred worm husk, his voice low. “…you saved Sector 246’s slum today.”

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  He glanced out the shattered window, where oblivious slum-dwellers hustled in the neon glow, unaware of the nightmare that had just unfolded.

  Oh, so now I’m some goddamn hero? Orren smirked inwardly. He didn’t give a rat’s ass about saving these people—he just wanted to hunt monsters and snag their loot. But, yeah, results were results—he’d saved their sorry hides.

  On the ride back to the Upper District, Kern kept sneaking glances at Orren through the bike’s rearview. Something felt off. By Kern’s reckoning, Orren should’ve been crowing about his “heroics,” extorting the slum rats for “protection fees” or some shit. No payment? Then eat lead—bang bang bang—and laugh like a maniac as they screamed.

  But today, after butchering a void-spawned terror, he just… left?

  “Is the Interstellar Guild’s test about character now?” Kern blurted, his voice skeptical.

  “No way in hell. Far as I know, becoming a Starblade warrior’s all about raw talent. Character, rep, all that crap? Doesn’t matter. Even a total bastard can join.” Orren shrugged, but mid-sentence, he caught Kern’s drift. He didn’t bother explaining further.

  Let people think what they want.

  He wasn’t the old Orren, some sadistic piece of shit, but he wasn’t gonna play selfless saint either. All Orren wanted was to survive, get stronger, and claw his way to a better life—nothing more, nothing less.

  “If you’re aiming for the Starblade test, we could… go together. I knew a Starblade warrior once. Word is, he’s coming here this year to proctor.” Kern’s words slipped out, surprising even himself.

  No shit—this guy was a genius. A Starblade warrior buddy? That’s a damn golden ticket for the test. But the second he said it, Kern froze. Why the hell was he inviting this guy? Was he… starting to see Orren as a friend?

  Back when Orren was a prick, Kern would’ve rather blown his brains out than team up. That bastard used to extort him, dump the shittiest, most dangerous jobs on his plate. But now? Kern was starting to think maybe Orren had changed.

  By the time they rolled into the Upper District, the air crisp with filtered ozone, they didn’t split up. Instead, they headed to the precinct to cash in the worm’s corpse for credits.

  “Officer Bran, you’re back, sir!” A greasy, ass-kissing voice rang out.

  Orren turned to see a hulking brute in a trainee uniform, grinning like a lapdog. The guy—Kyle—rushed up, practically bowing. “Boss, that job you ordered? It’s done, all squared away.”

  Kyle was one of Orren’s lackeys, a thug broken into submission by the old Orren’s iron fist. Unlike Kern, a stubborn hothead, the other trainees formed a pseudo-gang under Orren’s lead. As “official” enforcers, they were more terrifying than any slum gang. Gangs might rob with rules, maybe even honor. Cops? They didn’t need that shit. Beating, killing—it was all “legal.” Oh, that dead slum rat? Just a “suspect.”

  In the slums, order often came from gangs. Enforcers like Orren? They were the real monsters, feared by all. Get noticed by them, and you’d lose your cash, your dignity, or your life.

  My orders? Orren blanked for a second, unsure what Kyle meant, and mumbled a vague reply as he slumped at his desk.

  “Spill it, Kyle. Details.”

  He poured a cup of synth-coffee, the bitter steam curling, and took a sip.

  “It’s about seizing Lot 3455, boss,” Kyle whined, playing up his effort. “That 345th District had some tough nuts, but I busted my ass to lock it down. That land’s ours now.”

  “Big boss, starting today, Kern’s got no place to crash. He’s done at the precinct. I’ll round up the boys, kick his sorry ass out, and slap a criminal record on him. No new home, just a filthy vagrant—hahaha!” Kyle cackled, his eyes glinting with malice.

  Orren’s brain screeched to a halt. Holy shit—so the old me was planning to screw Kern over this bad? Once a jobless vagrant in the slums, how long would Kern last?

  Just then, Kern strolled back from cashing in the worm corpse, overhearing everything. His face darkened, eyes burning with rage.

  Motherfucker, Orren!

  I thought you’d turned over a new leaf, you piece of shit!

  You trashed the one damn place I managed to rent?

  He yanked a high-explosive grenade from his belt, glaring at Orren with icy fury. This was his ace for the worm fight. Now it was for Orren.

  “Holy fuck, where’d this lunatic get that kind of heat?” Kyle yelped, his face paling, nearly pissing himself.

  In this cramped office, a blast like that could fry their Neural Chips to scrap.