Right on Target (TARGET)
The entire venue held its breath, the only movement being the waves of bullet comments still refreshing across the screens. Two seconds later, Su Heting automatically disconnected from the brain-machine interface.
The world righted itself, and cheers erupted immediately afterward.
"It's over," the host snapped back to reality, swallowing his astonishment as he cheered for Su Heting with practiced, professional enthusiasm. "The winner takes all! Audience, let's shout the name of our champion—he is tonight's grand slam king!"
The atmosphere was electric and cameras kept chasing Su Heting. But he stood there, indifferent to the crowd's adoration, like a stone in a boiling pot of water, not even bothering to smile.
"Mao's ranking is skyrocketing—he's taken first place in this month's points tournament! Now, let's take a look at his overall leaderboard score..."
A spotlight flashed into Su Heting's eyes.
The hell are you looking at?
He tugged his hoodie tighter, burying his face almost entirely inside it.
"Wins and still wears a scowl," muttered Hermit, his heart still pounding from the intensity of the match. He released his grip on his sleeves, only to find his palms drenched in sweat. "I really thought he was done for."
"Weren't you excited just now?" Jiali straightened herself after being yanked askew by Hermit, studying the close-up on the screen. "Why's he hiding his face?" She tapped her display impatiently. "Kid, show your face—what a perfect PR moment."
Su Heting couldn't hear Jiali's frustrated shouts from offstage. His gaze wandered through the clamorous arena until it landed on King Shen.
King Shen was slumped in his recliner, with his head hanging heavily. The connection cables at the back of his neck remained plugged in and his posture unchanged from when he'd entered the match—as if he'd simply fallen asleep. The referee crouched to check King Shen's life monitor and, a minute later, officially declared his death.
"Congratulations, congratulations!" The manager squeezed through the crowd and presented a water bottle to Su Heting like a prized offering, beaming with delight. "Another win, and a stunning one at that! Rest easy this month—now we just wait to see how the leaderboard shakes out."
Su Heting's interactions with the manager were strictly match-related. Unconcerned with the leaderboard, he countered with a question: "Did King Shen change his legs often?"
"He changed everything," the manager replied, eager to keep the conversation going. "King Shen had deep pockets—he upgraded his implants monthly. Last match, it was his arms; the one before that, it was..."
Su Heting cut in, "All implants?"
"Of course they were implants," the manager said, puzzled. "Oh, are you asking what modifications he made to his actual body?"
No.
What Su Heting wanted to ask about were those legs.
Modification surgeries were originally intended to aid the disabled.
As long as a person's brain functioned normally, it could send control signals to their limbs—that was the standard. But if someone suffered limb injuries or neurological damage that impaired movement, implants became necessary. These implants would replace the damaged parts, communicating with the brain via a brain-machine interface, working in tandem to restore normal function. Thus, traditional implants could be seen as prosthetics.
Later, with the involvement of artificial intelligence, modification surgeries in the new world took an extreme turn—shifting from "restoring normal function" to "enhancing physical capabilities". Yet, they still relied on the collaboration between brain-machine interfaces and implants.
The eerie thing about King Shen's legs was that they were unmodified flesh—not reusable implants. This wasn't the same as being a stitched-together splice human.
"You told me to pay attention to his legs," Su Heting stared directly at the manager. "Were you implying those legs aren’t his?"
The manager was dumbfounded and quickly waved his hands. "I meant to remind you that his stance is solid—hard to take down. How could those legs not be his? At most, he might have copied Titan’s tattoos."
Su Heting shoved his hands into his pockets, his gaze darkening.
Tattoos could be faked, but other things couldn’t. He was one hundred percent certain—those legs belonged to Titan.
It was just baffling.
Why would Wei Zhixin graft a pair of flesh legs onto King Shen? To intimidate people?
After every match, Su Heting would meet with Jiali under the pretense of eating mushrooms to exchange information. But today was inconvenient—the moment he stepped out of the arena, he saw the stern-faced Monk waiting for him.
"Ah," Su Heting flicked his tail in displeasure. "Why are you still here?"
"I have to protect you," Monk said, sounding like a school principal as he glanced at the darkening sky. "Let’s go home? Don’t wander around outside. Roaming at night is the easiest way to end up in detention."
Su Heting: "..."
He said, "I’m just grabbing a meal."
"No need for the trouble." Monk stood up and gestured toward the street.
A patrol armored vehicle was parked there, along with a squad of armed team members holding guns.
Monk’s words carried an underlying message: "Dinner’s ready at home, just waiting for you."
Su Heting saw the guns and obediently complied, even taking the initiative to board the vehicle.
The match was over, and so was the betting pool.
Wei Zhixin’s name seemed frozen, stamped with a "KO" that marked not only King Shen’s defeat but also his own. Yet Wei Zhixin wasn’t furious. On the contrary, he was quite satisfied with the outcome.
"This move wouldn’t work in reality," Wei Zhixin paused the playback, leaning forward to scrutinize the projection of Su Heting. "A fire bullet."
In the footage, Su Heting raised his hand and aimed at King Shen. The "X" in his right eye had just appeared, and flames lick over his fingers.
Wei Zhixin studied it intently before finally smiling. "So cheap."
This move, like King Shen’s gigantification, was something that could only be pulled off in the virtual world. It was impossible in reality—unless Su Heting’s right hand was also an implant with a hidden gun barrel.
To uncover the purpose of Su Heting’s modified eye, Wei Zhixin had deliberately sacrificed King Shen. The results were passable—at least he now knew the eye had a targeting function.
He hit play, and the projection resumed.
Flames erupted across the screen, Su Heting’s ears ruffled by the wind. The "X" in his right eye faded rapidly after the shot, as if it had only existed for a few seconds.
The constant replay filled the living room with the booming sound effect. Wei Zhixin sat alone on the sofa, his figure obscured by the projection. He paused occasionally to mutter something, but no one in the room responded.
The man with the steel blade sat cross-legged by the door, silent as if he weren’t even there.
Su Heting put the sensor lock back on and returned to his familiar spot. When the light ahead flickered on, he raised his hand and asked, "Excuse me, where’s my food?"
The window slid open with a "swish", and Monk placed a plate of corn stir-fried with mushrooms and a bowl of soybean rice in front of Su Heting.
Liar.
Su Heting said, "Last time it was big plate chicken."
"Last time was last time," the monk said seriously. "You never said we had to eat big plate chicken every meal."
Su Heting scooped out the soybean rice with a spoon, mixed it with stir-fried corn and mushrooms, then proceeded to mash it all into a messy pile. The monk thought he was protesting, but in the end, he said nothing.
"You're here so early?" The door opened, and the Chief walked in carrying a tray, sitting down opposite Su Heting and motioning to the monk. "Join us."
"Is this all you guys eat?" Su Heting shoveled food into his mouth. "I heard the armed unit gets meal subsidies."
"Just over ten bucks a day—getting a slab of artificial meat is already a luxury," the Chief said. "You put on quite a show in today’s match. That modified eye of yours has some tricks up its sleeve."
"Match-specific," Su Heting wolfed down the rest of his meal. "Useless in real life."
The power of that fireball had been intimidating, and the Chief suspected Su Heting wasn’t telling the whole truth. This kid was cunning—he never showed his full hand.
"Last time in the Punishment Zone," the Chief mimed a finger gun, "why didn’t you use that move to kill Inspector?"
"To lighten your burden," Su Heting replied flippantly. "Could you even afford the 200,000, chief?"
"Thanks for your thoughtfulness, you little shit," the Chief glared at Su Heting. "I haven’t even congratulated you yet for making it onto Wei Zhixin’s hit list."
"How should I put it… I’m not afraid of Wei Zhixin." Su Heting stacked his bowls and chopsticks before locking eyes with her. The scar at the corner of his mouth was almost healed, but his smirk still carried an edge. "It’s you guys who are scared of him."
Only Xingtian’s interests were at stake here.
"If I die, no one’s going into the Punishment Zone for you. If he dies, Wei Da will come after you," Su Heting said. "Have you been tossing and turning every night, trying to figure out a way to turn swords into plowshares?"
"There’s a whole line of Hybrids willing to take your place in the Punishment Zone," the Chief said sweetly but her expression was unchanging. "Don’t get too cocky."
Su Heting tilted his head, gesturing for her to speak up. "Huh—? What was that?"
If there really were people who could replace Su Heting, the Chief wouldn’t have gone to such lengths to have the monk protect him. They were at the end of their rope, already at a disadvantage against him.
the Chief rested her chin on her hands, unfazed by Su Heting’s provocation.
Today, she had tied up her silver waves, leaving her cheeks bare and accentuating the sharpness in her eyes. She was calm, as if she’d weathered countless taunts without so much as a twitch of her brow.
"Let’s talk this out nicely," she said. "One Wei Zhixin isn’t worth us fighting over. Look, I’ve got the monk following you, keeping you safe at all times. If that’s not enough, I can send more people. Kid, the great cause of human liberation depends on you. Why waste time playing games with a brat like Wei Zhixin? Stay here, give me three days, and I’ll make sure he stays away from you."
Throughout her speech, the Chief never took her eyes off Su Heting. Her words were earnest, her tone steady and her gaze unwavering—she was a master at persuasion.
"Three days?" Su Heting said.
"Three days," the Chief confirmed.
"If he’s still haunting me after three days," Su Heting narrowed his modified eye, "whatever I do is none of your business."
The monk caught the murderous intent in his voice. He wanted to say something but swallowed it back.
He couldn’t openly contradict the Chief—that would undermine her authority over Su Heting. But he knew Wei Zhixin’s temperament all too well.
This is too damn difficult.
"So what am I supposed to do for these three days?" Su Heting straightened up, his mind wandering. "Sleep?"
"Do some post-meal exercise," the Chief didn’t give him a break, directing her gaze beneath the chair. "You can head to the Punishment Zone now."
Su Heting didn’t even need to move—the interface beneath the chair automatically revealed itself. He felt like a mindless tool as he let out an unenthusiastic "Yay" before plugging his tail into the port.
"No text spamming," he said. "Don’t bother me."
The scene before him instantly blurred as the dampness of a rainy day crept up from beneath his feet. Su Heting heard the rain, that never-ending downpour—
"Welcome to the Punishment Zone.”
"Information confirmed.”
"Duration of this session: twenty-four hours. Please monitor your physical condition at all times to avoid sudden death from overexcitement.”
"Repeating once more..."
Su Heting opened his eyes again to find himself seated on a bench at a crossroads once more. The heavy rain obscured his vision slightly.
He rolled his neck and looked across the street.
There, someone stood holding an umbrella, with their exposed chin sharp and cold. Su Heting didn’t make a sound, but the other seemed to sense his arrival as they slowly lifted the umbrella’s edge.
A cross-shaped earring glinted.
—Yay.
Su Heting thought.
Do I fucking need to say hello before running?'
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