”Let me get this straight,” Deku said, his voice dropping an octave as he cut off Pip’s frantic stream of words.
He crouched down slightly, bringing his face level with the terrified scavenger.
“The slums of Sector 9 aren’t run by a government, nor by the official defense organizations. It’s managed by local syndicates who pay protection fees to corporate subcontractors?”
Pip nodded vigorously, his eyes wide.
“Y-Yes, boss! Exactly. The Iron Syndicate controls everything from the recycling plants to the water filters around here. If you don’t wear their armbands or kick up a portion of your daily scavenge, their enforcers drag you out to the mutant zones outside the perimeter wall.”
Deku stood back up, adjusting the collar of his ruined, slime-caked uniform out of sheer habit.
His sharp mind was already assembling the pieces of this fractured world.
According to Pip’s breathless explanation, humanity’s current societal structure was built on a brutal caste system born from the extraterrestrial cataclysm.
Centuries ago, alien anomalies and mysterious threats had battered Earth.
To survive, humanity had rapidly evolved through two distinct paths: those who manipulated space-time magic, and those who underwent inner mutation, breaking human physical limits through sheer willpower and genetic adaptation.
Above the chaotic slums floated the towering, pristine spires of the corporate elite and the official defense organizations.
These corporations funded their military divisions by harvesting rare resources—most notably, the mystical fruits born from the occasional Divine Trees that sprouted from alien-infected soil.
Those fruits were processed into high-tier weapons, armor, and magic amplifiers, traded exclusively among the powerful.
And down here, in the dirt and rust of the undercity, scavengers fought for scraps while gangs like the Iron Syndicate squeezed them dry.
Magic, space-time manipulation, inner mutations, and corporate greed, Deku mentally summarized, a cold, calculating gleam in his dark eyes.
It sounds chaotic, but power is still measured the exact same way.
Those at the top make the rules; those at the bottom break them—or get crushed.
He looked down at Pip, who was still kneeling on the gravel, waiting anxiously for his execution or dismissal.
”The Iron Syndicate,” Deku murmured, tasting the name on his tongue.
“Where is their closest local outpost?”
Pip pointed a trembling finger down the winding, neon-lit corridor of the main alleyway.
“Three blocks down, past the neon noodle joint. It’s an old automated transit station they converted into a gambling den and tax collection office. They call it The Rust Bucket.”
”Good,” Deku said flatly.
He turned his back on the scavenger, stepping past the unconscious form of old man Jaxx without a second glance.
”B-Boss?” Pip called out timidly, his voice echoing off the corrugated iron walls.
“What are you going to do?”
Deku didn’t look back.
A dark, confident smirk spread across his lips as he cracked his knuckles, feeling the subtle hum of space-time resistance tingling beneath his skin—a quiet reminder of the system fueling his ascent.
”I’m going to pay my respects to the management,” Deku replied, his footsteps echoing steadily into the neon-lit gloom of the dystopian night.