He didn't really get the whole father–daughter thing with vampires—how people hundreds or thousands of years old could still be in a rebellious cold war—but getting K back was good enough. And he had no standing to meddle in their family matters anyway. Strictly speaking, he was just K's private "blood tofu," and even the "knight" title was one he'd slapped on himself.
At least the Grail had let K swap out most of her blood and regain consciousness; she was back to looking gorgeous.
The other night knights didn't try anything cute—no snatch-and-grab for the Grail. If a whole knight squad hadn't taken it earlier, a handful now wasn't going to change that. They loaded K into a pod and withdrew for treatment.
Li Pan exhaled, climbed out of the sewer—and got blasted in the face by blazing light. He actually hopped, half-expecting someone to lob another nuke at him.
Luckily not.
It was sunrise.
Clouds blown away, rain scrubbed clean.
Great—now he had nuclear-PTSD…
Also: counting it up, from the last time he ate a nuke and woke in the hospital… only one night had passed?
In that one night he'd eaten a second nuke, chopped down thirty or forty company hounds, deleted Shiranui's record, saved K, seized the Grail, maybe even hooked an eleven-dimensional warship…
Turns out you can fit a lot into one night.
His nerves finally loosened, and the flood of fatigue nearly knocked him flat.
He stood there in the sunlight and breathed deep—then snapped back.
Right. Sewer stink is a hell of a stimulant…
All the way to the rendezvous, Hovercar.18 picked him up and ferried him back to the company—no ambushes from rival bidders. After the first round of feints, the bidding war was, for the moment, on pause.
If lone "company dogs" couldn't solve it, time to bring in companies.
Not yet head offices—keep it "civilized" and within business-warfare norms.
Phase two: proxy war by subsidiaries, Tier-1/2 agents, signed PMCs, and covert irregulars. Since most are illegal outfits with heavy kit and barred from Earth, the fighting shifts to outer space beyond the Belt. In a quiet backwater like 0791, you suddenly get pirates, raiders, mercs—hit-and-runs on facilities, claims, and freighters.
No one expects these skirmishes to force a withdrawal, but if you keep dogs you use them; loot a fire, stir muddy water—sometimes you get a lucky break.
Earth isn't truly safe either. Round one's opponents were incognito smuggled bodies—luxury retail shells and black-market guns, nowhere near full corporate strength. When the proper company dogs clear customs and deploy, there's a bigger fight coming—committee-member-level black tech on display.
At least Li Pan wouldn't be soloing anymore.
Reinforcements arrived.
"GM 0791, I am 0113007."
Back at HQ, someone waited in the lounge: 0113's 007. His body was a short, hairless, tattoo-inked, brown-skinned middle-aged man with pin-prick pupils. His "suit" was a roomy black robe—almost like that Black Pharaoh rig—exuding otherworld vibe.
"Welcome, welcome! A very warm welcome!"
Li wrung his hand. Ah, Ah-Three always comes through. "113-007, we're family. Tell me what you need."
0113007 gave him a "who's family?" look but stayed polite. "I hear you're eyeing an overseas posting—as Pharaoh of the Babylon Theocracy?"
"Oh, yes—why, you want the seat?"
He shook his head. "I am High Priest of the Holy of Holies—Pharaoh's adviser. I do not engage in secular affairs. The Great Pharaoh dispatched me to assist, as you may require guidance."
Thoughtful, Ah-Three.
"Perfect. Let's team up—ask for whatever you need."
He didn't hesitate. "Appoint me acting head of Tech. Transfer Dr. Ōsumi's captured team to me as 0791 temp staff. Customs is too slow; we must set up a local body-production line to replenish manpower and provide employee swaps."
"Soulmates! Exactly my plan. It's yours—list the equipment."
Paperwork signed, A-Qi briefed him on the rest. 0113007 had come fast because his shell was a modified Grade-4 body boosted with 0113 psionics—no heavy tech, so no customs queue. By contrast, local luxury shells were bought out by rivals; incoming helpers had to import bodies and, knowing a war was on, brought piles of military hardware—now stacked in orbit waiting on customs.
"Keep pushing, A-Qi. Get them down to help. I can't be the only one on the front."
"Will do. Also, 081007 is back—requests suit repairs. Shall we mend your suit too?"
Heh, that guy dares come back… Still, better than going commando. He tossed a key for repairs.
Rama sent warehouse-losses: fourteen sites gone—not even counting No.1 "Pen" or No.42 "Dragon's Blood." Including the original No.7 loss, that made seventeen of the forty-two external warehouses gone under Li's watch…
"Ugh… kill me now…"
Until the monsters were recaptured, this war wasn't ending.
Rama had nothing. "We asked the mechanics; Master Liu sounded out local gangs. No leads on who stole the assets."
"Don't waste time. Ten to one they're company dogs. You're not intel pros."
With Shiranui deleted and Kotarō still away, Ashiya volunteered. "Let me check the scene—divinations, shikigami—maybe a thread?"
"Fine. Be careful. Call support if you get anything."
Yamazaki reported next. "Boss, I got the CSI policy quotes—Citizen Security Insurance 'Worry-Free Life Plan, Tier S.' Includes smart med-orb escort, 24/7 EMT recall, up to 50 million covered for standard emergency care, and up to 150 million for biohazard, bio-weapons, nuclear radiation, and major diseases. Monthly: 5 million, one-year minimum.
"CSI also partners with MOLECULAR PROTOCOL to provide AVNDS shielding to S-tier customers. Activation/refill: 15 million per use—biohazard/radiation block, military Grade-5 weapon defense, anti-violent-crime defense. Upgrade to AVNDS+ for 50 million per use—fifty planetary surface environments & space radiation, withstands low-energy escort-class ship weapons.
"CSI HQ is in-park; thanks to our partnership we can activate immediately—no month-end wait."
Whoa. Five million a month for health insurance? Sixty million a year? Fifty million per nanoshield activation?
Boom—combat power up by 110 million!
"Buy buy buy! Have Finance wire it!"
Denied instantly.
"0791, temps can't hold medical coverage over one million."
"Wait—one million a month is crazy—oh, you mean coverage cap over one million?"
Finance's sweet voice was ice. "Correct. For CSI you can at most buy Plan D."
He flipped to Plan D: 5k per month; 100k cap for basic emergency reimbursement; 1 million for major illnesses. No coverage for biohazard, bio-weapons, nukes. You can still call CSI EMTs—30-something-thousand per dispatch, essentially a merc squad call. And you queue; if you're lucky they'll take the job, if not they'll peel off mid-flight for a VIP.
Li inhaled through his teeth. "Bit much, no?"
Finance: "You can buy richer plans for formal employees on travel. Note: most formal staff and managers are D/C, at most B. Only GMs and department heads can get A, at most S, with company subsidy—subject to performance. AVNDS usage is never reimbursed—personal expense."
…No wonder the 007s are desperate to be GM—one rank and your benefits drop two tiers.
Also, a GM's monthly salary is only a million; that barely covers A-tier premiums…
Fine. Five grand a month is still money. He begrudgingly enrolled everyone in Plan D—temporarily reimbursed during wartime. After war, the war-budget account closes and those premiums are on you.
D-tier it is; he wasn't about to drop 100 million a month for S-tier out of pocket.
The company was stingy with temps but generous with assets. Eighteen requested procurement: with her Spider drones gone, one hovercar and a hobby pony weren't enough. She submitted a shopping list straight off an arms site—up to a Whale-class drone carrier—enough to outfit an armored regiment.
Finance approved in seconds.
If they say do it, he'll do it. With everyone arming up for round two, prices spiked—Spiders were five times higher, nearing 40 million each.
Luckily, he had friends in Kōtengahara. A flurry of calls to Ōkubo, Tōdō, Ishida; after haggling he scraped together: one Whale light drone carrier, 200 mixed drones (Harrier, Kite, Shark, Spider, Flea), a suite of Grade-5 weapons, electronics, clone teams, eng-bots, fuel. Almost 50 billion burned.
Eighteen blew a kiss to her boss and dove into the Whale to rebuild ICE and command—spinning up a fresh avatar.
0113007 handed him a multi-hundred-billion lab-gear list; Finance approved; Li signed blind.
Finance must be trolling him…
After a whole day of bureaucracy, finally some good news: Legal unfroze the tax authority hold. Panlong Construction's 700 million were usable.
He no longer wanted a bike.
After green-lighting nearly 100 billion in war spend, he understood: company money isn't easy. These Kōtengahara weapons aren't even that advanced; still the company buys at markup—this next round won't be solved by "cut a few guys."
And Panlong had taken 8.4 billion under a PMC contract; he'd padded his pockets, sure, but with money in the account, Panlong had to show up next round, too.
At least there was 700 million free. With corp matters set, he had to prep himself. A big fight loomed—use the lull to top off buffs.
First: a brain jack. Without one, everything had to route through company lines; he didn't even dare ping Red Tengu about Amakusa's decision. 0113012 had already called several times for resupply; Li fobbed him off.
Space-grade kit was hard to get; on Earth he could borrow from Kōtengahara. He didn't need top shelf: a few implants would never match billion-credit alien systems.
He went back to the value combo: 700k—Grade-5 brain jack, dermal armor, internal booster. A gesture. Real fights would be won with keys.
He checked his inbox—lots of pings: Nana, Orange, Saiko, Laetitia, Wangshan, Yulia. After the fourth nuke, everyone in Night City expressed heartfelt concern—and asked for money.
The last two days had been Grail war plus a tax probe; yesterday Panlong's account was frozen, and associated parties' accounts were collateral-frozen—lovely cascading failures.
His social circle was genuinely broke.
He skimmed and tallied:
Nana: low-end refit costs for the HAYABUSA-class cruiser—bare minimum to sortie once: at least 4 million; with market craziness, likely 10+ million.
Orange: 3.2 million for Panlong's operating costs—zero cash on hand, all red; people could make a fuss any time. Plus a private 2 million bridge: with Panlong frozen she "lost her job," triggered a credit default, and had to immediately pay 10% of the 20 million penalty to Huang Dahe—total 5.2 million.
Saiko: got popped by NCPA for illegal mods on a joyride—6,500 fine—please reimburse.
Laetitia: the 200k for "stealing" the Grail had been paid from Emiliya's Night Clan account; after her team's fiasco, the bank clawed it back. She wants mission pay—deduct her medical, fine—but for a trillion-credit cup, surely she gets 100k?
Wangshan: asks for 800 million. Now.
Yulia: refund the 4 billion deposit—"You and your mistress conspired to scam me; the House of Julius isn't to be trifled with."
Even "Iron Queen" Vajra messaged—about that 35 million deal: with Night City this hot and waves of aliens, she might raise prices.
Buried in the pile: an email. Unknown sender, forwarded by "PONY"—an invite to the Veterans' Officers Club. Deep-web link: donate 1 million+ to the Veterans Relief Fund to receive an invite and register. His link was pre-priced at 50 million—exactly the corvette's balance.
Good. If money can solve it, it's not really a problem.
.
.
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⚠️ 30 CHAPTERS AHEAD — I'm Not a Cyberpsycho ⚠️
The system says: Kill.Mercs obey. Corporates obey. Monsters obey.One man didn't.
🧠💀 "I'm not a cyberpsycho. I just think... differently."
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