The Prophet Garry was a middle-aged man. He wore glasses, sported a thick beard, topped his head with a leather cap, and dressed in shabby clothes. The empty space beside the vending machine was his home, and an old mattress was the sum total of his furniture.
When he saw V, Garry froze for a second—but quickly regained his composure and continued preaching his beliefs.
"Arasaka bodies don't age—but look into their eyes! Cold! Lifeless!"
"The corporation exists only to cover up the countless crimes they've committed just to survive… no—to never die!"
"I'm telling you, the current Saburo Arasaka is no longer the original one! A more evil soul has been poured into that shell! But the real Saburo never died—he's hiding in a secret family chamber, waiting for his moment!"
"He drinks deeply of his servants' blood, waiting for his body to grow young again, waiting to return to the world of the living… remember my words!"
After wildly gesturing through his rant, Garry began panting heavily. Shouting yourself hoarse was real physical labor.
"Doesn't sound all that strange," V shrugged. "Arasaka's been researching immortality for years. The Relic is practically about to hit the market. That's never been a secret."
Garry shook his head violently.
"That's a lie meant to hide the truth that they're no longer human! Their immortality isn't based on technology—it's the power of undying blood! You ask me how mere mortals become monsters that scoff at death? It's all thanks to the necromancers of the Alpha Centauri system! Saburo Arasaka drank their unclean blood and became this evil creature!"
"Hah. Interesting," V said with genuine amusement. "Looks like I'll need to have someone dig through the archives when I get back. I'm actually curious what this 'undying blood' looks like."
Garry steadied his breathing and asked,
"President V… are you here to arrest me?"
"No. I was just passing by. Your speech caught my attention."
Garry looked flattered—after all, this was recognition from the legendary V herself.
Excited, he said,
"President V, your eyes tell me your mind is open to the truth. Would you be willing to donate a little money to help me continue my mission?"
"Why not?"
V's eyes glowed blue as she transferred 1,000 eurodollars.
"You're doing good for the public. Use it to awaken Night City."
A typical scammer would've been overjoyed at that amount—but Garry accepted the donation calmly.
"Thank you for your contribution. From the very beginning, I could tell you'd become a disciple of truth."
V smiled, nodded, and turned to leave.
Though disappointed that he couldn't continue preaching to the Emperor of Night City, Garry didn't lose heart. He spread his arms again and resumed chanting his scripture.
"If you ignore their existence, then they've already won!"
"The truth is hidden in the airwaves—those with ears will hear, those with eyes will see!"
"Their mothership is hidden in the skies above us! Prepare yourselves—they're coming!"
"Wake up now, or it'll be too late!"
Passersby scoffed, treating him as nothing more than a conspiracy-spouting fraud scamming donations.
In her previous life, V thought the same.
This time, with Delamain's intel, she knew better.
Prophet Garry was a trigger program planted by CN-07.
Of course, Garry wasn't a robot—his brain had simply been modified, though only lightly, nowhere near the level of Jefferson Peralez. CN-07 only needed him to stand here day after day, endlessly reciting those bizarre, cryptic statements.
No one took his words seriously. But according to CN-07's design, if someone listened continuously for four days—and donated a "small sum" each time—the real data hidden in Night City's Net concerning the Alpha Centauri system would surface.
No one would be stupid enough to listen to a madman rant for four days straight—much less donate each time. And even if someone did, they'd probably be an unemployed nobody who couldn't afford the "small sum" anyway. That ensured the data wouldn't be triggered accidentally.
As for sealing the data completely…
CN-07 could put a dozen locks on the door to keep thieves out—but it couldn't pour concrete over it. After all, it needed to come back and retrieve the data itself.
The reason Garry could spout so much mystic nonsense traced back to an accident. His neural processor was damaged, and at a shady ripperdoc clinic he'd been fitted with a Seven-Hand Neural Processor. After that, he occasionally received encrypted communications between AIs. Unable to fully decrypt them, his brain filled in the gaps on its own—spinning a classic urban conspiracy theory.
Naturally, all of this was arranged by CN-07.
The accident itself was caused by a gang shootout—two mutually hostile factions lured by CN-07 into the same place at the same time.
The ripperdoc and the scavenger who dug out the Seven-Hand processor also underwent mild brain alterations. Though they personally participated in the conspiracy, they forgot everything afterward.
CN-07's tentacles were everywhere—patient, meticulous. Only an AI could pull something like this off.
V knocked on Viktor's clinic door, yelled for Old Vic to wake up and take a piss, then slipped away before getting a response—doing a good deed without leaving her name.
As she walked, she mulled over Garry's words.
"Arasaka doesn't age" was probably literal—Michiko Arasaka was already over sixty, yet her physical condition was closer to that of a sixteen-year-old. In 2077, the wealthy had extended lifespans; nothing surprising there.
As for "Arasaka doesn't die," that clearly referred to the Relic Project. Saburo Arasaka hiding in a family chamber pointed straight to Mikoshi.
Tokyo's Mikoshi had been destroyed by Hanako, but Night City's Mikoshi still existed. V had once considered destroying it too—but it contained digital engrams of countless deceased scientists, holding immeasurable academic value. In the end, she chose to preserve it.
Why had Night City advanced so rapidly in eco-sphere technology? Partly because of Kayo Nakamura's brilliance—and partly because of research based on Mikoshi.
Everything had two sides. Mikoshi had caused countless tragedies, but it also ushered in a new era of academic research. Kayo Nakamura had already decided to upload her own engram to Mikoshi after death, to continue contributing to Night City's scientific progress.
That selflessness was admirable—and it was precisely why V abandoned the idea of destroying Mikoshi entirely.
Garry said Saburo Arasaka was still "hiding in the family chamber"—which made sense, because Saburo's engram did exist in Night City's Mikoshi.
As for the "evil soul" inside Saburo now—that was Johnny Silverhand. Among the upper echelons, this wasn't a secret. An AI knowing it was hardly surprising.
But the next part was where things got interesting.
Garry claimed Arasaka's immortality didn't come from technology, but from "undying blood," sourced from necromancers of Alpha Centauri.
What was known was that Arasaka's immortality came from the Relic Project—and the Relic itself was derived from Alt Cunningham's Soulkiller program. Johnny Silverhand's former lover had digitized herself into an AI decades ago.
Did that mean Soulkiller was the so-called "undying blood"? And that the "necromancers of Alpha Centauri" were actually the rogue AIs represented by Alt Cunningham?
Considering Alpha Centauri was a trap CN-07 helped New Africa dig for the ESA, with AI forces involved, the odds were overwhelmingly high.
Breaking down Garry's rant, it boiled down to this:
Arasaka = human elites.
Necromancers = rogue AIs.
Unclean blood = advanced rogue AI technology.
In other words: human elites are using rogue AI technology to achieve immortality. If people ignored this, the elites would "win," and ordinary people would be ruled forever, with no chance to rise again.
It was a deafening revelation—exposing the core problem of human society: class stagnation.
V sighed… then promptly put it out of her mind.
What else was she supposed to do—change the world?
She was just Night City's local tyrant, not the Virgin Mary.
After waking her lackeys and sending everyone their separate ways back to their towers, V handled some paperwork. In the afternoon, she went to Aaron Waynes' training gym.
When V actually showed up, not only was Aaron shocked—the entire gym descended into chaos.
Angie, owner of the Animals' sports club, welcomed V with overwhelming excitement. Her trembling movements and expressions made it obvious—she was a hardcore V fangirl.
V was surprised too. In her mind, Animals members were all 200-centimeter-tall, 400-pound brutes. Angie, however, wasn't bulky at all—she was slim and tall, like a bean sprout that never got enough to eat among the Animals. Among normal people, though, she was a fit, wild, smoking-hot beauty.
Angie wore a baseball cap, pink shoulder-length hair, a sharp gold jacket on top, tight jeans below, and white platform sneakers—showing off long legs and a rounded, lifted ass to perfection.
She eagerly introduced every detail of the club, and V nodded in approval. When the topic turned to Aaron Waynes, Angie patted her chest and promised:
"Gold might be tough, but a medal's no problem. The kid's talented and works hard. Throwing fights before was just survival—he had no choice. His real battlefield is the ring. He was born for this."
V grew interested.
"Talk's cheap. I want to test how hard Aaron can hit—personally."
Angie was stunned.
"You mean…?"
V nodded.
"That's right. I'm fighting Aaron."
"No way! You're worth a fortune—what if something happens? Absolutely not!" Angie shook her head fiercely.
"If Aaron beats me, I'll add five million eurodollars in investment."
"Quick! Someone get President V a pair of boxing gloves—brand new!"
And just like that, V and Aaron Waynes stood in the ring.
Aaron was sweating bullets—not out of fear, but pressure. Angie had given him a death order: win, but don't hurt President V.
How the hell do you win a boxing match without hurting your opponent? On sportsmanship?
As Aaron hesitated, V suddenly kicked at him.
Using legs in boxing—whether Aaron had sportsmanship or not was debatable, but President V clearly didn't.
He raised his arms to block the kick—and snapped out of it.
V didn't press the attack. Instead, she assumed a defensive stance.
"Come on. Let me see your punches."
Aaron tried to hold back, throwing several punches that V blocked flawlessly.
"The fuck, you skipping meals? Even a sex doll that's been ridden all day at Clouds hits harder than that. Full power—now!"
Aaron knew it was provocation—but he still took the bait.
A boxer without temper might as well put on tights and dance ballet.
Blood boiling, Aaron roared and threw status and identity out the window, swinging a heavy punch. V raised both arms to block. The collision rang out across the gym with a thunderous boom.
V slid back two steps to dissipate the force, rolled her shoulders, and grinned.
"That's more like it. Again!"
Aaron charged.
Angie watched from ringside, heart in her throat, terrified that Aaron might accidentally injure V.
But as bang bang bang echoed repeatedly, everyone realized V wasn't just holding—she was holding perfectly.
Not just good—flawless. Airtight.
Aaron noticed too. The more he punched, the more excited he got. He'd never had a sandbag this good in his life.
Several heavy punches flew. V twisted her body and shifted her arms by minimal margins—bang bang bang—blocking every strike.
This was experience earned in countless street brawls. Alone, V often faced group beatdowns. Aaron's punches were fierce, but he only had two hands. Defending wasn't difficult.
Once upon a time, V fought katana-wielding enemies while dodging bullets—often with a knife buried in her lower back, still counterattacking to snap someone's neck. After every fight she was covered in wounds, crawling into Viktor's clinic. And every injury that failed to kill her only made her stronger.
Another heavy punch snapped V out of her memories. Feeling the sting in her arms, she grew excited.
She licked her lips.
"Nice offense. Now let me see your defense."
Defense?
Aaron was still confused when V switched from defense to offense, rushing forward.
Right straight!
Aaron read the punch and raised his guard—but to his surprise, the blow carried little force, barely more than a tickle.
Shit—it was a feint!
Before he could adjust, V's left came in. She twisted her waist and hips, power rising from the ground, and fired a beautiful left hook that slipped through Aaron's hurried guard and smashed squarely into his chin.
Bang!
Aaron flew backward, landing flat on his back.
"Ding ding ding ding!"
Angie hurriedly rang the bell to stop the match.
She wanted the five million—but she valued her athlete's health more.
Aaron had competitions coming up. He couldn't get injured.
"You okay?" V asked, looking down.
Aaron rubbed his chin.
"I'm fine. Just some visual noise in my cyber-eye. A short rest'll fix it."
V knew her limits—she hadn't used cyberware, and neither had Aaron. It was a sparring match, nothing more.
"Come on."
V extended a hand. Aaron took it and was hauled back to his feet.
"Your offense is solid, but your footwork on defense is too stiff. Movement's not flexible enough. Needs work."
Aaron accepted the criticism humbly.
"I know. But there aren't many people who can pressure me, so training hasn't been effective. If President V could come by more often… with someone like you, my defense would improve a lot."
"Don't worry. I'm free for the next few days—I'll come often. But my style's street-bred. If you really want to improve, you need a professional coach."
Angie walked over.
"I want that too, but famous boxing coaches charge too much and won't come to Night City. Local coaches here all come from underground fights—not professional enough."
"How about I recommend someone?" V smiled.
Angie didn't agree immediately.
"And who might that be?"
"Viktor Vektor."