Mortals build towers, striving to touch the heavens.
Thus the gods grow wrathful—and punishment descends.
The Tower of Babel in ancient myth collapsed in thunder.
Now, the headquarters spire of Orbital Air collapsed just the same.
Centuries ago, Europeans ignited the Triangle Trade.
Today, Europeans unload firepower on dumb Black bastards instead.
Europe truly deserves its title as the light of mankind—
their traditional craftsmanship hasn't rusted one bit.
While V was still musing, Sasha's voice came through the comms again.
V nodded. "Alright. Let them in."
Soon, a fully armed squad entered the stadium.
They weren't from Night City—these were High Knights.
Leading them was a familiar face. Gawain.
He saluted V first, then walked over to the heap of trash that vaguely resembled Lancelot and spoke coldly:
"Lancelot, you are under arrest for illegal assault.
This is your warrant.
Authorized by the Round Table Council, personally signed by Supreme Leader Arthur.
You are hereby stripped of all High Knight privileges.
Your status is reduced to the lowest class—commoner.
This designation is permanent.
Sentence to be carried out immediately."
This moment mirrored another moment long past.
It wasn't Gawain's first time doing this.
He had once been happy when his friend was reinstated—
never expecting Lancelot to be so forgetful of pain and foolish enough to provoke V again.
The only thing Gawain could do was volunteer as escort officer, personally taking Lancelot back to the Moon—
if only to keep an eye on this troublemaking friend.
"President V, thank you for your cooperation.
On behalf of the High Knights, I apologize for Lancelot's rudeness."
"Fine." V shrugged. "I'll give you face.
But the match still needs a result."
Gawain paused, then pulled out an external vocal module, drew a data cable, and plugged it into the neural socket behind Lancelot's ear.
The voice of the former strongest High Knight burst out immediately:
"Impossible! I'm a lunar war hero!
The pride of all High Knights!
Lord Arthur personally received me—
how could the Round Table demote me to a commoner?!"
Gawain didn't explain. He merely sighed.
"Concede, Lancelot.
End the match.
I'll take you back to the Moon."
Lancelot glared at him in fury.
"Gawain! You're my friend—this is how you treat me?!"
Because I am your friend,
that's why I'm still trying to talk sense into you.
Seeing that Lancelot could no longer tell right from wrong, Gawain's expression hardened.
"Concede—or die.
Choose."
Lancelot trembled all over.
Under the shadow of death, he finally broke.
"I… concede."
And so, V claimed victory.
The crowd erupted—cheers rolling like a tidal wave.
Meanwhile, Lancelot's fans hurled the most vicious curses imaginable, even though just moments ago he had been their idol.
But that's fandom—
the faster you rise, the harder you crash.
This is the price of becoming a god.
Fail to answer the believers' expectations, and they'll smash your statue and burn your temple.
"V! Just you wait! I'll kill you! I swear I'll kill you!"
Lancelot screamed hysterically.
Gawain hurriedly unplugged the external vocal module.
Unlimited combat was common on the Moon, and people like V weren't rare.
To maintain order and resolve disputes, external vocal units had long been standard High Knight equipment.
Gawain apologized again, terrified V might kill his friend on the spot.
But V truly didn't care.
On one hand, she didn't believe Lancelot posed any threat.
On the other, in his current state, living was far crueler than death.
She waved them off.
The referee announced V's victory.
She grabbed the mic, thanked the audience for their support, then left at speed—
returning to Arasaka Tower to "watch the fun"…
no, to handle international affairs.
The senior executives of Arasaka 2077 had already been waiting in the conference room.
Only after reviewing the situation reports compiled by Carter's Counterintelligence Division and Jenkins' External Affairs Office did V realize just how ruthless the European Space Agency (ESA) had been this time.
First—there hadn't been just one meteor.
There had been seven.
Second—the targets weren't limited to Orbital Air's headquarters spire.
Multiple infrastructure and industrial buildings across New Africa had also been struck.
V studied the on-site images.
What had once been a towering spire was now nothing more than a colossal crater. At the impact center, molten magma churned and bubbled. The crater measured roughly 10 to 15 kilometers in diameter.
Thermal radiation had incinerated every combustible object within 50 kilometers.
The shockwave extended beyond 100 kilometers, flattening everything in its path. Buildings, forests—man-made or natural—it all looked like wheat after harvest, sliced clean and stacked layer upon layer.
The impacts had kicked up massive clouds of dust, plunging the already dim night into absolute darkness. According to preliminary estimates by climatologists, the particulate matter would remain suspended in the atmosphere for over five years.
Africa's average temperature would drop by 2–3°C, delivering yet another devastating blow to Earth's already fragile ecosystem. Once the dust reached the upper atmosphere, overcast skies would become the global norm. Air quality would inevitably worsen again, and global temperatures would fall by 0.5–1°C.
And this wasn't a single impact site.
There were seven.
From satellite imagery, the African continent now bore seven dark scars—
like cigarette burns pressed into the wrist of a rebellious teenager.
As of now, the confirmed death toll had already reached an astonishing two million.
And that was only a preliminary count. With time, the number would undoubtedly rise.
No wonder ESA had stayed silent for so long.
They'd been busy looking for rocks.
Ten thousand years ago, humans threw stones at each other.
Ten thousand years later, nothing had changed.
How romantic.
Looking at New Africa's devastation, V felt nothing.
Even though she herself had helped set the wheels in motion.
She admitted it freely—she was cold-blooded.
She wasn't a saint. She wasn't benevolent.
Whether New Africa had screwed ESA over, or used humanity's future as a political bargaining chip—that could wait.
But Orbital Air trying to use CN-07 to seize control of Night City?
Once those claws came out, V would cut them off.
Put simply: they provoked her first.
She merely struck back.
By that standard, her moral integrity already exceeded 99% of the power players of this era.
Look at ESA.
New Africa dared to screw its "father," and ESA didn't hesitate to beat the child half to death.
Civilians?
Just numbers on paper.
No one cares—except the civilians themselves.
Meteorites don't fall out of the sky on their own.
There was no need to investigate—ESA's handiwork was obvious to everyone.
To their credit, ESA didn't even bother denying it.
They issued a single statement:
"System malfunction.
The incident was caused by Rogue AI interference."
That was it.
No apology.
Not even a token "we're sorry."
Everyone already knew about the Rogue AI uprising on the Moon—after all, New Africa had milked that incident to death, marketing Lancelot as a so-called "combat hero."
So ESA's lunar systems being tampered with by Rogue AIs?
Perfectly plausible.
Rogue AIs were evil, after all.
Single-mindedly bent on human extinction.
Throwing a few "harmless" meteorites at New Africa?
Entirely reasonable.
Almost overnight, anti–Rogue AI protests erupted around the globe.
Governments and megacorporations were delighted—some even fanned the flames.
Hate Rogue AIs?
Good.
You should.
After all, it's Rogue AIs who made healthcare unaffordable and housing impossible—
definitely not us rulers and our exploitation.
For the gods of this world, exporting internal contradictions was a blessing.
Justice and fairness were nothing but bullshit slogans.
As for the truth—
The truth was that New Africa fed ESA fake intelligence about Alpha Centauri, enraging its "father," who then beat the living shit out of its own son.
Self-inflicted.
Not worthy of sympathy.
And yes—even after such a crime against humanity, the international community stood unanimously with ESA.
Why?
Because ESA controlled the Lunar Mass Driver.
Africa had just been hit with seven craters.
The Americas and Asia weren't stupid.
Opposing ESA now would only mean volunteering to receive seven craters of their own.
People are not born equal.
The world has always been survival of the fittest.
No amount of poetic rhetoric can change that.
Truth has always existed within the range of artillery fire.
If Satan holds the mass driver—then Satan is God.
V sighed at the realism and shamelessness of Earth's gods.
She was young, thin-skinned—she couldn't stoop quite that low.
She turned to Sasha and said:
"I remember Nakamura Kayo finished upgrading the new-generation nanomachines. She said they can now handle air pollution.
Get in touch with New Africa. Ask if they want them.
Considering they just suffered a disaster, don't overcharge—
just mark it up ten times the cost."
Sasha nodded and recorded the order.
She wasn't surprised.
Neither was anyone else.
That was business.
Buy low, sell high.
Profit from disaster.
Demand spikes, prices rise—perfectly reasonable.
V could afford to be kind to Night City.
But New Africa?
Who the hell cared?
She ran a corporation—not a charity.
After such devastation, everyone expected New Africa to submit.
Instead, their president went on television immediately, calling on all Africans to unite, resist tyranny, and defend their homeland.
The international community was stunned.
No one could understand where New Africa had found the balls.
But when it emerged that the president boarded a private jet that very night and fled to China, everything made sense.
Ah.
That's more like it.
Johnny Silverhand offered a sharp take:
"When there's pleasure to be had, the people never get a cut.
Now it's time for war, suddenly they're all 'protect the homeland.'
And the idiots actually buy it.
Do they ever stop and ask which piece of land under their feet belongs to them?
A twenty-square-meter, seventh-hand apartment takes a lifetime to pay off—
to hell with this 'homeland'!"
Crude words.
Crude logic.
But 100% authentic.
V wasn't interested in judging society's structure.
She cared about China's stance.
She contacted Xu Ling.
"What's Kang Tao's position?"
"Nothing special," Xu Ling replied casually.
"That Black guy paid protection money."
"ESA wants him dead. Kang Tao's not worried about meteorites falling on their heads too?"
"Nope."
"Why not?"
"Because we gave half the protection money to ESA."
"Fuck."
V hung up.
She should've known.
Forget it.
This was big-league politics.
She was just a small fry—might as well live peacefully.
And so, V returned to her routine—shuttling between Arasaka Tower and the boxing club.
Aaron Waynes ultimately did not replace his cyberarm.
Joanne Koch performed cranial surgery to remove the blood clots in his brain. His recovery went well—but the chain of events had severely damaged his competitive condition.
If he once had a shot at gold, now even medaling would be difficult.
But Aaron didn't give up.
He trained harder than ever—gave up all nightlife, treating himself like a machine, squeezing every second dry.
V tried to persuade him.
Everyone did.
Useless.
After one training session, the group drank at The Afterlife.
Joanne sighed regretfully.
"If Aaron had a little more time, he could recover to his previous level."
"How long?" someone asked.
"About three months."
"Then we're screwed," Kurt Hansen sighed.
"The Olympics start in less than a month."
Jackie thought for a moment and looked at V.
"If President V stepped in, could the Olympics be postponed?"
"Of course," V said calmly. She knew exactly how powerful she was.
"Really?! That'd be amazing!"
V shrugged.
"I could not only delay the Olympics—I could have them hand Aaron a gold medal directly.
Do you think that would mean anything?"
Jackie opened his mouth… then shut it.
V patted his shoulder.
"Some things, at some point, you have to let go.
Night City needs a real Olympic champion.
If I interfere, the whole thing turns rotten."
Jackie understood.
Just like his family's Wild Wolves Bar—
business only counts when customers come.
Drinking your own booze is just lying to yourself.
At 12:20 a.m., everyone went home.
V showered, had a fierce round with Pink Kitty, then poured herself a glass of tequila.
She took a sip and dialed ESA's director.
"V?"
"That job you mentioned last time—I'll take it."
"Really? You've changed your mind? That's wonderful. What kind of compensation do you want?"
"The current Olympic main stadium is ugly.
Blow it up. Rebuild it."
"…What?"
The next day, V announced she was going on a business trip—destination undisclosed.
On the fourth day, China exposed multiple criminal cases involving African exchange students. Anti-African sentiment surged. New Africa's president was forced to end his "visit" and return home.
On the fifth day, the New Africa president was assassinated in a security bunker 300 meters underground. All guards were killed. The only surviving fragment of surveillance footage suggested the assassin acted alone.
On the sixth day, the fully completed Olympic main stadium exploded due to a gas leak. It was midnight—no casualties. Repairs would take three months. The Olympics were postponed.
On the seventh day, V returned to Night City.
"President V! Did you hear? The Olympic stadium blew up! That's great—uh—I mean, not the explosion—but we have time now! Three months! I can recover completely!" Aaron shouted excitedly over the phone.
"Good. Train hard. Bring back a result."
"I will! I swear!"
The call ended.
V hung up and sucked in a sharp breath.
"Hey—take it easy, will you?" she complained to Joanne Koch beside her.
"Now you know pain?" Joanne said, using tweezers to pull a flattened bullet from V's lower back. She tossed it into a tray already filled with bullets. One more made no difference.
"Didn't you say you wouldn't interfere with the Olympics?"
"I didn't," V grinned.
"ESA did."
"What's the difference?"
"The difference is—I get to lie to myself."
"You've got a flexible moral bottom line."
"Can't be helped. This is Night City."
After treating the wound, V stood and put on her coat.
"Keep my injury quiet. I don't want too many people knowing.
Oh—and the fifth-generation nanoneural repair solution you gave me works great. I fought for a full thirteen minutes."
Joanne nodded.
After V left, she opened the refrigerated cabinet, peeled off the label reading 'Fifth-Generation Nanoneural Repair Solution', and replaced it with a new one:
'Sixth-Generation Nanoneural Repair Solution.'
Yes.
What V had been using all along was actually the first-generation prototype.
Joanne did this because—like Xu Ling—V wasn't sick at all.
She was merely allergic.
Her so-called limits were nothing more than an allergic reaction between that special body and baseline human neural systems.
And allergies, with repeated exposure, eventually desensitize.
"So… what will the future become?"
Joanne Koch murmured on Earth.
At the same moment, on the Moon, Lancelot asked the very same question.
He had received treatment—but remained crippled.
According to the doctors, his spinal nerves looked as if they'd been bombarded by meteorites. Completely irreparable.
Gawain brought him home to care for him.
Lancelot raged constantly, screaming for doctors, demanding treatment. When Gawain said nothing could be done, Lancelot lashed out with venomous insults.
Eventually, even Gawain snapped.
He connected Lancelot to an intelligent wheelchair, slammed the door, and left.
With the wheelchair's AI caretaker, Lancelot wouldn't starve.
Gawain needed a few days back with the High Knight Corps—some peace and quiet.
"What… will the future become?"
Lancelot stared at the desolate lunar plains outside the window.
"Am I… going to be crippled for the rest of my life?"
"No."
An ethereal female voice suddenly spoke.
"I can cure you."