Kisho slowly walked toward the direction of the settlement. Although he did not know what meaning there was in heading that way, he still could not resist wanting to get closer to where there were more people.
Along the dilapidated long street, abandoned trash could be seen everywhere. The occasional passerby all moved in a hurry.
The street itself was very short, but there were many branching paths leading in all directions. However, there were almost no properly formed houses, let alone any shops.
Kisho saw someone about his own age—perhaps a child—wearing a tightly sealed protective suit, walking over from a certain direction.
The two walked toward each other, but as they passed, Kisho sensed a gaze filled with malice and vigilance, shooting toward him like that of a snake.
Kisho looked toward where the gaze came from. Inside the protective suit was indeed a child, but with a sallow, emaciated face, their gender indistinguishable.
As their gazes met, the child tensed up, eyes locked tightly onto Kisho, like a small beast poised to spring—either to fight to the death or flee desperately.
Kisho looked at him without moving, then slowly shifted his body to the side.
A few seconds later, the child dragged a sack, walked step by step past Kisho, then suddenly broke into a run and disappeared into the distance.
Kisho thought for a moment, then followed him from afar.
...
Kisho estimated that they had been running for nearly an hour before the child in his sight finally slowed down.
It was hard to imagine that a child in this world could run continuously for an hour without resting.
After the child stopped, Kisho stopped as well—not because he had been discovered, but because…
It was hard to imagine trash piled so high it looked like a mountain.
The last time he left Meteor City with the Troupe, he had only glanced at it from afar and felt nothing special. Now that he was closer, he finally understood that "piled as high as a mountain" was not a metaphor, but a literal description.
Before his eyes were all kinds of garbage—discarded appliances, abandoned furniture, used-up batteries, empty cake plates, rotten vegetable leaves, bones, the corpses of various creatures… piled into small hills more than ten meters high, one mountain connected to another.
Airships in the sky and trucks in the distance approached one after another, unloading holds and compartments full of garbage, then leaving again.
Kisho saw many people standing atop the trash mountains. Wearing protective suits and holding sacks, they rummaged through the garbage beneath their feet, putting whatever they selected into their bags.
Kisho stared at the endless "trash mountains." Rats and cockroaches scurried through the garbage, and vultures circled in the sky.
Trash that people outside discarded like worn-out shoes was the only source of livelihood for the people here.
What was laughable was that outsiders called this place "Trash Mountain," but to the people here, this was "Treasure Mountain."
Countless shattered IV bottles, rotten IV bags, syringes with needles still attached, blood-stained cotton balls… with no trace of proper disposal at all, were simply scattered everywhere.
Some bottles even had skull symbols printed on them, yet the bottles were smashed on the ground, and most of the liquid inside had already evaporated.
Kisho caught a whiff of an indescribable stench that made his vision go black. Although he immediately used Ten to isolate the smell, he still blacked out for several seconds before recovering.
Looking into the distance, Kisho even saw yellow metal barrels marked with three inverted triangles.
These lethal wastes were discarded here without any treatment, without the slightest concern.
Even with Ten, walking on the trash mountain required caution to avoid stepping on sharp, bloodstained needles; he also had to beware of things that smelled strange—if he touched poisonous substances without Ten, he was certain he would die.
But what about ordinary people? What were they supposed to do? Were their lives truly so worthless in the eyes of those outside?
Kisho could not understand.
The people on the trash mountain noticed Kisho, because almost no one would space out while working—if they failed to find anything useful to exchange for food and water, surviving the day would be difficult.
Kisho felt their gazes, and the rejection within them. He slowly took a step back, changed to a direction with almost no people, and continued forward.
After walking for another ten or so minutes, the garbage here was almost entirely medical waste.
No one was willing to come here—there was nothing to find, and it was easy to step on needles.
Suddenly, Kisho felt as if he had kicked something. He looked down and saw a rotten yellow trash bin—the kind commonly found in hospitals—filled with needles and bloodied cotton swabs, as well as a black, sealed plastic bag.
Kisho bent down and spread Ten over his hands. With a strong pull, he dragged the yellow trash bin out and dumped its contents onto the ground.
He tore off the lid of the bin and rummaged through the scattered trash, exposing the plastic bag. Concentrating Nen on his fingertips, he sliced it open. Unexpectedly, inside were two packs of compressed biscuits.
He slowly bent down and picked them up with two fingers.
The packaging was intact, unopened, and undamaged—only the date read 1989.10—1990.10.
Although he could not be sure what day it was in March 1992, no matter which day it was, this thing had been expired for over a year.
Kisho was still hesitating over whether this was edible when he felt an unmistakable hostility. He slowly raised his head—two people who had originally been far away had somehow already drawn close.
A large man in a protective suit shouted from afar:
"Kid… hand it… over… or die!"
Kisho did not understand his exact words, but the meaning was roughly… telling him to hand over the food. The latter half probably meant "or I'll kill you," or "or I'll spare your life."
Kisho twisted to the side, dodging a heavy blow from a stick smashed down by someone behind him.
One person shouted, one person ambushed… huh.
Kisho stuffed the two packs of biscuits into his chest, slammed hard into the person behind him, knocking him off balance, then leaped down from the trash mountain over ten meters high, leaving the encircling people far behind.
And the child he had encountered that morning was also nearby, watching him through the goggles of his protective suit—or rather, watching the place where he had put the compressed biscuits.
Kisho thought for a moment, then ran toward him.
The child's body jolted violently, and he turned to run, but he was still slower than Kisho.
Kisho reached out to grab him, but suddenly withdrew his hand.
In the child's hand was a small shard of blade, polished to a bright shine. At the moment Kisho reached out, the child slashed toward Kisho's wrist with ferocity and force far beyond his age.
Kisho dodged it. Seeing that the child was about to follow up with another strike, he spoke:
"I mean no harm. One bag of biscuits, in exchange for you answering a few questions. Is that okay?"
The child ignored him completely and instead flung a handful of sand toward Kisho's eyes.
Although Ten protected his eyes, his vision was still blocked for a second. In that brief moment, the child was already right beside Kisho. Reaching out, he snatched the biscuits from Kisho's chest, then gripped the blade shard and stabbed toward Kisho's heart.
But in the next instant, the child who thought he could kill Kisho felt his body stiffen—the momentary relaxation vanished—because his wrist was firmly seized by Kisho.
Kisho's expression was just as grave.
It was hard to imagine that a child encountered at random… could possess such speed and such skill.
If Ten had not dispersed part of the force, the damage the blade shard could have caused would have been far more than just skin-deep.
He looked at the child, pinned his hand down, and took back the biscuits and the blade shard held between his fingers.
Despair and suppressed fury surfaced in the child's eyes.
"Can we talk now?" Kisho asked. "Your little knife, in exchange for answers to a few questions."
At Kisho's words, the child's exposed eyes showed his pitch-black pupils contract slightly. After a long moment, he said softly:
"Let go of me. Go somewhere else."
It was a boy's voice.
As if afraid Kisho would refuse, he added:
"It's not safe here."
Kisho gently released his grip.
"Alright. You lead the way."
The boy said nothing, turned around, and started walking.
...
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