Seoul Cyberpunk Story-Chapter 31: Machina (1)

Victor had been chained in place for hours, thick iron links wound tightly around his limbs, and all he could do was wallow in regret.

“I should’ve replaced my trachea with an implant...”

Every breath scorched like fire.

But the moment he muttered that, the acrid air rushed in and slammed into his lungs. Victor broke into a violent coughing fit.

Warnings flooded his AR overlay.

Toxicity Alert.

The latest model lung filter, supposedly resistant to anything short of war-grade gas, had already been breached.

He looked up at the sky—jet black clouds spread above like spilled ink.

Industrial chimneys pierced through them, jagged and metallic. Flickers of red lightning crackled between the layers.

This place is right next to Burning Duct?

Victor could only blame himself.

It meant he’d failed to scout the surrounding area properly.

Unforgivable, especially for someone who’d infiltrated megacorps undetected.

No way anyone lives here.

He glanced around the square where he was tied down.

Dozens of smokestacks spat black exhaust skyward. The ash rained down like snow, painting everything below in oily soot.

The ground was already layered in it. Just one step was enough to turn your boots pitch-black.

Junk piles and rusted machine parts were stacked like monuments to decay.

Pipes along the walls and floors hissed out noxious gas without pause. Pools of neon-colored slime shimmered in every pothole.

A place like this needed its own breed of miserable residents.

Enter: the cult’s slaves.

Their bodies were pierced by implants so crude, it felt insulting to call them that.

It looked like someone had jammed power tools into human limbs just to see what would happen.

Function over comfort. Pain wasn’t even a footnote in the design.

Thick wires bulged under their skin. Where hair should have been, there were only surgical scars—messy, ragged, and sealed without care.

The marks of irreversible brain surgery.

They didn’t move with purpose. No initiative. No thought.

And Victor knew exactly what that meant.

If he didn’t get out—he’d become one of them.

I need to escape.

But the chains wrapped around him were dug into the floor. He couldn’t even twitch a finger.

If I make it out, first thing I’m doing is getting Melton Pitt’s muscle implant...

None of the junk installed in his body right now could snap chains like these.

His emergency message to Amber was the only shot he had.

But even if every merc from Seoul HQ dropped everything and rushed here... it wouldn’t be fast enough.

He needed a miracle.

And that’s when someone approached.

A slave—emaciated to the point where the implants looked ready to tear out of their skin.

But this one... his eyes were different.

There was still something alive in them. Faint, flickering—like a spark.

The slave looked around nervously, then crept closer.

“You... you’re one of the real mercs, aren’t you?”

His voice was cracked and dry—barely used for years.

Victor slowly nodded.

Then, without warning, the slave’s right arm—transformed into a massive pickaxe-shaped implant—swung down onto the chain.

CLANG.

One hit.

The chain snapped like brittle glass and crashed to the ground.

In that moment, Victor met his miracle.

****

Early morning.

As soon as Amber’s emergency call came in, I booked it for Burning Duct.

In one hand: a plastic bag.

From inside, occasional chirps of “kiwi-kiwi” leaked out.

Jingle.

The bell above the office door rang out as I entered.

Amber was already behind the counter, waiting.

She looked more tense than usual, but gave me a faint smile when she saw me.

“You got here faster than I expected.”

I nodded slightly.

Then her eyes dropped to the bag in my hand.

Through the clear plastic, the fat kiwi birds wriggled softly.

I hopped up onto the counter stool and got straight to the point.

“Victor got grabbed again?”

She hadn’t said he was in danger, but I asked anyway.

Victor was the only one we had who could handle deep recon missions.

Most of our mercs only cared about size, firepower, and explosions. Stealth wasn’t in their vocabulary.

Amber gave a slow nod.

Then she flicked her fingers through the air. A pale blue holographic screen shimmered into view over the counter.

“Exactly right.”

The map that appeared showed the eastern edge of Burning Duct.

Basically the outermost fringe—almost no human presence out there.

“This is where Victor infiltrated the Machina Cult.”

The screen shifted, now showing a building—no, a monster.

It looked like a Gothic cathedral had crash-fused with an old refinery.

Sharp spires like church steeples jutted into the sky. From their hollowed-out tips, black smoke billowed upward.

“The Machina Cult’s doctrine is based on the belief that one day, a ‘Guide’ will appear—someone who can fully master implants.”

Amber’s voice stayed calm as she explained.

“They say paradise will descend on Earth the moment that Guide arrives.”

The screen changed again, showing footage of the cult’s followers.

All dressed in white robes, smiling like saints, handing out food with serene faces.

“They say that paradise will be a heaven loaded with every kind of implant, without a single side effect. Sounds gentle on the surface, doesn’t it?”

It really did. I nodded.

If they’d been handing out free pizza, I might’ve walked in without asking questions.

But the next screen changed that.

A hellscape flickered into view—looked like a slaughterhouse. People strapped down, screaming, as implants were rammed into their limbs.

Under a sky blackened like burnt oil, distorted figures writhed. Their bodies twisted past the point of recognition. No longer human.

“They’re fanatics,” Amber said coldly.

“They’re not waiting for their doctrine to come true. They’re trying to make it happen—by force. They kidnap people, pump them full of implants until they snap.”

The screen flashed again—images flipping past rapidly.

Mutilated bodies rebuilt with grotesque hardware. Mounds of discarded cybernetic limbs piled like industrial waste.

“This is all Victor managed to send.”

Amber pointed at the display.

“He wanted to trace where all those implants were coming from. Then he went dark. Judging from the distress signal, he was taken.”

She sighed.

“This is bad. Real bad. We’re not dealing with some implant-happy street gang. This is a fully armed cult. Fanatics.”

“I’m in.”

I said it flatly.

Amber nodded and transferred the data to my system.

“Scarlet’ll join once she’s ready. Just a heads-up.”

I gave a slight nod in return.

Then I pointed at the kiwi birds, now squirming out of the plastic bag.

“Hold onto these.”

No way I could bring them into the field.

Technically, leaving them at home with Mecha-Agu would’ve been safest... but the bastard had a habit of eating them when I wasn’t looking.

“Hold them? Sure.”

Amber looked confused for a second, but nodded.

The kid was already lying on the floor between four kiwis, smiling like she’d found heaven.

[Heehee.]

Just as I stepped out of the Seoul Dispatch Office, something weird happened.

The dust around the kid shifted—like it was forming a ripple or pattern.

...?

But when I looked again, the marks had already vanished under the kiwi stampede.

****

The inner sanctum of the Machina Cult was a world apart from the wasteland outside.

Unlike the toxic fog and death-smog out there, this place had just enough purification to keep a person from dropping dead.

Inside a massive iron-clad structure, mechanical air scrubbers hummed constantly, filtering the atmosphere of poisons.

Even so, the air reeked. Chemical burn mixed with oil and rust rising from deep underground. The kind of stink that clung to your lungs and refused to let go.

A cavernous ritual chamber stretched beneath a dull red glow leaking down from the ceiling.

Dozens of children huddled in the center, shivering on the cold steel floor.

They were terrified.

Some cried loudly, others just trembled in silence, too scared to even scream.

They looked five to ten years old. ❖ Nоvеl𝚒ght ❖ (Exclusive on Nоvеl𝚒ght) All clearly abducted—from orphanages, alleyways, the cracks between the city’s broken systems.

Their clothes were torn and stained, and heavy metal necklaces bearing the Machina cult’s symbol choked their throats.

The crying never stopped.

First, because they’d been kidnapped and dragged into the unknown.

Second, because the freezing cold of the metal floor soaked straight through their skin and down into their bones.

Third, because the air reeked of doom, and the whole place buzzed with dread.

Above, the red light dripped down like blood. On the walls, grotesque decorations loomed—shapes that looked disturbingly alive if you stared too long.

But the worst part?

The priests.

If you could even call them that.

They wore long black robes, but underneath... their bodies were cybernetic nightmares.

Dozens of arms sprouted like parasitic limbs. Their fingers were bone-white and skinless. Their eyes were gone—replaced with red mechanical lenses.

Their hands had been transformed into surgical tools, and multiple metal arms protruded from their backs, twitching constantly.

Machines, not men.

They ignored the crying. They just moved—cold, efficient, calculating—checking diagnostics and readouts.

One thing mattered: the Guide.

They were scanning the kids one by one, searching for it.

In front of each child stood a complex machine. A priest would shove the kid’s arm into the device and run a compatibility test.

Needles pierced flesh. Electric surges rattled their tiny bodies.

Their screams rang out, but the priests didn’t blink.

[“Incompatible. Discard.”]

One priest read the result aloud in a flat voice.

The first child wailed and struggled, but the priest’s mechanical limbs held him tight.

He was dragged toward a large cylindrical device built into the wall.

A grinder.

It looked like a blender for human tissue—a machine built to turn "failed" candidates into nutrient paste for the cult’s slave rations.

Children who didn’t qualify weren’t even worth enslaving.

They were just meat.

One by one, the kids were tested. One by one, they were dragged away.

The chamber filled with screams, the sound echoing through pipes in the ceiling, cycling endlessly.

Until only one girl remained.

She looked about ten. Pale, shaking.

Her black hair clung to her bony shoulders. Her eyes were wide, frozen in terror.

As soon as her hand was connected to the machine, the chamber shuddered.

The red light flickered.

The machine beeped—but not like before.

This sound was different.

[“Guide.”]

A robotic voice echoed across the room.

Every priest froze.

Slowly, they turned to face the girl.

And then—

One by one, they dropped to their knees.

Every priest bowed low to the floor.

And from the ceiling speakers, a strange chant began to play.

The Machina Cult had finally found their Guide.

This chapt𝙚r is updated by freeωebnovēl.c૦m.