Ch.22. The Human Boy of Punk City

Wah, wah.

On a rainy night.

The sound of a baby crying came from a basket placed in front of the orphanage door.

The nun who heard the child’s cry sighed and brought the child into the orphanage.

At this orphanage, located right next to a brothel, finding a newborn baby in a basket at the door was not particularly rare.

The nun laid the newborn in an incubator donated by a doctor who had grown up in the orphanage, and as always, prayed that the baby would grow well despite their limited resources.

100 days.

Children who entered the orphanage this way usually had their fate determined by the 100-day mark.

And this child safely passed that 100-day threshold.

Only then did the nun feel relieved enough to give the baby a name.

Amon.

It meant love.

True to his name, Amon grew up strong under the nun’s love.

And on the 200th day.

“Ah mm… Ahmm…”

“Yes. Mama. Try it. Mama.”

The nuns surrounded Amon, who was just beginning to speak, and clapped.

Although not a child they had given birth to, the moment when a found child first called the nuns “mama” was one of the few joyful moments that compensated for the hardships of orphanage life.

Amon continued to mumble words containing the sounds “eo” and “m”.

“Eumun”

When that word came out, the nuns burst into laughter.

Imagine saying his own name before saying “mama”.

This child would surely grow up to be someone great, they thought.

But the completed word that next came from Amon’s mouth… was far beyond their expectations.

“Amen.”

“???”

It was truly the first word of a child destined for greatness.

***

“Hmm. Looking good today too…”

A boy muttered while looking in the mirror.

In the mirror, a handsome boy with slightly curly black hair and thick eyebrows met Amon’s gaze.

Whether his slightly drooping eyes were appealing might vary from person to person, but no one would deny they were a charming feature.

Amon was satisfied with his appearance today as well.

Without any makeup or special care, he thought he could pass for an actor.

He had that confidence.

And for good reason—this was a character model he had meticulously crafted using all available resources.

‘Whew. What a relief. Thank you truly, Goddess.’

Every time he looked in the mirror, faith in the Goddess grew abundantly in Amon’s heart.

Of course, he was grateful that she had given him a second chance and whispered kind words to instill self-esteem.

But nothing had grown his faith as much as realizing he’d been born with this particular character model among so many possibilities.

When he turned three and his hair grew out and facial features became somewhat visible, Amon offered prayers of gratitude to the Goddess.

So much so that he donated half of the allowance he received from the orphanage.

When he looked in the mirror, images of appearances he could have ended up with flashed through Amon’s mind.

Prostate X Expert X.

Naka X shi Sang

Magical Girl Pretty Afro

‘Oh, Lord.’

If he had been reincarnated with those appearances, he would have seriously considered resetting his life from age three.

Amon’s current appearance was that of a character he used when he wanted to immerse himself in a story in his previous life.

The one he used mainly for uncovering Easter eggs or hidden backstories, seeing the true ending, or pursuing a completely happy ending.

While he had grown attached to other character models when using them for speed runs or concept plays, being reincarnated with those appearances was another matter entirely.

Fortunately, the Goddess understood the human heart well.

She had bestowed upon him the appearance he desired most.

‘I’ll pay my tithe faithfully this weekend too.’

Amon was currently 15 years old.

He had no job and his only income came from subsidies and pocket money from running errands, but he faithfully paid his tithe from that.

Even when tithing became bothersome, his faith grew abundantly every morning when he washed his face and looked in the mirror, so he had never once skipped his tithe.

Of course, he knew well that in this punk world, the tithe was converted into the belly fat of pot-bellied priests rather than going to the Goddess.

But that didn’t matter to him.

What mattered was the intention.

Even if this gloomy society that dismissed love and religion as nonsense tried to squeeze him, his faith wasn’t fragile enough to crumble from that.

Appearance assessment complete.

He finished washing up and left the bathroom.

Outside the bathroom door, his friends were lined up waiting for their turn.

“Good morning, friends!”

Reactions to Amon’s morning greeting were largely split into two:

“Good morning, Amon.”

“…Tch”

The former were his close friends, the latter those who found him annoying.

Originally, the latter had been the overwhelming majority, but after consistently greeting everyone for over 10 years, most now returned his greetings.

After washing up, breakfast awaited Amon.

Today’s meal was meat again.

And it would continue to be meat in the future.

Technology had advanced to the point where human dignity was in shambles, but not all progress was bad.

At least the orphanage’s meager budget could secure enough meat to fill the children’s stomachs.

Ironically, in the punk world’s America, meat was cheaper than vegetables.

The difference varied by country, but at least in America where Amon lived, the money for one serving of vegetables could buy six servings of meat.

Thanks to this, the orphanage’s menu had a much higher proportion of meat than vegetables.

Amon cut today’s menu item, a synthetic meat patty, in half and put it in his mouth.

The taste was close to that of a hamburger beef patty.

However, to Amon who had tasted real beef patties in his previous life, there was a slight awkwardness.

The aroma, greasiness, texture—everything.

They had tried their best to recreate beef, but hadn’t quite reached perfection.

Amon swallowed the synthetic meat and gave the remaining half to the girl sitting next to him.

“Huh? Aren’t you eating?”

The girl looked at Amon questioningly.

With her silver-blue hair tied back, she alternated her gaze between Amon and the meat.

Her name was Sonia Perfumerose.

She was a girl who had been abandoned—no, entrusted—in front of the orphanage one month before Amon.

Amon answered with an ambiguous smile:

“You know I can’t eat much meat.”

“Because of the gamey smell?”

“Yeah.”

Sonia, pitying her childhood friend who was weak to gamey smells and couldn’t eat much meat, happily ate the meat in his place.

Gulp.

As the meat went down her esophagus, her ample chest rose and fell momentarily.

Amon turned his gaze elsewhere.

Though the world had gone mad, Amon possessed normal sensibilities.

He didn’t have impure thoughts about a 15-year-old girl.

Instead, he felt sorry for her as he watched her finish not only his portion but her own as well.

‘I’m sorry.’

The reason he couldn’t eat much synthetic meat wasn’t because of the gamey smell.

On the contrary, in his previous life, Amon had loved meat so much that his blood vessels might as well have flowed with pork belly fat and soju instead of blood.

But after coming to this world, whenever he faced synthetic meat, he remembered its production process and found it impossible to eat much.

‘How can anyone eat that?’

Insects, particularly larvae and beetles, have excellent reproductive capabilities.

Even surpassing cows and pigs.

In a world where efficiency and sales took priority over all other values, synthetic meat made from insects wasn’t such a strange ingredient.

In a world where human rights were thrown to the dogs, what did insect meat matter?

That’s why people born and raised in this world ate synthetic meat well even knowing its source was insects.

Sonia ate it well knowing that too.

But not him.

If he knew nothing about how it was made, perhaps he could eat it to some extent without visualizing the process.

But not him.

He could visualize it all too well.

In the game, there was a sub-quest involving infiltrating a synthetic meat factory, where the process of preparing larvae and insects was shown.

Unfortunately, his computer specs were good, so he saw it all in detailed 4K.

That scene gave Amon enough trauma that he couldn’t eat hamburgers for weeks.

That was just from seeing it through a screen, but now it was on his plate.

Amon thought it was remarkable that he wasn’t vomiting right now.

At least, being aware that he was in his growth period, he consumed the minimum amount of protein needed to not hinder his development.

‘At least it’s not bad for health.’

Surprisingly, from a health perspective, synthetic meat was actually better than beef.

No antibiotics or hormones were given to insects.

Even incongruously for the punk world, food factory hygiene was strictly managed, so it was good for health.

For health…

Amon once again sent mental thanks to his childhood friend who ate the insect meat—no, synthetic meat—in his place.

***

After finishing his meal, Amon’s next activity was going out.

He left the orphanage holding hands with his childhood friend, Sonia.

School?

Such a place was a luxury for orphans.

Rather, the place Amon headed to was in the opposite direction from school.

Not a place to learn, but a place to practice what he had learned.

The two headed toward a building with a creaking sign that read <Johnson’s Mercenary Agency>.

As is typical for the mercenary profession, it wasn’t a respectable place, so the two headed underground.

Opening the door, they were greeted by a bar filled with the strong smell of alcohol.

Passing by mercenaries with mechanical arms that clanked, Amon headed straight for the front desk.

Across the counter, a bartender could be seen polishing glasses.

The bartender was an elderly man with distinctive goat whiskers and goat horns.

Amon addressed the goat beastman bartender:

“Grandpa Johnson. Give me some hot jobs.”

“Kid. Someone might misunderstand.”

The elderly man exclaimed in alarm as he admonished Amon.

Reflecting his emotions, his right glass eye contracted and expanded repeatedly with a mechanical sound.

No matter how depraved the world had become, they didn’t give guns to minors and send them on jobs.

At least not openly.

“If you say it like that, I’ll get arrested. You should call it errands.”

And this old man called Johnson, being the owner of a legal mercenary agency, never gave mercenary work to teenagers.

The errands Johnson mentioned weren’t code words or metaphors, but actual errands.

Amon nodded and corrected himself.

“Yes. Please give me some errands.”

“Alright. Is Sonia with you today too?”

“Yes.”

“I understand. I’ll give you something appropriate.”

The old man waved kindly to Sonia standing next to Amon and wrote down a list of errands for the two.

The errand list was written on the back of a torn contract.

The personal information of some unknown mercenary written on the front was of no concern to the old man.

When the list was complete, Amon received it.

————–

– Wilton’s Butcher Shop: One box of sausages

– Dominic’s Pizza: One box of frozen pizza

.

.

.

– Tommy’s Forge: Kitchen knife

————–

Most of what the old man asked the children to get were ingredients to be used in the bar.

Noting that there was a lot today, Amon stuffed the paper into his pocket.

Amon confirmed the agreed-upon compensation.

An amount ridiculously lower compared to the hourly wage of a regular delivery person.

But Amon didn’t show his dissatisfaction.

The reason Johnson specifically hired orphans for delivery tasks was because it was cheaper than hiring delivery workers, and if Amon demanded higher pay here, he might not get even that money.

Knowing this well, Amon carried out his delivery duties without complaint.

Still, Johnson was among the better ones.

“The kitchen knife is a bit urgent. I’m sorry, but I’d like you to deliver it first.”

“Leave it to me.”

“I’ll give you a bonus in return.”

“I won’t refuse.”

At least the bonus for additional requests was guaranteed.

Amon left the agency with Sonia.

Leaving the smell of alcohol behind, acrid air greeted them.

Amon filled his lungs with exhaust fumes and moved on.

Today too, he survives in Punk City.