Rebuild world volume 1 p.., p.1
Rebuild World: Volume 1 Part 1, page 1
Chapter 1: Akira and Alpha
The wild dog—if it was a dog—struggled to lock its jaws around its victim’s head. Pinned to the ground, the boy shoved a chunk of rubble between its fangs, forcing it in with all the strength in his left arm. Yet the beast did not back off—it bit down hard, as if to consume the boy and debris together. The tough rubble—all that defended the boy’s life—cracked beneath the fangs’ relentless pressure.
Grim and desperate, the boy fired the pistol in his free hand. With the beast at point-blank range, the bullets found their mark—but instead of dying, it attacked him in a greater frenzy. He fired shot after shot to no avail, until the firearm fell silent.
No ammo.
“Damn it!” He cursed, beating his empty gun against the beast’s face. Hanging on to the rubble, he shoved the creature away. To give up meant death, so on he fought, drawing on all his power.
The beast’s strength gave out first. Even as it died, it struggled to devour him. Finally, though, it collapsed and breathed its last. With what remained of his might, the boy heaved the beast off of him. Then he lay there and exhaled deeply.
Aloud, he wondered, “Aren’t I prepared to tackle this?” Then he shook his head, as if to scold himself for his moment of doubt. “No!” he cried out. “I was ready! Like hell I’m gonna give up and turn tail after a little danger!”
With a hard expression, the boy sat up, calmed his breathing, gathered his strength, and arose, determined that the deadly risks he had taken should not go unrewarded. He then emptied a plastic water bottle over his face and head, washing off the beast’s blood that had spattered on him.
When he finished, he reloaded his pistol and renewed his resolve.
“All right,” the boy muttered as he resumed his advance into the ruins of a sprawling city. “Time to move on.”
Rubble littered the ground between rows of half-destroyed buildings. There was no sign of human life. The surrounding silence had swallowed the sounds of the boy’s footsteps, of the pebbles his feet kicked up, and even of his earlier gunfire.
He was exploring the ruins with only his everyday clothes—heavily stained—and a handgun in a dubious state of repair. It was suicide. Only a fool would have run such risks in his gear—or someone in desperate need, like him. He knew this when setting out, and now his brush with death had given him a firsthand appreciation of it—or so he believed. Yet in truth, he was still quite naive about the dangers of these “ruins of the Old World.”
Autonomous weapons, no longer able to distinguish friend from foe, would attack targets indiscriminately. Mechanical guards continued to eliminate intruders, obeying the orders of their long-dead makers. Descendants of biological weapons had turned feral. In the harsh environment, plants and animals underwent one mutation after another. The people who lived in the East called them all “monsters,” making no distinction between the organic and the mechanical. And within the ruins of the Old World, those deadly creatures dwelled, including the predator that had attacked the boy.
He had known this, and yet he had still set foot in these same ruins of his own will, prepared to die. Something here was worth the risk, and his brush with death hadn’t changed that. So he pressed on, staking his own survival on his search for something far more valuable than the cheap life of a child from the slums.
His name was Akira.
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Akira stood on the outskirts of the Kuzusuhara Town Ruins—the closest ruins to his home in Kugamayama City and the largest within the city’s economic sphere. Not even his run-in with the monster could deter him from his search.
“Nothing but junk.” He sighed. “I can’t believe I risked my life to get here.” Musing, he wondered aloud, “Do I have to go deeper in?”
Akira lifted his head and stared into the heart of the ruins. Rows of skyscrapers filled the hazy distance, stretching to a horizon of more buildings than he could count. Even from that distance, he could tell that the buildings were larger and better preserved deeper among the ruins. Those distant structures stood in stark contrast to the dilapidated wrecks on the outskirts.
Could I get my hands on something valuable if I made it over there? Akira wondered. Tempted, he hesitated, then shook his head.
“No, I could never—that would be certain death.” He spoke as if trying to convince himself.
The difference between his run-down surroundings and the still-magnificent scenery in the distance lay in this: In the heart of the ruins, the advanced technology of the Old World still functioned, maintaining and repairing the distant towers automatically. Quite probably, then, the mechanical guards around the towers were also intact, deploying the staggering technology of the past against any intruders. A child like Akira had no chance of surviving the areas that the machines guarded.
“It’s hard enough hacking it here on the outskirts.” Akira continued arguing with himself. “Forget about going any deeper. I’ve got work to do.”
Shaking off his desire, he continued exploring the ruins for a while but found nothing worthwhile. Sighing, he noticed a set of bleached bones. He had already discovered and scavenged several similar skeletons, but without recovering anything of value.
Nothing on this one either, huh? Either someone had already stripped these earlier explorers of their valuables, or they had come as ill-equipped as Akira—and died in their recklessness. The thought weighed on Akira’s spirits.
The sun will set on me if I keep this up, he realized. That’d mean trouble. Should I head back for today? Making it back from a dangerous ruin alive is better than any treasure. I could end up as one of these skeletons if I stick around much longer.
Unconsciously, Akira grimaced: for all his excuses, he could not completely erase the desire for something—anything—to show for his trouble. He had already fought one monster and nearly died in the process. Even that brush with death would have been for nothing if he turned back now. His resolve to press on ran up against his desire for safety.
So Akira frowned, debating whether to press on or go back. As if weighing his choices on a pair of scales, his mind shifted back and forth between the two options. If he blithely continued his explorations and another monster attacked him in the darkness of night, he would die—and thus he hesitated. The scales began to tip in favor of retreat, though his decision was tinged with resignation.
Just then, a small, soft light floated across Akira’s field of vision.
What?
The light flickered as it passed through the air in the shadows of the twilit buildings. Like the pale lamp of some luminous bug, smaller than a fingertip, it floated on its own. At first wary, Akira soon relaxed—whatever it was, it didn’t look like one of the monsters that dwelled in the ruins. Following the gleam with his eyes, he spotted a stronger light spilling out from behind the ruined building up ahead. The faint spark flew along the street until it dissolved into the light just around the corner.
As Akira watched, curious, several more lights passed by his face from behind, disappearing around the corner of the building. He glanced behind himself but found only an expanse of darkness—and nothing else coming toward him. He looked forward, and once more saw the faint lights glide past him toward the corner. Akira didn’t know what to make of it all, yet the mysteriousness of the light in the shadows of the ruins stirred his curiosity.
He hesitated a moment, then began to advance toward the corner. Whatever caused the light, it might be something useful. He had risked his life to make it this far, and his desire to have something to show for his troubles won out.
Under the spell of his greed and curiosity, Akira cautiously peered around the corner—and froze, stunned by what he saw. His gaze fixed on the spot where the tiny lights converged, lighting up a section of the broad avenue. In the center of this fantastical scene stood a woman. She appeared mystical, of unearthly beauty—and she was utterly naked, with every inch of her fine features and gorgeous physique open to the eyes of any who might see.
No slum dweller’s skin could hold a candle to hers—smoother and glossier than what even the elite women of the city achieved with the help of wealth, obsession, and Old World technology. Her limbs seemed sculpted like a work of art, and the lustrous hair that hung to her waist showed not the slightest trace of age or wear. Her face, worthy of the adoration of men and women of all ages, wore a look of dignity that enhanced her appearance even more.
Akira was entranced, even bewitched. One glance at her completely transformed his standards of beauty. Her outstanding comeliness eclipsed the memory of every other woman that he had ever seen—or even imagined—in his short life.
A last pale spark flew from behind Akira and came to rest on the woman’s fingertips, where it vanished as if absorbed into her. The radiance about her brightened just a bit. Akira could not take his eyes off the sight.
Without warning, the woman shifted her gaze from her own fingertips to Akira, and their eyes met. Akira beheld every inch of her naked body, yet she only stared intently at him. Unable to break the enchantment, Akira returned her gaze.
The woman broke into a cheerful smile and stepped toward him. Instantly, everything changed for Akira. His rapt expression gave way to a tense, almost fearful, look. She was a stranger trying to approach him, and caution stirred inside him.
He raised his gun. “Don’t move!” he shouted.
Yet nothing about the woman was as Akira expected. The remains of the Old World, home as they were to deadly monsters, claime
All at once, the mystical light around her vanished. She approached Akira, without a hint of caution or threat. As she drew near, naked and smiling, she seemed utterly out of place amid the backdrop of the ruins that had been stripped of fantasy and restored to mere gloom. Now Akira saw her in an entirely different light, as an extremely suspect and unknown factor.
As the smiling woman approached him, he shouted another warning: “I-I said, don’t move! Don’t come any closer, or I’ll shoot! I mean it!”
Normally, Akira would have fired without bothering to give a warning. Here, though, the woman was obviously unarmed, she gave no hint of hostility, and he felt confused in a situation so foreign to his experience. So he restrained his trigger finger. But his patience had a limit. When the woman kept advancing, despite his warning, his finger tensed on the trigger.
Abruptly, she was gone. He hadn’t even blinked, yet he saw no sign of movement. She vanished instantly, completely, and without warning. With his face twisted in confusion, Akira gazed around, but she was nowhere to be seen.
Don’t worry—I won’t hurt you. Impossibly, Akira heard her voice right beside him. He spun around instinctively, and there she was—so close he could touch her. Somehow she was clothed now. Crouching slightly, she looked Akira in the eye as she smiled at him.
So strange were the events of the evening that they already exceeded Akira’s power to cope with the unknown, and as his mind strained to its limits, he became aware of a strange terror that gnawed at his psyche. He gritted his teeth, teetering on the edge of a half-crazed panic; people who lost their senses were the first to die. But Akira’s experience of life in the slums held his consciousness together.
Akira aimed at the woman again, shoving the pistol in his right hand toward her at point-blank range. He should not have been able to completely straighten his arm—she was too close—but he did, burying his hands in the woman’s chest.
He felt nothing there. He could see her right before his eyes, yet he touched only emptiness. Overwrought, he froze, his mind blank, with his gun and hands still piercing her chest.
And no matter how hard the woman tried to get a response from him, speaking and passing her hand before his face, Akira remained still, with his eyes vacant.
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Once, in a forgotten age, an advanced civilization had dominated the world. So long ago had it fallen, however, that one could scarcely imagine its former wisdom and glory; all that remained were its ruined cities, buildings crumbling into formlessness, and damaged artifacts. The very rain itself had been altered and remade; over that vast expanse of time, it eroded the ruins that stretched as far as the eye could see. Yet it also nurtured the trees that towered into the skies and supported life.
That long-gone civilization was now known as the Old World, and its advanced technology had left behind many traces: unknown materials piled into mountains of rubble, clusters of crumbling skyscrapers that still floated in the air, medicines that could cure even the loss of a limb, and weapons so powerful that they made extinguishing human life seem like child’s play. These and other artifacts still littered the world, ages after the civilization that had wrought them was no more. Now they were simply known as “relics of the Old World,” fragments of bygone wisdom and glory.
People had gathered those fragments and, over the generations, rebuilt society. Whatever had destroyed the Old World—a civilization so evolved that its technology was indistinguishable from magic—had still failed to wipe out the human race to which that world had belonged.
The East, as it was called, formed one part of the area inhabitable by people. It was home to numerous cities under the rule of governing corporations. Kugamayama was one such city. Massive walls protected part of it, and although the districts inside and outside the walls were equally part of the city, one could find an unmistakable difference between them.
The walls housed the elite district, the sanctum of corporate executives and others who held wealth and power, and the middle district, home to a relatively well-off population. Outside the walls lay the lower district, inhabited by those who—largely for economic reasons—were unable to live within the walls’ protection. And finally, nearest to the desert wasteland and its dangers, sprawled the vast slums.
Here Akira lived, one of the countless children of the slums. Like all of them, he was physically unremarkable: no cyborg implants, no enhanced organs, no nanomachine augmentations or other subtler techs. Nor did he have any specialized skills or formal education. He had no parents, no guardian, and no money, and he never had enough to eat. The slums were overflowing with children like him. His death would attract little notice, let alone surprise.
The monsters of the wasteland sometimes attacked the city, and their first targets were always the slums and slum dwellers closest to their desert abode. Akira had survived three monster attacks. He had made it through the first and second solely by running erratically and hiding behind any cover he could find. Akira had survived because others, people whose names he didn’t even know, had bought him time—by being attacked, killed, and eaten in his place.
The third attack went down differently. Akira couldn’t shake the small, dog-like monster; in the end, he’d fought it to the death, with only a handgun he’d chanced to come by. Miraculously, he had landed three shots on the monster’s head. But his bullets hadn’t killed the beast, which raced toward him, mouth gaping, to devour its prey.
Before the monster’s jaws—abnormally large for such a small creature—could close around Akira’s arm, he instinctively thrust his handgun between its teeth and pulled the trigger. The bullet, fired from inside the creature’s mouth, avoided its tough outer skull and struck the head from within, destroying the brain and killing the beast. The monster took a few moments to die—long enough to sink its teeth deep into Akira’s arm. Even so, he somehow avoided losing either life or limb.
After that, Akira made up his mind to become a hunter, for the opportunity it offered to improve his state in life. He was vaguely aware of the risks professional hunters ran, but his own victory, unaided at that, gave him confidence and hope.
Hunters sought wealth and fame in the desert wastes outside the cities. True, the wasteland teemed with monsters and other dangers that made even the slums, short on law and bursting with cheap firearms, seem safe by comparison. But the desert also promised fabulous wealth and power, for it housed the ruins and relics of the Old World.
Even the hostile monsters themselves were considered valuable relics. Organic monsters were the fruits of advanced bioengineering; mechanical monsters served as treasure troves of valuable components. Both fetched considerable sums in the cities. Successful hunters sometimes earned fortunes large enough to buy cities of their own. And one who seized total control of an Old World ruin that remained functional—especially a military facility—could even found a nation.
A capable hunter gained wealth and power that were orders of magnitude greater than the average person ever dreamed of. Their fortune and strength grew with every precious relic they brought back, allowing them to set their sights on ruins still more dangerous—and lucrative. The most successful, carrying Old World armor and weapons, sometimes acquired authority and military might on a scale that not even cities could match.
That day, Akira had set out to become a hunter. So far, he had killed a monster without help, but that only meant that his chances of returning alive from the monster-infested wasteland were no longer zero. Those chances were still enough to gamble on, however: if he went on living in the slums, then sooner or later he would die there. If he wanted to crawl his way out, then gambling was his only option—gambling on a hunt for a tomorrow that was better than today.
