Chapter 8

“Hmm? Did you say something?” “N-no, nothing at all! Come to think of it, Lord Veltol, I got a call from a delivery person. Apparently you have a package at the collection hub.” “Yes, I ordered a new mic. I can’t exactly compete with full-dive streaming quality, but compromise isn’t an option, either. I require the best video and sound quality possible. I’ll go get it.” “You don’t have to do that, my lord. I’ll go.” “No, it’s fine. I need to get myself moving after being seated for so long.” “Understood. I’ll get dinner started, then.” Machina smiled gleefully while Veltol put on his fur coat at the entrance. Machina had bought it for him recently, and he enchanted it with cold-resistant magic. The coat was all he needed to stay comfortable outside. A quality piece of magical armor, it was also blade and magic resistant, and it automatically cleaned and repaired itself from simple frays and stains. The enchantments were quite high level, which was bigger proof than anything that Veltol had amassed a decent amount of faith. A similar product would cost as much as the average Shinjuku worker’s annual income, although there was no use selling this particular coat since it only reacted to Veltol’s mana. His breath came out in white puffs as he looked up to the sky. It was covered in thick clouds, the surroundings dark like the evening despite it still being daytime. “Cloudy as always. And just as filthy, too,” he whispered. The skies and streets of Outer Shinjuku lacked the vibrancy that was characteristic of Inner Shinjuku. Red rust and white smoke, pipes protruding everywhere, flickering aether neon, a scant few drones and flying vehicles in the air as well as people and automobiles on the ground. And yet it was still livelier than the city’s outskirts. Veltol didn’t hate this hollow, filthy section of Outer Shinjuku. “This area is hardly glamorous.” Veltol entered a winding alleyway. He didn’t usually take this route, but he thought it might be a shortcut to the collection hub. It was dark, silent, and dank. Like the shadow within Outer Shinjuku’s already desolate shadow. A part of Shinjuku usually gone unseen—the Outer Shinjuku slums. The concrete walls were cracked, the houses short, and the air stank of cigarettes and alcohol and sewers and vomit. A constellation of cables connected the illegal buildings decorated with dirty posters while the people hurriedly crossed the streets. There were many seedy open-air shops in the narrow streets, most of which presented their tagged goods on top of blue tarps. One particular shop offered bottles with yellow liquid and some sort of larvae, dried fairies, “stones” that most certainly were eyeballs, and other strange objects. The one next to it had boxes full of plugs, cables, and old storage media from who knows where. Once Veltol left the area, he saw even more vagabonds on the streets. Outer Shinjuku was still inside the cryotolerance zone, but it was much colder than in Inner Shinjuku. The street urchins nonetheless did what they could to survive even then, covering themselves with filthy blankets—in a sense, they were the polar opposite of immortals like Veltol. Many of them didn’t have the finances to get a Familia, which prevented them from finding employment, and that only made them poorer. It was a vicious cycle. Postwar neoliberalist thought had taken deep roots in Shinjuku’s politics, and so the poor received no governmental assistance. A few support groups had been established looking to break the cycle, but there was no chance of adequate aid reaching all of the needy. There were too many of them. “I suppose you’d call them the crooked dregs of Shinjuku society…” It was then that Veltol noticed something—and not by chance. It was no miracle that he recognized this person among the dozens of vagabonds. “…!” Veltol gasped when he saw him. This person couldn’t be here—there was no way. The man wore a tattered blue cloak and old military armor under it. His blond hair hadn’t been groomed in days. He was holding an unsheathed, terribly rusty sword as support. This was but one of the many vagabonds in the city. And yet, there was no mistaking him. Veltol knew this man. Even after five hundred years—even though he looked like a decaying blade—he was instantly recognizable. The last mortal Veltol saw before disappearing five hundred years earlier. The one who had defeated him. Humanity’s shining hope… “…Gram.” The Demon Lord Veltol’s bitter, fated, sworn enemy—the Hero Gram.