In Cyberpunk, There are Just Too Many Unbelievers

“Wah. Wah.”

On a rainy night.

The cries of a baby came from a basket left in front of the orphanage door.

Hearing the baby’s cries, the nun sighed and brought the child inside the orphanage.

For this orphanage located right next to a brothel, it was not uncommon to find a newborn baby in a basket left at the door.

The nun laid the newborn in an incubator donated by a doctor who was also from the orphanage, and as always, prayed that the child would grow well with their limited resources.

100 days.

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

And this child safely passed those 100 days.

Only then did the relieved nun give the baby a name.

Amon.

It meant “love.”

True to his name, Amon grew plump under the nuns’ love.

And on the 200th day.

“Ah m… ahm ahm…”

“That’s right. Mom. Try saying mom.”

The nuns surrounded and applauded Amon as his mouth slowly began to open.

Although not their biological children, the moment when a child they had taken in first called them “mom” was one of the few joyful moments that made this tough orphanage life worth it.

Amon continued to mumble words with the sounds “ah” and “m.”

“Ummon”

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

To think he would say his own name before “mom”!

This child was surely going to grow up to be a big deal.

But the complete word that followed from Amon’s mouth was… far beyond their expectations.

“Amen.”

“???”

Truly the first words of a child destined for greatness.

“Hmm. Looking good today too…”

The boy mumbled as he looked in the mirror.

In the mirror, a handsome boy with slightly curly black hair and thick eyebrows locked eyes with Amon.

His slightly droopy eyes could give off varying impressions depending on the person, but at least no one could deny they were a charming point.

Amon was satisfied with his appearance today as well.

Even without any makeup or grooming, he thought this level was good enough to be an actor.

He had that confidence.

And he had a reason for it – this was the appearance he had painstakingly crafted using all available resources.

‘Phew. Thank goodness. I’m really grateful, Goddess.’

Whenever Amon looked in the mirror, his faith in the Goddess grew abundantly in his heart.

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

But his faith did not grow as much as when he realized he was born with this appearance out of the countless appearances available.

When he turned 3 and his hair grew out, revealing his facial features, Amon offered a prayer of gratitude to the Goddess.

He even donated half of the allowance he had received at the orphanage up to that point.

As Amon looked in the mirror, appearances that had almost become his flashed through his mind.

Prostate X Masochist Expert.
Nakadashi Prize
Pretty Afro Magical Girl

‘Oh Lord.’

If he had reincarnated with those appearances, he might have seriously considered resetting his life from the age of 3.

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

Mainly used for finding easter eggs, hidden backstories, true endings, or pursuing the perfect happy ending.

He had grown somewhat attached to the other appearances he used for speedruns or concept playthroughs, but reincarnating with them was another story.

Fortunately, the Goddess understood the human heart well.

She had bestowed upon Amon the appearance he desired most.

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

Amon was currently 15 years old.

With no job and only an allowance from doing simple errands on top of his allowance, he had been faithfully paying tithes from that limited income.

Even if paying tithes became bothersome, looking in the mirror after his morning wash made his faith grow abundantly, so he had never skipped paying tithes.

Of course, Amon was well aware that in this punk world, the tithes did not go to the Goddess, but rather to the potbellied priest’s stomach.

But he didn’t mind.

What mattered was the heart.

No matter how much this depressing society mocked intangible values like love and religion, his faith was not so weak as to crumble under that.

Done with evaluating his appearance.

After finishing his wash, Amon exited the bathroom.

In front of the bathroom door, his friends were lined up waiting their turn.

“Good morning, friends!”

Amon’s morning greeting received two contrasting reactions.

“Good morning, Amon.”
“…Tch”

The former were his close friends, the latter were friends who viewed Amon as an unlucky person.

The latter used to be the overwhelming majority, but after Amon greeted them consistently for over 10 years, most of them now returned his greetings.

After washing up, breakfast awaited Amon.

Today’s meal was meat as well.

And it would be meat from now on too.

While technology had advanced to the point of human dignity being ruined, that advancement wasn’t all bad.

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

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

The difference varied by country, but at least in the America where Amon lived, the money to buy vegetables for one meal could buy enough meat for six meals.

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

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

The taste was roughly similar to a hamburger beef patty.

However, for Amon who had tasted real beef patties in his previous life, there was a slight sense of unfamiliarity.

The aroma, oiliness, texture.

They had tried to recreate beef as closely as possible, but couldn’t reach complete replication.

After swallowing the synthetic meat down his throat, Amon gave the remaining half to the girl sitting next to him.

“Huh? You’re not eating?”

The girl looked at Amon with puzzlement.

This silver-haired girl with her hair tied up, named Sonia Perfumerose, alternated her gaze between Amon and the meat.

She was a girl who had been abandoned… no, entrusted at the orphanage doorstep a month earlier than Amon.

Amon answered with an ambiguous smile:

“You know I can’t eat much meat.”

“Because of the smell?”

“Yeah.”

Sonia felt sorry for her little friend who couldn’t eat much meat due to his sensitivity to the smell, so she happily ate his portion as well as her own.

Gulp

As the meat slid down her throat, her ample chest briefly emerged and receded.

Amon averted his gaze elsewhere.

Although the world had gone mad, Amon still had normal sensibilities.

He did not develop any impure thoughts toward the 15-year-old girl.

Instead, seeing her empty not just his portion but her own as well, he only felt sorry for her.

‘I’m sorry.’

The reason Amon couldn’t eat much synthetic meat was not because of the smell.

In fact, in his previous life, Amon had loved meat so much that his blood vessels likely flowed with pork fat and soju instead of blood.

But after coming to this world, whenever he faced synthetic meat, the process of its production made it hard for him to eat much.

‘How could anyone eat that?’

Insects, especially larvae and beetles, have extremely high reproductive rates.

Surpassing even cows and pigs.

In a world where efficiency and profit took precedence over all other values, synthetic meat made from insects as the raw material was not that strange of an ingredient. rights be damned in a world where insect meat was no big deal.

That’s why people born and raised in this world knew the raw material for synthetic meat was insects, and ate it just fine.

Sonia knew too, and ate it just fine.

But he did not.

If he didn’t know the manufacturing process at all, perhaps he could eat it to some degree without picturing it in his mind.

But for him, it was vividly depicted.

There was a side quest in the game where you infiltrate a synthetic meat factory, and it shows the process of preparing the larvae and insects.

To make matters worse, his computer specs were good enough to show it in 4K detail.

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

If just watching it from beyond the screen had that effect, how could he eat it when it was on his own plate?

Amon thought it was already impressive that he wasn’t vomiting right then and there.

At least, being aware that he was still growing, he did consume the minimum amount of protein necessary to not hinder his growth.

‘It’s not unhealthy, at least.’

Surprisingly, in terms of health alone, synthetic meat was better for the body than beef.

No antibiotics or hormones were given to the insects.

The food factory hygiene was even rigorously managed, uncharacteristic of the punk world setting, so it was healthy.

Healthy…

Once again, Amon silently expressed his gratitude to his little friend who ate the insect meat… no, the synthetic meat in his stead.

After finishing his meal, Amon’s next task was to go out.

Holding hands with his little friend Sonia, he left the orphanage.

School?

That was a luxury for orphans.

Rather, the place Amon was heading out to was the opposite of a school – a place not to learn, but to practice what he had learned.

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

As the mercenary profession implied, it was not a respectable place, so the two headed underground.

Opening the door, a bar reeking of alcohol greeted them.

Passing by mercenaries idly waving their mechanical arms, Amon went straight to the front desk.

On the other side of the counter, a bartender was seen wiping a glass.

The bartender was an elderly man with an impressive goatee and horns.

Amon addressed the goat-like bartender.

“Old man Johnson. Give us some hot jobs.”

“Yonseok-ah. Someone might misunderstand if you say it like that.”

The elderly man looked startled and scolded Amon.

His right glass eye rhythmically contracted and expanded with a mechanical sound, as if expressing his emotion.

No matter how messed up the world was, they did not give guns to minors and send them on jobs.

At least not openly.

“If I say it like that, I’ll get arrested. I should say ‘errand’ instead.”

And this old man called Johnson was the legitimate owner of a mercenary agency, so he did not give jobs to minors.

The “errands” Johnson mentioned were not euphemisms or metaphors, but actual errands.

Amon nodded and corrected himself.

“Yes. Please give us some errands.”

“Alright. Sonia’s coming along today too?”

“Yes.”

“Got it. I’ll give you something appropriate.”

The old man waved kindly at Sonia beside Amon and wrote down a list of errands to entrust to the two.

The errands were written on the back of a torn contract.

The unknown mercenary’s personal information printed on the front didn’t matter to the old man.

Once the list was complete, Amon received it.

Wilton’s Butcher Shop: A box of sausages

Dominic’s Pizza: A box of frozen pizzas
.
.
.

Tommy’s Forge: A kitchen knife

Most of the items the old man asked the children to get were ingredients for the bar.

Amon commented that there was a lot today as he stuffed the paper into his pocket.

Amon confirmed the agreed-upon payment.

An outrageously high amount compared to a regular delivery person’s hourly wage.

But Amon didn’t show it.

Johnson had the orphans do delivery work because it was cheaper than hiring actual delivery people. If Amon demanded a higher fee here, he wouldn’t get paid at all.

Knowing this, Amon took on the delivery work without complaint.

Still, Johnson was one of the kinder ones.

“The kitchen knife is a bit urgent, you see. Sorry, but could you deliver that one first?”

“Leave it to us.”

“I’ll give you a bonus too, then.”

“I won’t decline.”

At least the bonus for the additional order was guaranteed.

Amon left the agency with Sonia.

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

Filling his lungs with smog, Amon set off.

Today too, he lived in Punk City.