Li Pan tested his body. Outwardly, nothing much had changed, but inside his organs had been entirely remade and repositioned; the meridians and qi nodes were practically a copy of Li Qingyun's template.
In theory, this physique was the ideal vessel for Nine Yin Body Refinement. The invisible shackles were gone, and the cap on what his Nine Yin qi could do wasn't fourth-turn anymore, but sixth-turn.
Of course, that was theoretical. Even after Li Qingyun broke through, he still had to keep taking pills and refining qi to reach the peak.
Li Pan didn't have Li Qingyun's cultivation, so he couldn't draw out full power anyway—same difference.
And having burned through blood and essence to forge a "dragon pearl," he felt truly drained: weak, hungry, not a drop left. A dull ache from the organ overhaul throbbed in the background, and he lay limp on the sofa for a long while.
But whatever the discomfort, he had in fact broken the Heavenly Dao cap—the cultivation shackles. With every breath he felt an endless stream of qi pouring into his meridians.
Like the Milky Way in flood, like a dam flinging open: inexhaustible qi spilled from the "dragon pearl," coursed through his body, filled the dantian and sea of qi, surged along the eight extraordinary meridians, then through the body's qi apertures expanded the triple burner and the viscera, moistening a once parched field.
So yes: realm broken, limits gone. He could now go on using Nine Yin Body Refinement to assimilate that qi, and, like Li Qingyun, cultivate life and fate in tandem—breathing, sitting, walking, always strengthening body and qi.
Will this ever match an orthodox neidan immortal? No. And whether he can keep "cheesing" it when he hits Refining Spirit, Returning to the Void is anyone's guess. Once the "dragon blood" dries up, this "fake dragon pearl" will have to be swapped for some other monster. Still—he'd reached the Refining Qi into Spirit realm.
Put simply: even without using the handkerchief to transform, with Nine Yin Divine Art alone as body guard, he could tear mechs apart bare-handed and beat the crap out of Xiao Hang.
The Master Xian recorded this waidan (external elixir) path as a negative example: listing a ton of drawbacks. Versus orthodox neidan, it was lacking in qi, force, and technique—behind on all fronts.
A waidan cultivator couldn't compare to the era's pinnacle Blood God Son Grand Method either; in a fight he's at a disadvantage. It was an outdated path cultivators had abandoned.
But that's fine.
Li Pan had grown up picking through trash. With a handful of bad cards, survival is already hard; who has the luxury of being picky? Patch the junk till it works and move on.
No princess life, no princess attitude. Why measure yourself against "heaven's favored" who have everything?
They buy clothes, you buy clothes; they keep a dog, you want a dog—well they also have yachts and jets. Can you afford those?
Even their dog doesn't work and sits under air-con. Can you?
Even Li Qingyun: pill when he opens his mouth, elixir when he shuts it; the sect drowns him in treasures and test banks; master and senior brothers revolve around him hand-delivering secret arts. Do you have that?
So what if it's outdated? So what if it's "trash"?
What matters is Li Pan can cultivate now and solve his problem.
Not a match for an orthodox seed disciple in a duel? Come on—where in busted 0791 are you going to find "seed disciples" to duel him?
In a mountain with no tigers, the monkey is king.
In a world of the blind, the one-eyed man is king.
The Blood Sect? Tch. If they're trouble, steer clear and that's that…
He meant to lie there a bit longer to recover, but the alarm he'd set popped up and jolted him.
Almost forgot—Nana had a show. Even if they didn't hook up, he'd need her to navigate when it was time to run; better go build rapport…
He grabbed some civvies and hopped out the window toward the date.
Honestly—was the concert really still on?
It was.
Kids of Night City had seen it all: seize the day.
Life is a nonstop beat-down; if you can't fight it, you might as well enjoy it.
By the time Li Pan reached Sakura Park, a crowd had already formed. The outskirts still looked bombed out, but in the old capital district the clean-up bots had already hauled the bodies away.
The rock band had stacked dozens of huge speakers and DUANG DUANG DUANG HONG HONG HONG!—thunder and fireworks; anyone listening would think the war had kicked off again.
Massacre last night and a music fest today? Are Night City folks really that heartless?
Not exactly; these were two different populations.
If the Vortex-gang types were cockroaches dumped by a cruel system—no A/C, no net, only drugs, sex, and black hypersleep, hence the riots—
These were the worker-ants who held society up: salaried, mortgaged, corporate cattle, giggers, QVN shut-ins. Dorms to office and back; they rarely stepped into high-deviation danger zones to mix with "roaches."
With no money or patrons, they weren't even corp "pets": they were herd to be milked.
Getting into a big corp has gates—New East U, Tech U… Most people don't make it: ordinary grads, basic infantry, scraping the lowest tier of citizenship: pure labor.
These people were the mainstream of 0791: 2,500 to 10,000 a month; aside from some small-shop owners and SME staffers, most lived off cloud gigs—streaming, proxy shopping, boosting, paid companionship—no real contracts, no corp credit.
If not for server secrecy, most jobs today could be done on QVN from home.
Take paid companionship or playing NPCs: a skies-dweller's RP can spawn tens of thousands of jobs. Or short-video shoots: if some celestial patron boosts you on a chart, a couple big tips and you're financially free.
So, yeah: even while reality burned last night, most people were on shift online in pods…
Anyone with a steady paycheck and family to worry about won't jump out to fight the system. At most they eat a bullet, subway swan dive—but take to the streets? No.
Today though, they'd logged off.
Because last night escalated—riot to insurrection—and the Ninth Investigations and the Security Net Gateway throttled the net and "updated" systems: trawled cams and dragged in the rioters.
No online games, streams rate-limited, even deep-web adult IPs blocked; no entertainment, so people went out for air.
Li Pan, knowing the drill, grabbed some ice-cold beers—and cut the line.
"Hey! In a hurry to reincarnate or—oh, hell. You. You've got the balls to show your face!"
Li Pan grabbed the guy by the lapels.
If he hadn't just formed his core and still felt weak, he'd have ripped the head off that one-eyed bastard who'd shot him three times, bled him for 1.42 million, and was now cutting the line; he'd have tossed it into the stratosphere to keep the Tokugawa clan company.
Wang Shan kept his deadpan and handed over a data card.
Li Pan narrowed his eyes. "What, paying my hospital bill?"
Eye-roll. "My résumé. Heard your factory's hiring. I'm applying for security. Nothing fancy—call it a hundred grand a month."
Li Pan sucked in a breath. "A hundred grand a month—for me?"
Wang Shan stuffed the card into his jacket pocket. "From you. Thanks to you I got booted from the unit. Wiped file; no pension. If you don't keep me, maybe I'll go apply at your other company."
Cold smile. "I get it. Security used you like toilet paper and tossed you. Now you and Three-Headed Dog and Security have nothing to do with each other—you're mine. Everything that happened, I arranged. So, a hundred grand a month hush money, huh? Think you've got me by the throat?"
Wang Shan poured a beer and pressed it into his hand. "Interpret it how you like. We're not beggars or thugs; we won't take free cash. Warehouse and guard work? We'll handle it ourselves.
And it's not a hundred per month—it's eight hundred a month total: a hundred each."
Li Pan followed his gaze: in a corner, three men at a table, not drinking, faces like stone.
All skinny, baggy-eyed; missing arms, legs, a nose, an eye—like addicts who'd sold their organs. In hot weather they kept their hands tucked in coats; on their toes, eyes jittering.
Not "like"—they were addicts. And anyone who knew that look would clock it instantly.
Those eyes were raptors', beasts'—they looked at people like meat. Sitting side by side, they never chatted; when their gazes swept, they never crossed—constant 360-degree vigilance.
Veterans. Years steeped in bio-pods, linked to fronts in other worlds; that's why they looked out of shape.
They'd done a lifetime of dirty work for the Security Committee, stimulants like water; when worn out and obsolete, the military stripped their cybernetics and kicked them out: forced retirement, chemical dependence—war dogs tossed aside.
The veteran who survives leaves quietly, swaps his stipend for meds, booze, black hypersleep, and dies in a pigeon loft on the edge of town.
That's a old dog's life.
Being scooped by Three-Headed Dog for "recycling" was already a lucky second act. Now, apparently, master had swept them out again.
"Eight? They cut an entire squad?"
Li Pan frowned at their coats—guns, or grenades?
Wang Shan tapped the beer glass, two red dots from a laser dancing on it. "Special Tactics Support: two sniper teams (4), drone pilot, artillery, medic, comms. We can do it all; we divide up per mission."
"So no assault or sappers?"
Snort. "Biggest KIA rate. How many live to retire? And these days the clones do that cannon-fodder work."
Li Pan fell silent.
Eight hundred thousand to pick up a stripped, unequipped Three-Headed Dog team…
Honestly, a steal.
Yeah, Security had calculated it to leash him tight. Even knowing it was a poisoned apple, he had to bite.
He knew what a unit like that was worth.
A big cyberpunk merc job runs in the tens or hundreds of thousands—and those mercs, next to Three-Headed Dog? Nothing. Pure crap.
True, these vets spent years in pods fighting offworld: lots of skill and experience, but not much personal cyberware. Closer to club pros than gun-toting hitmen.
And by secrecy clauses, once discharged they can't go back on the net, let alone link to other worlds; that's why the army dares to dump them. No guns, cash, or kit—they're nothing but junkies on a timer.
Three-Headed Dog vets were different: just look at Wang Shan's car-crash chic. Besides the border war, they'd been selected and trained in 0791 for a long stint; they'd traded steel with the Red Tengu for real. Not just pod rats anymore.
"Really just guarding and warehousing? I mean… if there's side work, you take it?"
Wang Shan, quite aware the man who'd eaten three bullets and kept walking had arms everywhere, stroked his chin. "At Reincarnation market rates. But since we're on your payroll, we'll waive the team mobilization fee. You cover ammo; day rate 10k per head; base mission bonus 100k. Depending on difficulty we may ask for extra. Death benefit, 1 mil per head, net."
Li Pan did the math. Like Three-Headed Dog, he couldn't say no to Security.
"You solved my problem—now I pay the price," basically.
He pocketed the chip. "Deal. But we do entry interviews. A small test—I won't stiff you. We'll sign at market rates: team call-out 300k, ammo reimbursed, mission bonus 1 mil. If you agree, prep and report to the factory in three days."
Wang Shan clinked glasses. "Here's to a good partnership, Boss."
They downed the beer. The freshly swept-out Three-Headed Dogs turned and vanished into the crowd like a gust.
Picked up a litter of strays…
Time to take out a loan just to make payroll…
Shaking his head, beer in hand, Li Pan pushed through the roaring crowd to the front. He quickly spotted Fushan Nana setting up.
"Hey! Mop-head, you made it!"
Fushan Nana stood among a heavy-metal-punk crew in black: leather, chains, spikes; the drummer had eight cyber arms and looked even more over the top than the Vortex boys—wait, wasn't he from Vortex? Ah hell, what a bunch…
At least the band had a coherent look. The odd one out was Ogawa Nana in a low-cut princess evening gown—white and half-sheer, basically a rental wedding dress. Standing among those demons, she was Beauty among Beasts…
"Huh? You're really TRAPBEAST?"
"Oh, you've heard of them? Just in time: their singer got his throat cut, and the guitarist was shot in a mugging. The band was going to split, but they saw me and Nana on stream and invited us."
"Just in time," she says… Hm?
Li Pan frowned and took Nana's hand. "What happened to your hand? Weren't you rocking premium casino cybernetics? Why the military arm? Is this chrome?"
Same old Nana—carefree grin. "Ahahaha, forgot to say: Night City's been wild; Reincarnation changed bosses, and as a nepotism hire I got canned, hahaha!
A month for free—no paycheck and they took back the arm, hahaha! I know, life's fickle—but why me again?
Luckily the band lent me the guitarist's hand. It'll do, hahaha."
Li Pan was speechless. This girl… maybe her luck really is cursed.
"Hey, why don't you work for me?"
Eye-roll. "Can you not try to jump me every time we meet? It's a bit much!"
"Huh? No, I meant—"
"NA-NA-NA-NA! On stage!"
The eight-armed drummer crashed in. The crowd erupted.
Nana leaned in and licked him; with cold fingers she pinched his cheek. "After the show, we'll do it!"
She hoisted her electric guitar, grabbed Ogawa Nana's hand, and headed up.
Ogawa Nana was nervous at first, but under Nana's breezy smile she relaxed, answered with one of her own—then opened her throat.
Li Pan wasn't a music guy. He couldn't tell "hydropower" headphones from "thermal," and his musical literacy boiled down to enjoying the noise.
These days, film and anime tracks are churned out by cheap AI; if a talented singer-composer appears and doesn't sign with a big corp for patent protection, the AI copies them and in no time the work is background fodder for short vids.
Rock is the holdout because it's just wailing; even the AI can't parse what's supposedly good about it, so it can't clone it yet.
Even so, N! TRAPBEAST! was really good.
Ogawa Nana's timbre was sweet and high, soft and uncoiling—like a lark wheeling in the sky.
Fushan Nana's voice was husky and lazy—like a cat's scratch.
Together, their harmonies had a strange, eerie, soul-shaking impact.
And every so often, Fushan Nana would spin off into a deranged, off-chart solo, like venting laughter from her core, seizing the stage.
The rest of TRAPBEAST were insanely talented too; they could actually keep up and mesh with the two vocalists' wildly different, unpredictable rhythms.
With that never-heard, inexplicable-but-addictive high, the crowd boiled, swelled, and went wild.
Even Li Pan found himself swept into the boil, the shouts, the frenzy.
"NANA! NANA!"
"NANA! NANA!"
"Silver-Hand Nana!"
"Silver-Hand Nana!"
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⚠️ 30 CHAPTERS AHEAD — I'm Not a Cyberpsycho ⚠️
The system says: Kill.Mercs obey. Corporates obey. Monsters obey.One man didn't.
🧠💀 "I'm not a cyberpsycho. I just think... differently."
💥 High-voltage cyberpunk. Urban warfare. AI paranoia.Read 30 chapters ahead, only on Patreon.
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