The Statue

Chapter 16: The Statue

Emerging from the building, Kestrel and Paul climbed into the stolen car once more, heading southeast.

Without a map, Kestrel relied solely on TPAL's verbal directions, deducing that they were still lingering on the outskirts of the metropolis.

After nearly two hours of driving, they finally arrived at their destination.

Flicking his e-cigarette into the rain, Paul gestured ahead. "This is it—Statue Street. It might look like just another cluttered market, but if you know the right people, you can find anything here."

Through the rain-streaked window, Kestrel's gaze was drawn to the massive, decaying Buddha statue looming at the far end of the street. Eroded by acid rain, its steel reinforcements jutted out in places, its once-majestic form now reduced to a ruinous shell.

The statue sat cross-legged in the relentless downpour, its back pressed against an equally colossal figure of Jesus. The two deities, leaning on each other for support, seemed to stand only by virtue of their mutual dependence.

Encircling them was a labyrinth of densely packed shops, their neon signs flashing in a chaotic symphony of colors—each more garish and ostentatious than the last, all vying for attention.

Among this riot of lights, one storefront immediately caught Kestrel's eye. Its neon sign was a surreal contrast—one side aglow in solemn black, white, and yellow, advertising funeral wreaths, paper money, and coffins; the other bathed in lurid pinks and purples, showcasing an array of adult novelties.

The sheer absurdity of the juxtaposition was almost comical.

"This is the place," Paul declared, striding toward the store without hesitation.

"In an age this advanced, people still use funeral wreaths?" Kestrel muttered to himself, curiosity piqued as he followed.

The moment they stepped inside, Kestrel was met with an even stranger sight—seated behind the counter was a monk, clad in a cybernetic cassock patterned like a circuit board, his shaved head adorned with six metallic prayer scars. He was hunched over a computer, engrossed in whatever was on the screen.

At the heart of the shop, occupying a place of reverence on an electronic lotus throne, sat a mechanical Buddha, its form bathed in the flickering glow of LED candles.

Kestrel's eyes flicked over the more eccentric wares surrounding him. He smirked inwardly. Durex condoms with ukiyo-e prints? A fine way to "promote traditional culture"—this must be a Japanese monk.

But a closer look told him otherwise. The monk was Caucasian.

It was clear the shopkeeper had a peculiar sense of creativity, fusing two utterly incongruous industries—funerary supplies and adult entertainment—into a bizarre yet strangely cohesive business model.

Among the inventory were traditional items, but also utterly outlandish products—seductive, form-fitting funeral robes, and even paper effigies of adult toys, meant to be burned as offerings for the deceased.

Kestrel didn't understand it, but he was, without a doubt, profoundly impressed.

"Yo, bro! Long time no see." Paul sauntered forward and, with a playful flick of his steel-plated fingers, rapped the monk's bald head. A crisp metallic clang rang out.

"Oh? If it isn't Pus the Benefactor. I had assumed you were dead. May the Buddha bless you, may the Buddha bless you." The monk beamed, unplugging a data cable from one of the prayer scars on his scalp.

He hadn't switched languages—this must be his native tongue.

"Haha, Vajra, got any new system chips in stock?"

At Paul's words, the monk's smile froze. He shot a wary glance past them, scanning the entrance. "Amitabha, I don't know what you're talking about. This is a respectable establishment."

Kestrel, unimpressed, tossed the black-and-white "Judge of the Dead" vibrating massager back onto the shelf.

Paul turned to Kestrel and TPAL with a knowing grin. "Relax, guys. He's a brother—one of us. Ride-or-die. He won't snitch."

At this reassurance, Vajra finally exhaled in relief. With a snap of his fingers, the mechanical Buddha stirred to life, stepping down from its throne to take over watching the shop.

The monk beckoned them toward a side door. "Man, you should've said so earlier! I thought the cops were running a sting operation."

The door swung open, revealing a descending staircase. The moment they stepped through, the world transformed.

Bright, sterile lighting illuminated shelves neatly stocked with cutting-edge cybernetic implants, their pristine metallic surfaces gleaming under the fluorescents. Two spider-like mechs stood at attention nearby, their multiple arms poised for assembly or repair.

Compared to the chaotic disarray of the shop above, this underground chamber was a proper showroom.

Paul threw an arm around Vajra's shoulders, smirking. "Alright, bro, proper introductions this time. This is Vajra—modification master, top-tier tech genius, and a shameless crook. If you're buying second-hand from him, keep your guard up—otherwise, at the moment you need it most, that "high-end" cyber-heart you bought might just run out of power."

As if to drive the point home, Paul's expression darkened in an instant. With one swift motion, he pulled out his pistol and pressed it against Vajra's temple.

"You bastard! How many times have I bought from you, and you still had the nerve to scam me? Six holes, huh?! You wanna see how many more I can add to that bald head of yours?!"

"W-Wait! We can talk this out! We can talk this out!" Vajra stammered, his forehead glistening with cold sweat as he raised his hands in surrender.

"How are we gonna settle this, huh?! I nearly died because of your faulty shit! Speak! Speak, damn it!"

Paul's furious tirade filled the room—then, just as abruptly, he holstered the gun, flashing a wide grin at Kestrel. "Alright, buddy, go ahead and pick whatever you like. Today, everything's on the house."

Kestrel blinked. So this is how Paul "solves" problems.

It was all becoming clear now—this man despised spending money. If he could get something for free, he would. His safe house? Stolen. His cybernetics? Looted. And now, the promised neural implant? Just another prize from a well-timed shakedown.

Before him, a row of sleek, thumbnail-sized chips gleamed under the cold light. He didn't recognize any of the logos, but Vajra wasted no time launching into an enthusiastic sales pitch.

"This one, my friend, is the ALT1G Mark III. Comes with built-in auto-translation, real-time bullet tracking, and even an integrated decryption suite to expose enemy ammunition counts."

"Pass," Paul interjected. "Every modern neural system can do that. Bragging about bullet counters in this day and age? Please."

He plucked another chip from the shelf. "This is the good stuff—Vajra's most expensive model. Comes with a Level 4 surveillance jammer, a pain editor, temporary ICE shielding, and a dopamine regulator."

Perhaps out of pure spite, Paul deliberately picked the priciest one, while Vajra's face twitched as if he were being physically robbed.

Kestrel turned the small, coin-sized blue chip over in his fingers, deep in thought. The two choices before him—installing the neural system or rejecting it—both had serious downsides. The real solution lay somewhere in between.

"Is there a way to access the functions of a neural system without implanting it into my brain? Some kind of external interface?" he asked.