What matters most in the twenty-first century? Talent!

The door to the Weapon Modification Room opened, and Su Xiao walked out yawning.

He went to the bathroom first and enjoyed a nice, comfortable shower.

Then he collapsed onto his bed, falling asleep like a baby the instant his head touched the pillow.

He did not get out of bed until the sun was about to set.

He brushed his teeth and washed his face.

Once he felt awake, he returned to the Weapon Modification Room.

Parts and tools he had not had time to put away lay scattered across the floor.

But Su Xiao's

attention was focused entirely on the table.

More precisely, on the two Power Gauntlets on it.

From the outside, they looked like the gauntlets worn by medieval European knights in plate armor.

Polished smooth, the Power Gauntlets reflected a cold, sharp silver gleam beneath the fluorescent lights.

Their primary material was not ordinary metal.

It was tyran steel.

Some expensive cybernetic limbs used this material as well.

It offered excellent bullet resistance.

A small engine built into the armor gave the wearer tremendous strength, much like having Gorilla Arms installed.

Su Xiao had made a pair of Power Gauntlets, one for each hand.

With them on, he could punch people and still use firearms without either getting in the way.

Su Xiao put on both Power Gauntlets.

He closed his fingers into fists, then opened them again.

Next, he punched and blocked.

He tried a variety of stances.

Nothing hindered his movements.

His gaze flicked toward the wall.

After a moment's thought, he suppressed his eager excitement.

This was his own apartment, after all.

If he damaged it, he would have to call someone to fix it.

Su Xiao decided to take a walk outside and see if he could find a few kidney thieves.

He could use them as test subjects.

And so, the wall escaped disaster.

He had just entered the elevator.

Then a holo-call came in from Jack.

"Su, are you done with your retreat?"

Before entering the Weapon Modification Room to build the Power Gauntlets by hand, Su Xiao had let V and Jack know.

Although he would be shutting himself away to work, they could call or come find him anytime if something urgent came up.

He had not yet shared the good news that he had succeeded.

Yet Jack was already calling.

Had something happened?

"What's wrong, Jack? You don't look so good."

Jack's next words made Su Xiao freeze.

"Something's happened on Padre's end."

Let us turn the clock back one week.

Fidel walked into a shabby little hotel somewhere in Heywood.

The hotel's sanitary conditions were appalling. Even by Night City standards, it was filthy and chaotic beyond belief.

On top of that, the room rates listed at the front desk were frighteningly expensive.

That alone was enough to leave this shady hotel deserted.

But the hotel was not really in the lodging business anyway.

And Fidel had not come to stay.

He worked for Padre and had come specifically to buy materials and parts for making tech weapons.

The man at the front desk glanced at Fidel and pointed to the side.

"Go in."

"How many times have I been here already? You still don't trust me?"

Despite his complaints, Fidel obediently stepped into the room beside the front desk.

It was a tiny room, barely large enough for two or three people.

Once he entered, the door closed automatically, and a beam of light began sweeping back and forth.

"Firearms: none detected."

"Blades: none detected."

"Explosives: none detected."

"Biochemical weapons: none detected."

"Listening devices and trackers: none detected."

Only after nearly a full minute of scanning did the door finally open.

"See? I told you I was clean."

"Go on upstairs. They're waiting for you."

Fidel made his way upstairs with practiced ease, crossed the hallway, and walked all the way to its end.

He pushed open a door marked as a fire exit.

There was another concealed room behind it.

Several men were waiting for him inside.

One of them pointed at the travel bag on the table. "All the materials and parts you wanted are packed. Want to count them?"

"No need. I trust you." Fidel opened the bag, confirmed that it contained what he wanted, and did not bother counting everything.

He nodded, two patches of light covering his pupils. "I've transferred the money."

"Thanks, man."

"I'll be going, then."

With Padre's task complete, Fidel wasted no time on idle talk.

He picked up the travel bag, left the little hotel, put it in his car's trunk, and drove away.

Only after he left did the men in the hotel begin chatting.

"Don't you think that guy's weird? He comes here every so often, but if Padre wants tech weapons, why not just buy them? Why have us get materials and parts? Even if we give him that stuff, does he know how to make them?"

In 2022, you could still insult someone by calling them "the one who slipped through the net of nine years of compulsory education."

By 2077, that insult no longer worked.

Because plenty of people had not even finished elementary school.

Educational resources in Night City were distributed with extreme inequality.

Those who received an education received an excellent one.

Those who did not knew practically nothing beyond reading and writing. (In reality, Americans were also poor at mathematics and geography; even Americans themselves frequently complained about it.)

Chapter 40: What matters most in the twenty-first century? Talent!

Education and technology were both firmly monopolized by the megacorporations.

Among those at the bottom of society, when it came to

education, the Nomads actually did the best.

Because Nomads were expected from childhood to contribute to their families and tribes, they followed the tradition of homeschooling in rural America.

Teachers among the Nomads taught both adults and children, and their camps generally had mobile libraries and communications centers to stay connected with the rest of the world.

Larger Nomad camps even had their own mobile cinemas and theaters.

Nomad curricula focused on practical knowledge, such as mechanics, agriculture, and engineering, which helped them perform their work better.

Some Nomads also studied classical literature and even philosophy.

In many cases, the Nomads' spoken language was more complex and refined than that used by Night City's residents.

"Why do you care? We're selling this stuff anyway. What difference does it make who buys it? At least Padre pays more than other people. That's enough. Why stick your nose into everything else? Got nothing better to do?"

"I heard the gun stores on Padre's turf have started selling tech weapons in bulk. Their prices are a little lower than other stores, and they even offer after-sales service-replacements, not repairs. Now everyone in Heywood is going there to buy weapons."

"He probably knows someone who manages a corporate warehouse. Just like us: collecting a corporate paycheck while cooking the books and stealing stock to sell outside... He's Padre, after all. It's no surprise he'd have connections like that."

"Padre isn't a good man, but he's a traditional one. He likes doing things by the rules. I wish I worked for him. I hear he always treats his people well."

They stared in the direction Fidel had left, practically mad with jealousy.

Then one of them suddenly spoke.

"Do you think the tech weapons those stores on Padre's turf are selling could have something to do with the parts and materials he buys from us?"

"If that's true, Padre might have a gunsmith working for him who knows how to make tech weapons."

"That's possible, but so what? Don't forget, we're just a bunch of corp dogs making some extra cash by taking things out of our company. What's it got to do with us?"

The man who had first raised the question gave a scornful chuckle. "If that's what you think, you're dead wrong. Do you realize certain people would pay for this information?"

The others still looked utterly bewildered.

He had no choice but to explain patiently. "Hasn't the Sixth Street Gang been at odds with the Valentino Gang lately? They've been trying to carve the Glen out of Heywood."

"Think about it. If the Sixth Street Gang found out Padre had a gunsmith working for him-a rare talent who can actually make tech weapons-what do you think they'd do?"

The others were shocked.

"Isn't that wrong? We're doing business with Padre, then selling him out? That's... that's not right, is it?"

The man snorted. "What's not right about it? We worked our asses off studying just to get into a corporation. And then what?"

"Just because we don't have connections or anyone backing us, everyone gets to walk all over us. Did getting excellent grades at Arasaka Academy help? Not a damn bit. Your high scores aren't worth shit to anyone else."

"I've figured it out. This world is rotten to the core. If you want a comfortable life, if you want freedom, you need money. Without money, you're nothing."

"If we can sell this information, why shouldn't we?"

Someone objected. "If Padre finds out we're behind it, he'll skin us alive!"

"If none of us talks, this stays between us and heaven and earth. No one else will ever know. The Sixth Street Gang and the Valentino Gang have been enemies for ages. As long as we're careful enough, who's going to know we did it?"

The others fell silent.

After a long while, one man stood up.

"I'm out. You can make this money. I don't want it, and I won't go telling anyone."

He had just turned around to leave.

Then a bullet struck him in the back of the head.