New York Back Alley

Early autumn in New York, and the chill had already begun to seep out from every crack in the concrete, impossible to keep out.

In a back alley off a side street in Brooklyn, wet garbage, cheap beer, rotten food, and even the faint stench of urine mingled together, forming the smell of "home" Ethan Flores knew so well.

A "home" usually pieced together from broken brick walls, overturned trash cans, fire escapes, and such, replacing the gypsy trucks from his childhood memories, when he had wandered from place to place.

Lying on a crude "bed" made from several torn cardboard boxes and a moldy blanket, the black homeless man's consciousness had only just struggled free from boundless darkness.

The first thing to return was his hearing.

Along with a low, hurried mutter in a heavy accent, buzzing around his ears like an anxious old bee.

"...In the name of the Holy Spirit, in the name of Mother Earth, drive away the evil spirit possessing him, let this child's soul return... Pfft!"

A bit of warm liquid, mixed with the strong smell of alcohol, the bitterness of roots, and a distinctly spicy plant-like scent, was forcefully sprayed across his broad dark face.

Then the wind blew, bringing a brief, sunburn-like sting and irritation to his dark skin.

He suddenly sucked in a breath. Like a drowning man breaking the surface, Ethan's throat let out a choking sound.

He was awake.

His chest heaved violently as his eyelids trembled open. Through his blurred vision, he saw a dark face close at hand, wrinkled and worried, yet strangely reassuring.

Short, curly white hair clung to the man's scalp, as if he were wearing a wad of wool felt on his head.

Ethan recognized him. He was an acquaintance from the small "territory" on the other side of the neighboring block—Old Panko.

"Ethan? Kid? Thank God, you finally came back!"

The old black man crouched beside his "bed," visibly letting out a sigh of relief. He still clutched a military canteen with one corner dented in his filthy hand.

That pungent, strange smell of cheap tequila mixed with herbs clearly came from inside it.

"I thought you were really about to go see God. Or worse, maybe one of those old demons from some Mexican legend my mother used to tell me about..."

Several classic curses beginning with F burst from his mouth, complete with rolled consonants. He was clearly extremely agitated.

Ethan stared blankly at him.

"Old... Panko...?" His voice was terribly hoarse. He even unconsciously licked his lips, feeling his body temperature rise noticeably.

His mouth was full of cheap alcohol and some indescribable strange flavor. Clearly, someone had made him drink something weird earlier.

"...All right, what the hell did you make me drink... I feel like... there's... maybe a fire in my throat hot enough for a well-done veal steak."

"Good. You can still recognize me. Looks like your soul didn't all run off."

Seeing that he was awake, Old Panko ignored his halting complaints after the brief excitement passed.

Muttering casually, Old Panko finally had the time to wipe the sweat from his forehead with his free hand.

...Leaving a long smear of grime across his bronze skin in the process.

"You went out to 'pick things up' earlier, then suddenly started convulsing like a fish out of water. After that, you dropped by the roadside like you'd stopped breathing! Scared the hell out of me!"

"I almost wanted to leave you there and call the cops to deal with it. But you know how it is—when the cops come, it's even more trouble for people like us..."

The old man babbled as he rummaged through the bag he had brought, tossed something into the canteen without hesitation, then shook the thing in his hand hard.

Along with it, the newly awakened "patient" thought he heard a suspicious sizzling, melting sound.

"You... didn't call a doctor?" Ethan asked between heavy breaths, his eyes sweeping across the familiar filthy alley as though checking for something valuable that might have vanished from where it had been.

But all he saw was a motorcycle with a modified exhaust roaring past the mouth of the alley, deafening heavy-metal rap blasting from the speakers behind it.

"A doctor?" Old Panko stood up, his eyes widening as though the nonsensical question had insulted his intelligence. He shook the metal canteen in his hand. "Kid, where would we get the money for those white coats driving ambulances? That stuff is more vicious than the IRS! If they come and haul you away once, you'll be picking cotton for the hospital in the fields for your next few lifetimes!"

"Besides, did you forget? Your Old Panko came from Oaxaca. My grandmother's folk remedies work way better than those white coats' pills!"

"See? You're alive, aren't you?"

He shook the canteen hard, listening to the loud sloshing inside. "Authentic Mexican stuff—tequila plus secret medicinal herbs, specially made for all kinds of evil nonsense! Want some more?"

"No thanks. You enjoy it yourself."

His throat tightening, Ethan turned his head away from the intense smell and decisively refused the man's "kindness."

Pushing aside the blanket reeking deeply of mold, he braced himself against the trash can beside him, at least ninety percent new—or rather, a "storage bin" acquired for free from the street. The black man in the prime of his life took a deep breath, fought through the numb sluggishness in his head, and sat up.

After being force-fed a large amount of cheap alcohol, along with however many "ingredients" Old Panko had added, certain things still seemed to be surfacing in his muddled mind as his consciousness gradually cleared...

Not memories of the past thirty-odd years, spent wandering from place to place, struggling through gypsy vans and various neighborhoods, trying to put down roots but repeatedly failing, endlessly fighting against the whirlpools of life and skin color—memories deep and shallow alike, as though he had rolled over blades.

But another kind of fragment... bizarre beyond belief, yet far too clear.

Newcomer Trial... swamp... strangers he had never met... an alligator suddenly opening its jaws deep within the mud...

A flood of impressions that seemed to have happened only recently became clearer bit by bit as the effects of the "medicinal liquor" faded.

The fear of death... fleeing separately... soaking deep in muddy water, only daring to expose his eyes, his entire body gradually losing heat in bone-deep cold...

Blinding white light... a blue platform... Main God... activation number...

Those details, that pain, those emotions, were too vivid and delicate to be a dream.

...A light screen... mission rewards... an endless list...

And... exchanges?

As though recalling something in a daze, the dark-skinned man raised his hand and looked at his palms, already covered in calluses and grime from years of drifting.

Instinctively, a sudden urge to exert force flashed through his mind.

His tendons and bones trembled.

As he tried to make a fist, Ethan clearly saw it in that instant—

A tiny section of his right index finger, from the fingertip to roughly the second knuckle, was quietly and swiftly covered by a dull grayish-white layer with a metallic texture.

Looking closely, it resembled nothing more than plain pig iron, or extremely poor-quality stainless steel. It was not even as glossy as the shell of a jewel beetle.

As his index finger bent, an incredibly faint click sounded, so quiet it was almost inaudible.

The rapid change lasted less than seven or eight seconds before gradually fading, and his finger returned to its normal color and texture.

He did not even spare a glance for Old Panko beside him, whose eyes had widened as he wondered whether he was seeing things.

Ethan gritted his teeth and clenched his fist again, "exerting force."

Sure enough, that eye-catching change descended upon him once more.

With nearly half his palm now coated in that metallic texture, he slowly flexed his fingers. After confirming that he could move without issue, Ethan almost without thinking lightly poked the "storage bin" beside him with that hand.

Bang.

What rang out was not the sound of flesh pressing against thin metal, but a sharper, crisp vibration like metal striking metal!

Bang bang!

Bang bang bang!!!

After a brief moment of shock and near-disbelieving daze—

Like a child who had received a new toy, a stiff, even somewhat bizarre smile slowly spread across his dark face.

Instinctively, he kept increasing the force in his hand, experimentally yet tirelessly reaching out to poke the obvious "target" again and again!

One finger... two fingers... several fingers... concentrated piercing... fingernail slashing... knuckle tapping... the front of his fingers half-curled into a fist to strike...

This seemingly "childish" behavior continued until the hardness in his fingers gradually began to fade.

By his estimate, nearly half a minute had passed before that dull silver color completely disappeared from his human body.

Feeling the dull pain that came when his fingers, restored to normal flesh, struck the metal once more.

The stark difference before and after made the strange smile on Ethan Flores's face grow increasingly obvious.

Not a dream.

That had not been a dream.

That strange place called the Main God Game definitely had not been a dream.

That strange "exchange," so much like something from old superhero movies, called [X-Gene Random Low-Level Activation Awakening].

...He had truly brought it back.

At that moment, he seemed to think of something.

Ignoring the faint weakness spreading through his body, Ethan, an avowed nonbeliever, knelt among the cardboard for the first time in his life with such devotion. He bowed deeply and pressed his forehead to the ground—

"Lord, Sovereign who walks in Heaven..."

"Thank You for Your generosity, for granting us every spiritual blessing in the heavens..."

Beside him, Old Panko's mouth had fallen completely open, yet no sound came out. Now trembling, he could only press a hand tightly over his mouth.

While wondering whether he had accidentally inhaled some of the "good stuff" used by those people who often lay in the streets like The Walking Dead, he also awkwardly avoided the gaze of the Ethan kid who had only just awakened.

It was a look that should not have appeared in people like them—street drifters at the very bottom of society, homeless and with almost no hope for the future.

...A light that seemed utterly exhausted, yet astonishingly sharp.