In that instant just now, Johnny had felt the terrifying aura around Deathstroke. It was as if he were staring into a bottomless abyss, and every human instinct in his soul had urged him to flee at once.
But he was, after all, a legendary figure of Night City. He quickly composed himself, opened the liquor Deathstroke had given him, took a sip, and spoke to Ciri, who was idly looking around nearby.
"Just who is your uncle? Or let me put it another way: how many people has he killed?"
Before becoming Silverhand, Johnny had been an outstanding soldier of New America. Before he was betrayed, he had even been a Combat Hero. The moment Deathstroke returned to his original appearance, Johnny had recognized him as a soldier too.
"Who knows?" Ciri dragged the corpse along the ground and moved it somewhere concealed. Straightening up, she dusted off her hands. "But I suggest you seriously prepare for what comes next instead of asking about ancient history. What decent person keeps count of how many people they've killed?"
A few yesterday, a few tomorrow, day after day after tomorrow—there were so many tomorrows.
Other than deranged serial killers, no one deliberately kept track of how many people they had killed. Once that number passed a certain point, it lost any commemorative meaning.
Ciri had grown up in a chaotic, magical medieval world. People there did not merely lack ID cards; some did not even have surnames. Once they died, they were dead. Their corpses might be dragged away by Ghouls to build nests, or hauled off by spider crabs to be eaten. No one remembered them.
The more chaotic the world, the cheaper human lives became. Night City was the same kind of place.
Besides, Deathstroke had left her here