The doctor watched with great interest, saying that sometimes these pre-visual industrial distortions could burst forth with art and creativity.

John wasn’t very interested.

He was part of the generation polluted by the Super Sensing Chip, having experienced immersive stimulation with full-sensory rendering, and looking at these 3D products was as boring as squatting by the roadside staring up at ads on skyscrapers.

The doctor took on the role of audience and commentator.

He was like an old antique in cyberspace tagged with “nostalgia,” but his actual age was far from the release date of the movie, so his nostalgia was unfounded, more like an unconventional hobby.

John focused on devouring fried food.

The takeout emitted a thick greasy smell that cloyed the throat, with the main course made of street-synthesized meat chunks wrapped in a spiced batter and cooked in bad oil, then sprinkled with spices after being fished out.

He chewed the meat chunks, feeling the woody and dispersive texture between his teeth, silently analyzing the specific process.

“Doctor, I’m thinking of starting a food business, using fresh meat. If you’re interested, you can come and support me, and I’ll have the staff give you a discount… consider it as compensation for me mooching your drinks, how about that?”

Ryan crossed his arms and turned around in the dim basement.

It took him a few seconds to break free from his greasy lethargy, and he slowly processed John’s words before letting out a laugh.

“Damn it, when I opened you up, how come I didn’t see anything called a conscience…”

“What the hell are you saying? We’re… friends, right?”

John hesitated as he spoke. “Oh, shit, that sounds just as bad, considering there’s a generation gap between us. Maybe you can tell me stories about before you were caught by Nocturne Bar, those mercenaries you encountered.”

“They’re all dead; that’s the price of becoming a big shot. After hitting the peak of legend, nothing fits them other than death.”

Ryan didn’t elaborate further.

There was no trace of nostalgia or sadness in his expression, nor any strong desire to communicate, finally mumbling words like “food business” and “discount,” shaking his head with a sneer.

“You realize you only have six months to live, right?”

“Of course.”

John’s tone was certain, yet his manner of drinking remained calm. “This city has taught me to face disappointment; how much worse could it get?”

Deep down, he actually had a vague direction.

Since there were already leads on the mercenaries who hijacked the vehicle back then, trying to trace them might bring about a turnaround.

“Well, I must say, compared to those dead legends, your end-of-life performance isn’t bad at all…”

Ryan joked, pondering for a moment, like making random chit-chat.

The doctor said the biggest issue for John right now was brain damage, and he had heard before—Gaia Cell Company could repair severely damaged brains, even achieving one-to-one replication.

“Copy-pasting the brain? Gotta be a joke.”

“I thought it was nonsense at first too, but then I learned the surgery mainly consists of two parts: brain tissue repair, followed by memory extraction and transfer.”

Ryan held his bottle, nervously touching his scalp, as if discussing something that crossed ethical boundaries.

Among the commonly circulated technologies in the Cyber Era were memory extraction and storage, with memory storage banks specifically dedicated in some European institutions.

Related applications were also commonplace in Eden City daily life.

Sex dolls providing services in entertainment venues often wore specially made behavior chips—similar to street action chips, which offered killing and combat skills, whereas the former provided high-level pleasure skills.

One of the most important functions of sex doll behavior chips is memory storage.

They cause the service provider to lose all memory of the period after work ends, until customers reorder, thereby continuing past habits and awakening the previous process.

Apart from sex dolls, most extracted memories are used to make Super Sensing Chips, allowing others to read and experience them in hardware form.

Companies solicit and purchase some memories from citizens to produce ads and Super Sensing Chip materials. Customers who have their memories extracted exhibit mild side effects, but the compensation from companies still attracts a lot of people.

All these technologies have prerequisites. In a sense, the extracted “memory” is a material matter that can be processed, compiled, and read. But putting this stuff back into the brain intact, making it part of the subconscious, presents a completely different challenge.

“Can it really be done?”

“I used to doubt it, until I met you.” The doctor turned his head expressionlessly to scrutinize him. “Do you think the process that turned you from Chavez into John happened differently? Isn’t replacing memory more acceptable than replacing the brain?”

“Alright, you win.”

John gave up arguing, after all, he himself was unclear on the specific process.

“Even if technology breaks through, where should I start?”

“Haven’t you already encountered someone? Remember, a colleague from Tiebang Logistics was sold to Plato for experiments, leading to memory confusion, and you’ve even met their manager… People dealing with memories probably have some brain repair technology.”

Ryan casually provided a lead, without exploring the feasibility.

“Overall, it’s about saving your brain, John. Just because we can’t do it doesn’t mean the wealthy big shots can’t; the technology they enjoy should be relatively mature.”

“Tsk, tsk, tsk.”

John lifted his glass with a smile. “If we keep chatting, I’ll start feeling hopeful about the future.”

“Ha, good luck to you… oh no, good death.”

Clink~

Ryan and John clinked glasses.

John lay on the hospital bed, wrapped in a white blanket that reeked of disinfectant.

To be honest…

Even John himself didn’t expect to sleep so soundly. Perhaps after multiple flirtations with death, even the brain nerves began to learn to adapt and self-adjust.

Anxiety can’t change the status quo, so just live calmly.

The East District Underground Shopping Street was sprawling.

A separate armed group maintained the black market trade, originally arising during the Eden City independence war, preserving street peace amidst chaos. Through numerous turmoils and replacements, they stabilized their power in this bustling underground market area.

Its main structure lay beneath the city.

The black market comprised of abandoned subway platforms, city pipelines, basements of three large adjacent mega malls, and some abandoned air defense facilities.

The area was incredibly vast.

That’s why Eden City East District’s GDP was often said to be split in two parts—sustained by both suited corporate dogs and gun-toting tattooed thugs.

John roamed the black market all morning, choosing several food stalls and arranging his stomach’s space.

Perhaps because he planned to open a shop himself, he recently devoted his energy to related affairs, even developing a desire to taste more street food.

In the process, he familiarized himself with the East District black market, roughly figuring out what services each area provided.

It was quite comprehensive.

Most shop owners able to survive in this field were shrewd, with well-informed connections.

If introduced by an acquaintance, one could leverage [street reputation] to get discounts, access hidden products, or receive customized services.

John had a modest reputation among Lone Wolf mercenaries, known to many, yet lost amidst countless street tales.

After finishing his last meal, he waved for the bill, ready to leave, noticing—a guard patrolling under a smoking pipe was stealing glances at him from afar.

These people were the order keepers of the East District black market.

John suddenly recalled:

He felt the market was particularly stable this morning, so how could he have been attacked last time at the underground passage entrance?

What were these guys doing at that time…

Could it be, they had set him up, but for what purpose?

In thought, John withdrew his hand from his work jacket, waving with a smile at the guy peeking from afar.

The other party immediately stood up, stubbed out his cigarette, and turned to leave.

John decided to approach them in a different way.

He drove the Jurassic ZT15 to the dismantling workshop stretching from the East District black market above ground, purchasing the most expensive bullet mark repair package, intending to test whether they were honest.

Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep