Chapter Eighteen: The Marauder Raef

“Ahahaha! Ahahaha!” Velly lay sprawled in Enoch’s cargo bed, eyes rolled back as he stared at the sky. “People! So many people! Hahaha... so much fun... ahahaha!”

“Useless.” Enoch was thoroughly annoyed. He truly hadn’t expected Velly to be so hopeless.

The Dyson Principle prohibited the production and sale of most addictive substances. Anyone who violated this would lose their protection. Ethanol was allowed for personal use, but when used for non-motive purposes, intake was strictly limited—not to exceed 0.3% of one’s body weight.

However, some “physiologically non-addictive” substances were still legally sold.

For example, directly breaching the blood-brain barrier to inject testosterone, combined with electrical stimulation of the brain.

This was said to be a tradition, existing even before the Dyson Law came into effect. Traditional men would indulge in this ritual after finishing a round of martial arts games or watching a competitive match.

Enoch especially liked this regimen. Before puberty, he had become a heavy-duty machine. In theory, he no longer possessed organs that secreted testosterone, nor many parts regulated by it—such as bones or muscles.

Normally, he should never have developed any concept of the opposite sex.

Enoch would never forget the day he first received this treatment from a technician. As the liquid entered his brain, he felt ignited—an unprecedented sensation he could hardly describe. The chaotic electrical impulses from his biological brain baffled his mechanical body.

He didn’t understand it...

There was an urge, as if he wanted to destroy this body and break free from his shell.

He didn’t even recall how he got back to town that day. He must have damaged something. At that time, Yulia scolded him. His instincts told him he wanted to access Yulia’s database... or something else. He wanted to access... wanted to...

It must have been that injection that drove him mad.

Thus, Enoch understood Velly’s current state particularly well. The poor guy had no money and perhaps had never experienced anything like this.

Enoch had spent a good deal of money at the service station over the years. Even this time, bringing Velly here didn’t trouble him much. Besides dreaming of being with Yulia, his other dream was to become a “regular” at the service station. It was said the owner possessed some ancient human visual research data—highly mysterious and only accessible to a few regulars.

Enoch wanted to join their ranks...

“Bang!”

A sudden sound.

Enoch grew irritated. Though lacking tactile sensors, his other detection systems were quite sensitive. His driving system displayed an abrupt increase of around 200 kilograms on his body. Coupled with the sound, there was only one explanation.

He was being hassled by the pulley gang again.

Pulley gang were a bunch of petty thugs—ruffians and hooligans. Mostly idle, they survived by running errands. Enoch never thought this was honest work. They couldn’t afford proper power systems, so they relied on a vacuum suction cup, some chains, and a set of pulleys to hitch rides.

Every transporter hated these parasitic pests who clung to their vehicles at the slightest opportunity.

Enoch pulled up the map and began recalling nearby routes, searching for a curve—a sharp turn—where he could swiftly shake off the pulley gang.

In such cases, even if a pulley gang member were thrown off and killed, it wouldn’t violate the Dyson Principle. Their actions—unauthorized use of another’s resources, specifically fuel—were not deserving of protection. If the owner’s counterattack resulted in the gang member’s death, the owner wouldn’t lose their own protection.

But then came the “thud-thud-thud” sounds. The suction cup seemed to detach only to reattach ahead of him each time.

—What the hell?

Startled, Enoch slammed on the brakes. A black figure suddenly appeared before him. Velly was nearly thrown out of the cargo bed, landing with a thud on the ground. Then, he rotated the left wheel forward, the right wheel backward, and made a sharp emergency turn.

Yet, a suction cup was already latched onto the front of Enoch’s vehicle.

With the winch tightening, a small silver cyborg with four arms approached. “Hey there, dear friend Enoch, mind stopping for me?”

The man’s voice was refined. Enoch intended to ram him with his vehicle, but the man’s action stopped him.

A half-meter-long barrel was pointed at the area housing Enoch’s biological brain.

It was an electromagnetic gun of modern design. Before the recoil could push the muzzle back, it could fire several bullets in rapid succession. These bullets resembled jagged alloy spears, enough to tear through the shell of a civilian machine like Enoch.

Enoch’s engine emitted a nervous hum. “Mr. Laif... I’m sorry, I... I just didn’t recognize you!”

He knew this man. His name was Laif, who lost his “protection” years ago for murder.

Losing protection was a grave misfortune. It meant anyone could kill you without losing their own protection. Lords and their warriors wouldn’t stop anyone from killing you.

Moreover, if you committed any act violating the Dyson Principle, the lord would issue a bounty on you.

In other words, losing protection didn’t mean death—it meant that the most powerful violent organizations in the world would no longer shield you.

Whether it was revenge from clones, blood relatives, or others—it was all fair game.

Those who survived in such circumstances were often formidable.

Killing someone without protection didn’t forfeit one’s own civilized protection.

Thus, civilization and order still existed around the cities and settlements.

But far from the cities, in the wilderness, savagery prevailed.

Those outlaws who fled to the wilds after losing protection fought each other brutally.

Then they banded together for warmth and tended to their wounds.

These were the “outlaws.”

Those who survived there were mostly warriors or at least versed in hand-to-hand combat.

They were the kind of people ordinary citizens dared not provoke.

Enoch even recognized the outlaw before him. Laif was short, under 1.5 meters, but sturdy. The bright red “Z” marked on his head was his license to maraud unchecked.

Enoch had seen him at the service station before. But Laif, who retained more biological organs, never indulged in the heavy machinery service station Enoch frequented. He usually went next door. Enoch never dared to provoke such thugs. Only once did Laif suddenly come to the heavy machinery station to get a testosterone shot for his brain.

“Cheap! Fake! But it feels damn good!” Laif said in a daze afterward.

Enoch was parked right beside him then and mustered the courage to speak. “Mm.”

Their acquaintance was limited to the service station. Sometimes Laif would come over to get a testosterone shot and a few milliamps of brain stimulation. It depended on his mood. Enoch treated this strongman with courtesy. When they happened to be side by side, and the electrical signals still scrambled within their brains, Laif would casually chat about wild tales of killing and arson in the wilderness.

At those moments, Enoch felt quite impressive. These outlaws, though stripped of civilized protection, were still alive—some living flamboyantly as strong men.

And to be able to talk with such figures made him feel far superior to the townsfolk.

In Laif’s presence, Enoch dared not show the slightest disrespect.

“Mr. Laif, what brings you to the city this time?” Enoch adjusted his vocalizer parameters desperately, trying to sound obedient. “We were playing at the service station earlier. Didn’t you see us? Didn’t greet you?”

“Oh, dear brother Enoch, saying that would make people think I came to the city just for the services.” Laif tapped his forehead. “Our boss checks memories too. You’re putting me in trouble.”

“I... I...” Enoch felt his clutch behaving erratically and grew uneasy.

If not for knowing Laif, he might have already encountered an error from fear.

“Don’t be like that, don’t be like that, friend.” Laif affectionately removed the suction cup and patted Enoch’s vehicle front. “Talking to someone like me, who’s lost civilized protection, won’t hurt you. Don’t be afraid.”

“Losing protection” was just that—losing protection. Human citizens had no obligation to kill these outlaws nor to avoid them. One was free to treat them as they wished—truly free. You could kill them or cheat their private property without any negative marks. Doing business or befriending them was permitted.

Some skilled outlaws came to the city as well. They faced various attacks but those who wanted to kill them had to consider the cost.

Outlaws entered the city to shop, get repairs, and enjoy services.

Of course, they also gathered intelligence.

These outlaws had to abide by some rules—for example, they couldn’t easily attack settlements under lordly protection. They survived only because lords and warriors deemed their crimes insufficient to justify the cost of eradication.

But once they crossed a certain line, making the lord decide “they must be killed,” their fate was sealed.

They occasionally ambushed individuals in the wild, hiding their identities during such acts. They would never attack protected settlements.

But when a settlement lost civilized protection... haha.

“Brother Enoch, I just heard something—something very interesting.” Laif smiled. “If I recall, you’re from the Junkyard Town, right?”