Dilapidated shacks, rusted furniture caked in grime, somehow pulsing with a futuristic hum. Gritty sand and an acrid stench whip through shattered windows on a toxic breeze.

  Unlike the shack’s rotting decay, the window frames a distant, neon-soaked megacity, its blazing skyline a cruel contrast to the festering slum’s crumbling hovels.

  Orren gapes at the grim scene, still reeling, struggling to swallow the truth: he’s crash-landed in an alien world, just a lowly Enforcer in the Cassidia Sector’s Edge Colonies.

  But the jagged reality bites too hard to deny—every vivid memory in his skull screams crystal-clear truth.

  This is a cyberpunk hellhole where the rich and cyber-augmented elite drown in decadent excess, while the poor scrape by like filthy rats in the muck.

  But that’s not the worst of it. The real kicker? Voidspawn—grotesque insectoid aliens crawling from the void, like xenomorphs from hell, sporting scales, writhing tendrils, and razor fangs. They’re freakishly smart, hunting humans as their goddamn prey across the stars.

  His body’s original owner? A slum-born scumbag, clawing his way up through cunning, deceit, and every dirty crime in the book to become a slum Enforcer, living decently by gutter standards.

  Well, shit. Looks like I’ve hijacked the soul of a real bastard.

  Drug peddling, murder, betrayal, theft—you name it, this asshole did it.

  But why the hell did this guy suddenly croak, leaving me to take over his rotten soul?

  At that thought, Orren notices a grimy syringe still jabbed into his left arm, its surface flashing a glaring warning label for Neural Toxin.

  Neural Toxin…

  Memory fragments slam into him like a data spike. It’s a drug-like extract from rare minerals, potent enough to shred a man’s will, plunging them into a brain-dead coma if the dose is high enough.

  Did the original owner OD on this crap?

  Orren’s eyes widen as he yanks out the battered syringe, terrified the toxin might fry his alien-world soul too.

  “You… you’re still fucking alive?”

  A panicked voice cuts through. Half-sprawled in the corner, Orren looks up to see a scrawny man and woman in the wrecked shack, thin as goddamn twigs.

  The guy’s young, maybe twelve, but so emaciated he looks seven, his face gaunt, eyes sunken with blue rims, arms pocked with syringe scars.

  This kid’s a damn junkie!

  The woman, his mother, is slightly better off—not an addict, but starvation and poverty have smeared her face with grime. Right now, the pair stare at Orren, their eyes brimming with raw despair and terror.

  “Hold up, I’m getting the hell out!”

  Orren blurts, scrambling to his feet.

  They look like they couldn’t fight a roach, but Orren’s not itching for trouble. Memory shards are piecing together the ugly truth.

  He was here to sling drugs, wasn’t he? Oh, and to extort this sorry mother and son, squeezing their last digital credits dry. Hell, the original owner even got a twisted kick out of eyeing the scrawny, filthy woman, her body reeking of rot.

  But the duo fought back, refusing to hand over their credits. In a desperate struggle, they jammed that syringe into him.

  That’s how the bastard bit the dust.

  “Don’t do anything stupid, just chill, I’m gone!”

  Orren yells, spinning to bolt.

  But something’s off. His vision flickers with hallucinations…

  Is that damn Neural Toxin kicking in?

  Panic grips Orren, but he quickly realizes these aren’t normal hallucinations.

  Neural Matrix: Orren Bran

  Status

  ? Class: Neural Hunter

  ? Level: Spark Tier - Level 1

  ? Neural Data: 90/100

  Equipment

  ? Standard Energy Blade

  ? Standard Energy Pistol

  Cyber Skills

  ? Energy Slash (Basic Blade Strike)

  ? Firearms Use (Basic)

  Special Skill: Neural Overclock

  [Can Overload Neural Data to boost skill levels.]

  [Cannot Overclock if Neural Data falls below 20 points.]

  The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

  [Current Neural Data: 90 points]

  Orren stares at the glowing text, a spark of clarity hitting him. Holy shit, I’ve got a system?

  The panel’s “Spark Tier” refers to this world’s power ranks, from Spark Level to Core Level, Horizon Level, each with ten sub-levels, from 1 to 10.

  Anything beyond that? His body’s original owner was too lowlife to know.

  Right now, Orren’s Spark Tier, Level 1—weak as hell, but still a cut above the classless slum rats.

  So, the skills—Energy Slash, Firearms Use—are tricks this body’s owner already had.

  But what grabs Orren’s attention is that Special Skill: Neural Overclock!

  This wasn’t something the old Orren had!

  Is this my cheat code from crossing over?!

  “This skill looks badass, but Neural Overclock… burning Neural Data… what happens if I burn too much?” Orren mutters, pondering.

  Memories flood in. First, a wild rush of euphoria during Overclock, but when it fades? Dizziness, brain overload, searing pain, even memory glitches. Long-term memory fuck-ups could turn him into a cyberpsycho, and the worst-case scenario? Neural burnout—total brain fry.

  “Fuck me, this thing’s side effects are brutal!” Orren’s jaw drops.

  With downsides this nasty, he can’t just spam this skill. He sure as hell doesn’t want to end up a raving cyberpsycho days after crossing over.

  This skill’s not the god-tier power he hoped for—it’s a damn liability with side effects so bad he’s scared to touch it.

  Orren mentally swipes the panel away, his gaze snapping to the mother and son, now on high alert, scrambling for anything to use as a weapon.

  It’s their panicked racket—grabbing a rusty fruit knife and waving it like a threat—that yanks Orren back from the panel’s glow.

  “Chill, I’m outta here!”

  Orren bolts, leaving the trash-strewn hovel behind.

  The gaunt mother, Elena, watches him go, one arm clutching her son, the other gripping the knife, eyes locked on the doorway, uneasy.

  She can’t wrap her head around it. A lowlife thug like Orren, leaving without his credits? No way he’d just walk away willingly.

  Unless…

  A chilling thought hits her. Elena’s eyes widen, her body trembling, fear flooding her gaze.

  Her frame shakes like a leaf!

  Creak.

  Stepping out of the rotting shack, Orren hits the rubble-strewn streets, a wasteland of ruins. He sucks in a gulp of dry night air, only to choke on gritty sand.

  And then there’s that stench—rotting, putrid, like death itself.

  “This smell… it’s too damn familiar…”

  Have I forgotten something critical?

  “Got those useless human digits yet?” (Referring to digital credits)

  A rasping, inhuman voice grates, barely human, and the rotting stench triples in intensity.

  Orren freezes, his eyes flicking sideways.

  There, a monstrous insect, big as a damn hill, tilts its head, staring. Its massive mandibles click, spitting human words.

  The thing’s nearly three meters long, its body clad in glossy black scales that shimmer darkly. Octopus-like tendrils writhe from its back, floating in the air. Its head, like a dragonfly’s, sports huge compound eyes and pincer mandibles that churn the stomach.

  “Human wealth’s always a pain in the ass. What’s it called, crypto-credits? Gimme raw ore or food any day! And that mother and son? Their stench is off—tastes like shit, probably from sucking down that neuro-dust crap.”

  “They’re worth one lousy shard of voidstone.”

  The bug keeps yammering.

  Orren’s face darkens, his head dipping. The grim truth hits—he remembers the original owner’s fastest cash grab.

  Selling off helpless slum-dwellers to Voidspawn as food.

  Voidspawn, alien freaks crawling from void rifts, with a hunger for human flesh.

  Sure, the Federation loves to crow about waging all-out war to wipe these filthy bugs from the stars.

  But the dirty secret? Plenty of these critters have infested human colonies, their influence sprawling like a cancer.

  Especially with scum like Orren, who’ve sold their souls to the bugs, trading humans for resources.

  Orren’s done this deal too many times.

  Just a few slum rats, right? Who gives a shit if they die? In this cyberpunk cesspool, dead nobodies don’t make waves. The sun rises anyway.

  They’re doomed anyway—why not cash in?

  That’s how the original owner thought.

  Fucking hell!

  “This body’s owner was a grade-A piece of shit.”

  The full picture clicks.

  Orren stands rigid, torn. He wants to stop the bug, but his system pings, and he realizes he can see the monster’s panel.

  Neural Matrix: Enemy Scan

  Warning: Voidspawn Detected - Neural Energy Signature Confirmed

  Status

  ? Name: Void Crawler

  ? Class: Low-Tier Lv3

  ? Level: Threat Level 2

  Attributes: Unknown. (No prior kills of this species to extract accurate baseline data.)

  Skills: Unknown

  Low-Tier Voidspawn, Level 3.

  That’s the critical intel Orren gleans—sparse, but enough.

  These void bugs are born fighters, way tougher than humans. Their low-tier grunts match human Spark Tiers, and this one’s Level 3 while Orren’s stuck at Level 1.

  The gap’s like a bare-knuckled nobody facing a goddamn tiger!

  Hell, just eyeballing the bug’s size and look screams danger.

  Orren’s glued to the spot, clueless on what to do.

  Guess he’s just gonna watch that mother and son get screwed over by his body’s old sins?

  But then, something unexpected happens.

  The Void Crawler’s claw slashes forward, and the shack’s door flies off, taking half the wall with it in a cloud of dust and debris.

  As the chaos settles, Orren peers inside.

  The room’s empty, save for piles of junk. No sign of anyone.

  Turns out, the mother and son caught Orren’s weird vibe and remembered slum whispers about humans sold to Voidspawn. They bolted out the back door in a panic.

  Now, the Void Crawler, seeing its meal gone, erupts in fury!

  “You lying human scum! Where’s my fucking food?”

  “I… I don’t know, man…”

  Orren exhales, trying to explain.

  But he’s not off the hook.

  The bug’s barrel-thick tendrils whip like a lash, cracking the air with a sonic boom.

  “Fine, I’ll eat your sorry ass instead!”

  The bug snarls, its tendril’s brutal force sending Orren flying, crashing into a street-side dumpster.

  The reek of garbage and blinding pain make Orren’s head spin. He feels like death, his body screaming.

  The bug’s mandibles clack, a whip-long tongue slithering out, licking Orren’s face and chest.

  A slimy, sticky sensation hits, paired with a gagging stench!

  The thought of being chomped by this disgusting freak makes Orren’s gut churn. His stomach lurches, ready to puke up the day’s nutrient paste.

  “Goddamn it, I just got here, and I’m already dead?”

  Orren’s heart screams defiance, a crazed glint flashing in his eyes.

  If he’s gonna die, screw the side effects!

  Neural Overclock, let’s fucking go!

  Orren roars in his mind.

  The next second, he clutches his temples as neon-rainbow light explodes in his pupils!