Cyberpunk Patriarch-Chapter 122: One Thousand Euro Per Person!

In Night City, being scammed and walking away with nothing to your name is almost a happy ending. Because at least, you're still breathing.

Getting sold off to scavengers to be stripped like pigs at a meat market—that's the real standard for "rock bottom." And if you checked your inbox, you'd see that reality play out every day.

Half the emails a Night City resident gets come from scavs—offering black-market chrome for a "limited-time discount," or some shady ad for "barely used" neuralware that "may occasionally spark." The rest? Mostly overdue rent notices. Because unless you've got a company badge or blackmail material on a board member, nobody's sending you a happy birthday message in Night City.

Arthur leaned back in the driver's seat and lit a cigarette, glancing at Saul beside him with amusement.

"You saying I look like a little girl now?" Saul grumbled. "You always crack these jokes. We're at the age where we should be settling down. Starting companies, building legacies. Just like you did with Umbrella."

Arthur just shrugged and puffed a cloud of smoke out the window. He didn't say anything.

Because between the two of them, only one had a cheat code.

Arthur knew the truth—his Umbrella Company wasn't built on long hours and luck. It was built on a system that handed him blueprints for tech twenty years ahead of its time. He just had to pick which future he wanted first. If he felt like it, he could release the Mengdie System tomorrow and become richer than the Arasakas overnight. CEOs would line up to plug it into their skulls like kids waiting for candy.

But he wasn't in any rush. Let the corps think they were still kings.

Sol, on the other hand, had no such system. No cheat code. No golden parachute. Just a tribe, a truck, and dreams that the corps would toss into the incinerator the second they got inconvenient.

The sands of the Badlands stretched wide around them, dust dancing in the wind like golden smoke. Sol sighed and looked out the window, eyes scanning the dead landscape.

"Doesn't look like this used to," he muttered. "I swear sandstorms were rarer before. You could see blue sky back in the day."

Arthur pressed the accelerator harder. "Everything used to be better," he replied. "But nostalgia doesn't pay rent."

It wasn't long before they rolled up on the Red Ocher tribe's camp.

You could always spot a nomad camp from a distance. The tents, the scrap-built trailers, the dogs roaming loose between busted generators and crates. Trash everywhere. Smell of oil, blood, and the last meal cooked over a half-burnt stove.

Arthur opened the car door and stepped out. Saul practically leapt from the passenger seat and jogged ahead, worry plain on his face.

Arthur took one look around and immediately caught a whiff of blood.

Smoke billowed up from the heart of the camp, thick and black. Tents had been torn to ribbons, some still burning. Blood painted the ground like crude graffiti, mixed with tire tracks deep enough to snap an ankle.

Arthur lit another cigarette and muttered under his breath, "Night City's favorite play. The clown gets played."

This wasn't just a raid. This was a slaughter.

Inside the camp, bodies were everywhere. Some shredded by shrapnel, others sprawled as if they'd just collapsed where they stood. A few were still alive, breathing shallowly, eyes wide open but empty.

And the kids... there were kids, curled into their parents' corpses, shaking with wide, animal fear.

Arthur's jaw tightened.

Saul stood cradling a child in his arms—barely more than a toddler—trembling like he had Parkinson's. Arthur approached and raised an eyebrow.

"You were right," Saul said without looking at him. "I was the naive one."

Arthur didn't reply. What was there to say?

Not far from them, a man huddled alone in a corner, hands wrapped around his knees, eyes darting in every direction like he was waiting for death to return.

Arthur waved him over. The man flinched, but after a moment's hesitation, he shuffled over like a kicked dog.

"You're...?"

"Saul," the man answered for himself. "Adecado clan. What the hell happened here?"

The survivor sniffled. "Biotech," he muttered. "The meds... they weren't finished. Half the tribe got dosed. Most of them died."

Arthur leaned against a nearby wrecked bus, blowing out a long stream of smoke.

"They kept the trials going," he said flatly. "Because you're not people. You're numbers. And when the numbers die, you just blame the spreadsheet."

The man's hands clenched. Arthur didn't stop.

"They probably told you it was a bad reaction. 'Oh, just an immune anomaly.' And out of humanitarian concern, they're gonna offer what? Ten thousand? Nah, they'll cheap out. One thousand euro per body sound about right?"

The man screamed and lunged at Arthur.

Bad move.

Arthur didn't even flinch. He sidestepped, twisted the man's wrist, and with a brutal yank, dislocated the arm at the elbow.

CRACK.

The man crumpled, howling, gripping his broken arm.

"Draw a knife on the one guy who didn't murder your family," Arthur muttered. "Classic Night City."

He turned back toward Saul, who was staring at him with a complicated expression.

"Sorry," Arthur said, "but I don't do inspirational speeches for fools. Your tribe's not dead because you trusted the wrong people. It's dead because you trusted anyone in Night City." freēwēbηovel.c૦m

Saul looked down at the child in his arms and nodded, quiet.

Arthur stepped over the wailing man still clutching his ruined arm and walked through the carnage.

The stench of scorched chrome and protein slurry hung in the air. Every broken tent, every burnt-out food truck, every scavenged weapon told the same story.

The tribe had been nothing more than lab rats. And when the test went sideways? Biotech sent in the cleaners.

Arthur looked back at Saul. "Come on," he said. "Let's see if there are any survivors with something useful to say."

Behind him, the man on the ground sobbed quietly, still muttering about dead wives and a thousand euro checks.

Because in Night City, that was the value of your entire bloodline.

One thousand euro per person.

No refunds.

No apologies.

Just business.

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