Players Invade Cyberpunk

Of course, the Red Killer couldn't completely believe everything Clint said.

With both parents being delinquents, the odds that he'd turn out any better are pretty low.

Chances are he'd get into gambling, drugs, and prostitution just the same.

But in the Chaotic Blade Association, no one cares about or pays attention to your past. After all, what good people would come to join the Chaotic Blade Association? Everyone's carrying a heap of baggage, so more often than not, they can't find someone who would truly listen to them.

Especially when it comes to those old, messy stories—no one wants to hear them.

Nevertheless, Clint didn't feel embarrassed talking about these things. With the Red Killer's guidance, he naturally brought them up, starting to feel better about him. At least some things are better said out loud than kept inside.

Although sprinkled with expletives, the Red Killer could still listen to everything without a change in expression. Such an excellent listener is rare in Night City.

It wasn't until Clint's mouth went dry from talking so much did the Red Killer slowly ask,

"Have you..."

"ever wanted to do something?"

"Huh?"

"I mean, what's your hope for the future, like your aspirations? Just like those mercenaries in Night City aiming to become legends, what about you?"

"This..."

This question, for Clint, is there anything that needs real thought?

What do I want to do...

"Heh, of course, it's to make a lot of money, pull off a big gig, and earn a fortune."

Halfway through speaking, he remembered these are the people who've diminished his money streams, leaving him awkwardly silent.

"I didn't mean it like that, it's not directed at you guys..."

"It's okay."

The Red Killer indicated that he didn't mind.

"But your answer isn't right. Money is just a tool to achieve dreams, it's a means, not an end."

"Result...?"

Clint asked, feeling guilty, probing.

"To become a rich person?"

"A rich person is still just rich. The point is, what do you want to do with that money?"

Clint kept mulling over in his mind, what else to do with money? Of course, it's to indulge in eating, drinking, pleasure, gambling, smoking!

Have a thrill, experience the lifestyle of the rich—days so many people would trade their lives for.

But...

Even he couldn't convince himself with that answer.

When thinking about himself becoming such a rich person, dining on exotic delicacies, leaving home with a convoy of bodyguards, sleeping in luxurious manors...

Yet....

Empty...

I think...

Somehow,

Clint suddenly remembered in childhood when his father mentioned that back then, their family had a vast farmland filled beyond sight with corn. When the harvest season came, corn piled up like mountains by the combines, and he loved lying on those piles, soaking up the warm summer sun.

Clint had never seen corn, at least not in reality.

By the time he grew up, corn only existed in greenhouses.

Exclusively for the plantations of the wealthy.

Yet he always remembered the nostalgic smile on his father's face when he spoke of corn.

Those days in the fields must have been happy...

"I think..."

Even as he said it, Clint barely believed it himself.

"I'd like to find a piece of land, be a farmer, grow a whole lot of corn..."

Clint let out a scoff, taking a deep drag of his cigarette. As if he could own land; cultivated land globally has shrunk to less than a third of what it was in the early 21st century, and companies own all of it. They even monopolize plant seeds.

Under current laws, growing a single tomato in private is illegal, subject to confiscation, and colossal fines.

This seemingly simple wish to listeners, in this age, is extravagantly luxurious.

Even more than buying a house in the city.

"Then you should work harder, Clint."

"What?"

"As far as I know, our company is planning future projects in agriculture. If you perform well enough, get out early, I can help you secure a position related to agriculture."

Lin Miao's not the only one who can paint rosy prospects; players can too.

But the drawing isn't baseless—had Clint said he wanted to become an astronaut or the U.S. President, the Red Killer would have to think about how to respond.

Clint looked up, a bit puzzled, at the Red Killer, who had already stood up.

"What's the difference? Still working for your company, being a corporate dog."

"Of course there's a difference."

"The difference is it's not about what I want you to do or what you have to do for money, but rather about what you want to do."

The situation here is different from that era.

People don't pursue a patch of land or warm hearths with families anymore.

The people of this age are spiritually void; the high-pressure societal environment keeps everyone living day-to-day. An impotent government, powerful greedy corporations, chaotic order—they find no direction, see no future, and can only fill their vacuous souls with whatever is within reach.

Gambling, drugs, the thrill of life-and-death, or 'rebelling' against the corporation, to become Night City's legend—even for just a moment, even if the next second they meet their end by Adam Smasher's hand, they relish it.

But the more they pursue these fleeting thrills, the bigger and deeper that void gets, until finally, that emptiness swallows them whole, leaving them utterly desperate and collapsing.

It's not material they lack.

It's the pursuit of self-realization.

As the saying goes, when people aren't full, they have just one need—to eat. But once they're full, they have a million desires, so better to stay hungry.