Brook Garbage Star, owned by Little Sheep Food Co., has a corn factory, surrounded by an industrial town with a population of 5,260.
The Big Tomato Pizza shop is currently in operation.
The counter is busy, and the inside is bustling.
The air smells of sweat mixed with pizza.
Amid the loud, frantic shouting, the Toad Player, with its rusted metal casing, opens its mouth and broadcasts the weather news.
“Welcome to today’s weather forecast brought to you by the Climate Department of Little Sheep Food Co. It’s Sunday, June 15th, and today’s weather forecast for the fourth ring, industrial star Brook with star band number D13 is as follows.”
“The harmful bacteria index is 542%. The central area is dominated by respiratory tract bacteria. The overall infection level is between 28 and 35 degrees Celsius, air quality is poor, relative bacterial humidity is at 45%, and the human body’s bacterial antibody standard is at E15.
Based on these factors, the pollution level of Brook remains at level seven.”
The antibody index has increased from F to E, D, C, B, A, S, SS, SSS, and so on.
Similarly, pollution levels have escalated from level nine to level one, the catastrophic level.
Level seven might not seem too high, but considering the population of the third and fourth human species and their antibody levels on Brook Industrial Star, the environment is quite harsh.
“That’s the end of the broadcast. Climate forecaster trainee Jack wishes everyone a pleasant day.”
The store owner, Jones, is counting coins, ignoring the weather broadcast, when he suddenly hears a commotion inside the store.
“This Jack is as ugly as a triangular-eyed freak. I heard even his tongue’s coated with snake scales, infected by the venom of a junkyard snake. If it weren’t for his trainee job, he’d be dead by now…”
“Idiot! You bumped into me!”
Jones immediately rushes out, grabbing the scrawny waiter who had been insulted by a customer with a rude hand.
He curses under his breath, “Damn sickly creature, good-for-nothing.”
“If you’re not going to work, stop wasting time. You owe me money, don’t you?”
“Get back to work! A triangular-eyed freak in a garbage dump is more useful than you! Damn filthy thing!”
The “triangular-eyed” creatures are known as diseased, rotting rats, infected with bacteria but resilient enough to survive by eating scrap metal.
They’re despised on Brook.
The customer, unable to get a word in, looks frustrated.
His hand had just been lingering awkwardly mid-air after trying to touch the thin waiter’s waist under her clothing, then his eyes followed the young figure hurrying into the kitchen.
The customer’s face, marked by red fungal infections, scrunches up in discontent and says, “Jones, this kid’s definitely burning with fever.
His body’s in bad shape, probably has a low antibody count. How can he help you work? Lucky for me, I’m short on foot washers at home. Sell him to me…”
Jones interrupts impatiently, his face full of annoyance, “Why would I sell you a perfectly good young girl? Keep her for yourself, better than spending money on breeding material later.”
“Don’t try to fool me, just because you saw her as a girl.”
The customer shrinks back, and the other customers burst out laughing.
Jones turns to leave, scratching his flabby backside as he walks.
A foul stench wafts through the air, and the customer turns green, contemplating a fight with Jones.
But considering Jones still runs a thriving pizza shop in Brook, which must have some backing, and knowing the shop uses real corn flour in their food (which is nutritious and helps maintain the antibody levels), he hesitates.
If it weren’t for the pizza shop’s quality ingredients, the workers would likely be infected before finishing their shifts at the factory.
Jones’ corn flour surely comes from the factory’s internal supply.
His connections are evident.
The customer immediately backs down, but still feels sorry for the waiter, and idly mentions his name to a colleague.
Huo You Brook.
Anyone with the surname Brook on this planet is from the fourth human species suffering from consumption.
No adaptability, unable to carry parasites, unable to awaken spiritual bodies, and therefore unable to maintain enough antibodies to fight off ubiquitous bacteria.
They are born weak with no combat potential.
They’re not recognized by any family bloodlines, exiled, but Huo You is still wearing a watch.
The other employees glance at Huo You’s expression, knowing she’s really running a fever.
Jones enters and glances at the watch on her wrist, noting the 40-degree temperature, snorting, and lowering his voice: “Don’t die here, damn bad luck.”
Huo You is just 17 years old, and in the harsh environment, she looks frail.
She lowers her head, sweating slightly from the fever, her disheveled curls glistening with dampness, making her hair look even darker.
She quietly asks, “Thank you, boss, for helping me just now. He insulted me… am I going to pay for this?”
Jones gives her a blank look, “You’re an exiled criminal, you have no rights. You’re still talking about paying?”
“Isn’t this where you used to live, Isel?”
Isel, a high-level star.
Huo You’s current wristwatch is an “Exile Observation Diary” recorder: 24-hour standalone recording, not connected to the network, but once removed, an alarm will sound and the Population Management Bureau will immediately dispatch people to arrest her.
It can also be used to monitor her every move.
Surveillance, management, slavery, or punishment.
Now the real question is… is she a slave, a death-row prisoner, or a punished exile?
Huo You turns around and begins working, but with her head lowered and her voice subdued, she says:
“I’m a failure. My adaptability is too low. My family saw me as a disgrace and exiled me. I really have no rights anymore. I’ve been here three years, but I still don’t fit in.
The person outside is so scary, so cruel. Do they really have to kill people? If it weren’t for you protecting me, I’d probably have been dead by now.”
Punishment?
But she’s a failure?
Family?
Even the smallest family has some background.
What if they don’t care about this child but won’t allow anyone to kill her?
The small families on high-level stars.
Whether employees or Jones, they glance at her wristwatch again.
As Huo You kneads dough at the opposite counter, she notices the expressions of the people watching her.
She slightly tilts her mouth, eyes downcast, continuing to knead the dough with her slender fingers.
Jones sighs.
His tone is no longer as harsh as before.
He’s a bit softer and closer now, as he had previously tried to protect her, so he intentionally spoke…
“Anyway, take care of yourself. Don’t mess with those factory workers. No matter what they say, they’ve all been implanted with parasites.”
By the way, aren’t you turning eighteen soon? Isn’t that the high school graduation? Did you get the full-dome helmet? I have one at home…”
Suddenly, there’s a commotion outside, and Jones stops speaking.
He rips open the curtain to look outside.
The previous customer, unable to control his temper, has started a fight with another customer and a woman.
They’re throwing punches.
The first round is all close combat, and the pork-foot customer, weaker than the man he’s fighting (a bear-like figure), is punched one meter away, knocking over a table and chair.
He spits out a bloody, rotten tooth and raises his left hand.
A parasitic organism bursts from his palm.
A rodent-sized, egg-shaped parasite port emerges, releasing dozens of black, worm-like creatures that shoot out, heading toward the man.
These creatures have suckers all over their bodies and can attach themselves to any object, injecting venom into it.
The Big Guy also released a parasitic organism, which was a vine.
It swung and struck, but his body was stiff.
The vine, which struck and twisted like an insect-like creature, quickly attached to him and soon crawled up his body.
Amid screams and convulsions, the sour, acrid smell mixed with sweat overpowered the rich aroma of the hot pizza nearby.
“Beep… detected F24 version parasitic organism (first-generation crawler), mature, capable of releasing acidic anesthetic bacteria… The mental state of the host has not yet been detected.
Initial judgment indicates that the bacteria have a 100% infection rate for you. Please stay away, avoid contact…”
The recorder, produced by the management bureau, is extremely accurate in detecting even the lowest level parasitic organisms.
It’s not a remarkable technology, considering it’s right here.
Through the curtain, the other employees keep their distance, but Huo You, whose antibodies are too low to fight even basic respiratory bacteria, does not move.
She continues kneading the dough…
Her eyes briefly glance at the smug, shouting “Pork Foot” man, seeing the bulging veins on his arm from the parasitic implant.
He straddles the anesthetized Big Guy, pulls a leather knife from his waist, and begins cutting open the parasitic organism…
It can be sold.
The vine parasitic organism, though just an F-level used version, can still be sold for 300 Federal copper coins, a small fortune.
As for whether anyone dies, Brook doesn’t care about lives, and there are no regulations for the lower class.
Huo You’s gaze moves from the knife in the man’s hand to the vine parasitic organism, then to his boots.
The boots are covered in black algae and sludge from the sewer path leading to the pizza shop.
The bulging veins are because he lacks a spiritual body to control the parasite, so he has to force his body to control it through muscle power.
Jones steps outside, already cursing about compensation.
Amid the commotion, the foul smell is soon overshadowed because, behind the curtain, the fevered Huo You opens the oven, shovels out the already-baked pizza dough with a shovel, and spreads high-tech, pre-made tomato paste on it…
The hot dough meets the sweet and sour tomato sauce, instantly releasing an aroma that tantalizes everyone’s taste buds.
The pizza is sent back into the oven, and the door slams shut.
“Huo You, are you okay? Do you need help? Your communicator has messages…”
“No need. Finish up quickly, or you’ll have to work overtime again…”
Huo You, struggling with the heavy tray of dough, walks toward the back room, closes the mixing chamber door, and, in the high-temperature sealed room, wipes the sweat off her feverish forehead and takes a deep breath.