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Chapter 1
The Empty Coffin
In the twenty-second century, dying without implants was considered an eccentricity.
Dying without implants and choosing burial was almost a cultural offense.
That was why my grandfather’s funeral felt wrong from the beginning.
Ceremonial drones hovered above the cemetery, suspended in perfect silence. Around me, people whispered through neural links, exchanging regulated condolences and calibrated sympathy.
I had none of that.
—It’s still insane to reject enhancements at this point…
a woman murmured behind me.
I didn’t listen. My eyes were fixed on the coffin.
Black. Plain. Old.
The government had granted a special exception: no cremation.
My grandfather—war hero of the twenty-first century—would be buried the old way.
“For tradition,” they said.
“For respect,” they said.
My father stood rigid, jaw clenched. My mother didn’t cry. No one did.
In a society where emotions could be chemically adjusted, grief was optional.
The priest stepped forward and began speaking about peace, sacrifice, and the war that had “secured our future.”
I was thinking about my exams next week.
Then the cemetery workers activated the opening mechanism.
The coffin slid into the light.
And stopped.
One second of absolute silence.
Then murmurs.
Then screams.
—Where is he?
—Is this some kind of joke?
—A protest?
The coffin was empty.
No remains.
No ashes.
No sign of decay or relocation.
Only one thing.
Carved into the dark wood with surgical precision was a symbol.
A triangle.
A chill ran through me—one no implant would have allowed.
One of the detectives present stepped back, pale.
—No… this can’t be happening.
My father turned to him.
—You recognize it?
The detective swallowed.
—It resembles something your father investigated.
—What kind of thing?
—Cases that were never closed after the war.
While drones recorded and officials argued protocols, I stared at the symbol.
It didn’t look religious.
It didn’t look political.
It looked like a signature.
That night, my family argued about the funeral.
I studied.
Or tried to.
The next morning, I arrived early and dropped my bag by my desk.
The blackboard was covered with a symbol.
A triangle.
Exactly the same one.
The teacher hadn’t arrived yet. The air felt heavy.
I called my father. Then my mother. No answer.
For the first time in my life, I wondered if refusing biotechnological enhancement hadn’t left me behind—
—but out of reach.
I didn’t know it yet, but that morning marked the beginning of a new war.
Not one fought with weapons.
But one built on decisions inherited from the previous century.
Chapter 2
The One Percent
In the twenty-second century, biotechnology was not a privilege.
It was a social requirement.
Ninety-nine percent of the global population carried at least one implant: physical augmentation, cognitive support, emotional regulation, data storage. Nation, ideology, class—it didn’t matter.
War had proven that an unassisted human body was inefficient.
I belonged to the remaining one percent.
—You’re still not too late,
the doctor said again without looking up from his tablet.
—No implants severely limit your academic, professional, and social future.
—I’m fine without them.
—Your grandfather said the same thing. Until the war forced his hand.
I didn’t answer.
Outside, the city flowed with unnatural precision. Pedestrians crossed without looking. Bodies stopped at the same instant. Neural assistants predicted paths, emotions, collisions.
Some people hovered briefly above the ground using gravity implants.
Others ran at speeds no natural body could sustain.
Some projected screens directly from their eyes, absorbing entire reports in seconds.
I walked.
Just walked.
At school, the difference was impossible to ignore.
My classmates didn’t study. They downloaded.
History. Mathematics. Dead languages. Entire disciplines implanted in minutes.
Exams no longer measured knowledge—only system compatibility.
That evening, I checked the news.
Official channels described my grandfather’s funeral as a “technical irregularity.”
No mention of the empty coffin.
No mention of the symbol.
Only praise, recycled speeches, polished statistics.
Then an emergency alert appeared.
Prime Minister’s Address. Live Transmission.
My phone activated automatically.
The president appeared flawless, composed, calm in a way that felt artificial.
—Citizens of Japan. We live in the most peaceful era in human history.
The lie was too smooth.
—Biotechnology has freed us from fear, human error, and unnecessary conflict.
Something felt wrong.
—But peace has enemies. Those who reject progress. Those who romanticize the past. Those who believe human sacrifice is still necessary.
The symbol.
—We forgive such people. But we cannot allow them to decide the future.
He paused.
—I therefore assume full responsibility.
His hand moved off-screen.
A dry sound.
His body collapsed in front of the camera.
Screams.
Interference.
Screens cutting out across the city.
No one understood what had happened.
Except me.
Because in the final second before the feed died, I saw something behind him—
etched into the wall.
The same symbol.
The alarms started citywide. Drones shifted formation.
People panicked, their implants struggling to process an emotion they weren’t designed for.
I understood then, with brutal clarity.
This wasn’t terrorism.
This wasn’t a fringe cult.
This wasn’t madness.
It was a declaration of war.
And I—implant-free, unenhanced, disconnected—
had just become a dangerous anomaly.
That night, while the news spoke of conspiracies and technical failures, I made a decision.
If the world had chosen an invisible war,
I would face it—even if it cost me my life.
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[
a /
grim /
hi /
me /
rx /
vg /
weed /
wp /
x
]
[
aisfw /
civ /
co /
diy /
eh /
fit /
halp /
jew /
lit /
phi /
pr /
rnb /
sci /
tg /
w
]
[
ai /
cake /
cd /
d /
di /
elit /
fur /
gif /
h /
men /
pco /
s /
sh /
ss /
unf
]