They all thought I was dead, hiding in the slums for eight years with a sister who lived on black blood. Until that day, the supplies officer kicked open the iron door and said he wanted to exchange her for two boxes of expired cans. I wiped my hands clean and crushed the mecha core master's mechanical arm in public - he was horrified to find that I still had the gene lock mark of the ancient god mecha from ten years ago tattooed on my finger. No one knows that I have been hiding for the past eight years. I'm waiting, waiting for the remains of the old god that destroyed all mankind to wake up completely. But now, all I need is a scrap of metal to crush all the self-righteous thrones from the deepest part of the wasteland. Repair is instinct, evolution is breathing. When my system restart beep sounded in the ninth layer of black territory, the whole world should remember that the man who was cursed by the old gods and killed the gods with his own hands was back. Readers, get ready, this copy is about the god you locked in the temple.
