Chapter 112: Father of the Relic — Anders Hellman!

Before dawn could break, the convoy of the Aldecaldos finally rolled into the dusty lot of the roadside motel.

Engines grumbled low and heavy, headlights cutting through the Badlands fog. The first vehicle stopped, and from it stepped Saul, the clan's leader—a man wrapped in equal parts grit and restraint. His eyes swept the area, pausing briefly on Neo, Panam, and Takemura standing by the Thorton.

"Panam," Saul said, his tone steady but edged with something unreadable. "Been a while. You holding up?"

Panam folded her arms. "It hasn't been that long. I was back at the camp a few days ago. Borrowed some gear."

Saul gave a faint smile. "I know. I allowed it."

Panam clicked her tongue and turned away. The history between them was thick as desert heat—unspoken, unresolved.

Saul then stepped forward, extending a hand toward Neo. "Mr. Neo, it's an honor. I've heard your name echo from one end of Night City to the other. Seeing you here—fighting beside us—well, that's a story our grandchildren will tell."

Neo shook his hand firmly. "The honor's mine, Saul. I've heard much about the Aldecaldos. I look forward to seeing how well we work together."

The two men exchanged a brief nod—an understanding between soldiers who had seen too many battlefields.

"Then," Saul said, "let's get down to business."

"Agreed," Neo replied. "This isn't a small job."

Saul's posture was perfectly measured—commanding without arrogance, cautious without fear. He was, Neo thought, the kind of leader the wastelands needed: steady, fair, dangerous when necessary.

Saul continued, "You reached out to us, Mr. Neo. That already says something. Whatever you need, the Aldecaldos are with you. Just give the word."

Neo gave a small nod. "Before we move, everyone needs to change gear."

That raised some eyebrows.

Neo explained, "We're about to hit a Kang Tao convoy. That means declaring war on a megacorp. Once we do this, there's no going back. So, we don't go in as Aldecaldos—we go in as Maelstrom."

For a second, silence. Then Saul grinned. "Now that's clever."

The Maelstrom gang—the "mad dogs" of the Badlands. Everyone knew their reputation for chaos. If a convoy got hit, people would assume they did it. Perfect cover.

Saul slapped his gloves together. "All right, you heard him! Dress like freaks. Let's make this look real."

The order spread fast. Men and women began unpacking armor, spray-painting sigils, welding spikes and scrap onto their vehicles.

Even the motel's owner, Noah, pitched in—tossing old jackets, bandanas, and torn fabrics their way. "What? You wanna look like psychos? I've got plenty of trash for that!"

Within an hour, the Aldecaldos had vanished—replaced by a snarling, chrome-studded army of counterfeit Maelstroms.

Neo looked around, satisfied. "Perfect. Let's move."

…

The caravan thundered across the open plains, the rising sun spilling blood-red light across the desert.

At the front, Neo, Panam, and Takemura rode with Saul. Dozens of modified trucks and buggies followed close behind, engines howling like beasts.

As the first light of dawn crested the horizon, shadows stretched long over the cracked earth—and in the far distance, the gleam of Kang Tao AVs shimmered like a mirage.

The convoy had arrived.

Sleek, silver anti-grav transports hovered low above the sand, escorted by a formation of armored drones. Their mounted cannons scanned the desert, targeting anything that dared to move.

Kang Tao didn't mess around. They brought a small army for one scientist.

Neo leaned forward, voice calm but sharp. "Positions. Wait for my mark."

Moments later, the world erupted.

A series of rocket trails streaked through the dawn sky, slamming into the drone vanguard. Explosions rippled across the air, fire blooming like sunbursts.

The drones reeled but didn't fall. Kang Tao tech was built to withstand hellfire.

Still, it got their attention.

Within seconds, the escort squadron shifted formation, scanning the terrain. Gunports whirred open.

"Target identified," came the mechanical voice from one drone's speaker. "Hostile presence: Maelstrom signature detected. Engaging."

Streams of gunfire lit the plains as the drones opened fire on the advancing vehicles.

"Now!" Neo shouted.

The fake Maelstrom convoy roared forward, firing back with everything they had. Bullets screamed, grenades popped, dust rose like a stormcloud.

Panam gunned the Thorton straight through the chaos, weaving between tracer rounds.

Inside the cockpit, Neo's eyes gleamed with focus. "It's time."

He opened the door mid-speed.

"Neo!" Panam yelled.

"Relax," he said, stepping out onto the moving vehicle. "I've done worse."

Then—

"Armament Haki: Full Release."

"No-Sword Style: Great Tornado!"

The air shuddered.

Neo leapt, body flashing forward faster than any drone could track. Bullets rained toward him, but the invisible pressure of his haki bent the air, sending rounds ricocheting harmlessly aside.

With one motion, he drew Shusui, its black blade singing like thunder.

He vanished—then reappeared behind a drone.

The machine trembled for a split second. Then it split cleanly in half, its core bisected by a single strike.

The wreckage exploded behind him as Neo landed lightly on the next AV, cutting through the sky like a phantom.

Each swing of his blade tore apart steel, each flash of his movement left afterimages that dissolved into dust.

Within moments, the skies were raining drone debris.

…

On the ground, Takemura moved like a shadow. The samurai's figure blurred, slicing through Kang Tao security before they even realized he was among them.

Bullets fired; he deflected them effortlessly.

Men screamed; he silenced them in one breath.

By the time the last operative hit the ground, the entire escort team was dead—cut down with surgical precision.

When he looked up again, Neo was already descending from the sky, his blade dripping with machine oil and morning light.

"Neo-sama," Takemura said, bowing slightly. "The transport is secured. But the AV's lock code is unbreakable."

Neo walked to the armored door, examining it once. Then—

SHING!

A single cut.

The reinforced hull—designed to withstand rockets—split open like paper.

From inside, a voice stammered in disbelief.

Anders Hellman, the father of the Relic, sat frozen in his seat, pale as chalk. He hadn't even finished processing what had happened before Neo stepped through the smoke.

Neo looked at him calmly.

"Morning, Dr. Hellman," he said. "We need to talk."

Hellman's mouth opened, but no sound came out.