To the Imperfect World, I Offer Doraemon

The crowd roared in unison, their voices blending into a frenzied cacophony as they prepared for war. Roy, who had been assigned his weapon and position, silently mourned the fact that he hadn't had the chance to report the iron man incident to the leader. But he obeyed the orders of the commander, leading a team armed with concealed weapons to their designated target—a clinic in the Hive.

Inside the clinic, a plump middle-aged man stood behind the counter. He smiled cheerfully as Roy and his group entered.

"How can I help you, gentlemen?" he asked, his tone casual.

"I heard you're selling cheap food supplies," Roy said, stepping forward, his face devoid of expression.

"Of course," the man replied, nodding. "The price is negotiable. Bartering or credit is fine. Would you like some?"

Roy didn't answer. In his eyes, the man was already as good as dead.

"I also heard… you've been purchasing corpses," Roy continued.

"Yes," the man answered matter-of-factly. "What's the issue? Do you question the source of my food supplies? Desperation and the will to survive are humanity's greatest forces. When faced with starvation, people will eat anything—be it their own kind or their dignity. Isn't that the truth?"

This was the Lower Hive, a desolate wasteland where survival came at any cost. Starving families often scavenged whatever they could find. Eating the dead was not unheard of here—it was a grim reality.

For the faithless aristocrats of the Top Hive, such acts were taboo. But who among them would ever set foot in these filthy streets?

"Imagine a fruit on a tree," the man continued, his tone almost philosophical. "When it ripens, it falls, rots, and becomes part of the soil, nourishing new life. Birth, death, decay, and rebirth—the great cycle of three. Here, with me, you get three times the food for the same price. Isn't that enough?"

"Shut your mouth."

Roy's voice was cold and unyielding. He had no patience for the man's blasphemous words.

Reaching beneath his cloak, Roy drew a dagger and lunged forward. His strike was fueled by righteous fury.

"Die, heretic!"

The man's reflexes were surprisingly fast. He twisted his body, narrowly avoiding a fatal blow, but the dagger still embedded itself in his shoulder. Gritting his teeth, the man grabbed Roy's arm and, with a burst of strength, flipped him over his shoulder, slamming him into the ground.

Before Roy could recover, the man darted into the back room. From within the clinic, a swarm of infected figures with pustules and boils began to emerge.

"For the Four-Armed Emperor!" they bellowed, charging at Roy's team.

Roy rose to his feet, pulling out a laser pistol stolen from the planetary defense forces. With each pull of the trigger, the air sizzled with heat and light. The sound of energy bolts cracking through the air signaled the arrival of death.

The battle intensified as more infected figures poured out of the clinic. Despite their grotesque appearances, they moved with alarming speed, swarming the group with reckless abandon.

Meanwhile, the leader of the infected forces—an emaciated psychic cloaked in tattered robes—appeared in the chaos. Raising a withered hand, the psychic unleashed a devastating bolt of lightning, scattering Roy's comrades and electrocuting those nearby.

"Witch…"

Roy's voice trembled with fury as he collapsed, his body scorched by the psychic's attack. He watched helplessly as the infected mob overwhelmed his team. His strength was fading fast, and his vision began to blur.

In his final moments of consciousness, a shadowy crack in the air caught his attention. From the void, a small, round hand reached out.

---

—Scene Break—

"Ugh, what a mess…" Doraemon muttered, clutching his head in frustration. As a robot who disliked conflict, he was utterly baffled by the relentless violence of this world.

Why were these people constantly fighting, shouting about heresy and rebellion? Couldn't they coexist peacefully?

But Doraemon couldn't just stand by and let people die—not even those who had attacked him earlier.

He quickly realized something strange: the infected people seemed to possess extraordinary vitality. They could endure severe injuries and remain standing. However, once they collapsed, they died almost instantly.

On the other hand, the bald men with pronounced wrinkles—Roy's group—often survived their injuries, albeit barely.

"So…"

Doraemon pulled out another gadget: Retrieve-It Bag.

With this magical pouch, he could reach into any location and pull out the object of his desire.

He reached inside and began extracting the wounded one by one, carefully bringing them back to safety.

"Doctor's Kit!"

Doraemon began diagnosing the injured, including Roy. As he worked, the gadget displayed another curious finding:

[Condition Detected: Broodmind Syndrome]

"I have no idea what that means," Doraemon muttered, scratching his head. "But if it's flagged as an illness, I should be able to treat it!"

He administered the necessary medication, carefully pouring the liquid into their mouths.