To the Imperfect World, I Offer Doraemon

Hunger. Cold.

The boy curled up in a dark corner, his hollow eyes scanning his surroundings warily. From within the tattered rags that barely served as clothing, he pulled out a small piece of meat. Without hesitation, he shoved it into his mouth, chewing hastily.

Boom—

A distant explosion rumbled, followed by faint screams and the flicker of firelight. He knew what it meant, but he didn't care.

Live. He only wanted to live—even if it was just for one more day.

He had survived by robbing kind neighbors, joining a heretical cult, hoisting the banner of rebellion, and even gnawing on the flesh of his own kind. None of it mattered.

Swallowing the last of the meat, he licked the blood from his hands greedily. The plague ravaging his body seemed to worsen with every bite, but he ignored the pain. What did it matter if his suffering increased?

He lay back on the ground, staring blankly at the soot-blackened ceiling. At first, he had screamed and begged for relief from the pain, but as his condition deteriorated, his mind had grown sluggish. Even crying out now felt impossible.

The boy shifted slightly, feeling the parasites crawling over his body. Flies buzzed around him, while unknown insects scuttled across his blistered skin, feeding on the pus oozing from open sores. Mushrooms and fungal tendrils sprouted from his swollen flesh. Maggots burrowed in and out of his rotting body, nesting in pockets of decaying tissue.

With trembling hands, he picked a maggot off his skin and popped it into his mouth, chewing slowly. For a brief moment, he envied the creatures that fed on him—they at least had a source of sustenance.

He knew death was near. Hallucinations plagued him, his rational mind flickering like a dying ember. Yet his survival instinct urged him to keep fighting, even as despair clawed at him.

Caught between life and death, he was rotting—both physically and mentally.

As his body decayed, a voice whispered in his mind, sweet and insidious:

Only the Grandfather's mercy can soothe your pain.

A hand reached toward the boy, grotesque and otherworldly, offering salvation. In his delirium, the boy grasped it weakly, like a forgotten Adam reaching out for divine intervention.

The touch was firm, pulling him back from the brink. A voice, sharp and commanding, echoed:

"May the Four-Armed God-Emperor grant you redemption!"

What?

The boy's foggy mind struggled to comprehend as rough hands seized his jaw, forcing a strange liquid down his throat.

"Guh—" He gagged and thrashed, his wasted body surging with unexpected strength. For a moment, he seemed stronger than ever, but the hands holding him down did not falter.

The liquid burned as it flowed through him. His body convulsed violently, expelling maggots and pus. Sores peeled away, leaving new skin beneath. Fungal growths withered, and parasites fled. His fevered hallucinations dissolved into nothingness.

When the boy finally stopped convulsing, he lay there, panting and dazed.

"This… what is this?" he whispered hoarsely.

"This is the blessing of the Four-Armed God-Emperor," said one of the figures standing over him. They proudly raised a banner emblazoned with the radiant symbol of their deity—a four-armed figure surrounded by light. Next to it, a smaller, blue figure with a round body was depicted.

Another figure—a plague priest wielding a syringe-staff—grabbed his arm and administered a second dose of an unknown substance. Before he could question it, a sack of fragrant food was shoved into his arms.

"This… this…" The aroma wafting from the sack overwhelmed him. Inside were five flatbreads and two fish—though these were not ordinary foods. The seeds from which they were grown had been custom-designed by Doraemon's Seed Generator to provide optimal nutrition.

The boy stared at the food, stunned and confused. Around him, other plague-stricken survivors began to stir.

"They have medicine! And food!"

"Give it to me! I'll do anything! Please!"

"Mercy! I've always been a devout believer!"

Driven by desperation, the crowd surged forward, their infected bodies oozing filth as they reached for the supplies.

With a flick of his wrist, one of the Gene Stealers guarding the supplies drove his chitinous blades into the ground, establishing an invisible neural barrier. The afflicted screamed and recoiled, clutching their heads in pain as the psychic field triggered migraines and hallucinations.

"Calm down!" commanded Puttana, standing before the crowd. "The Emperor has shown you mercy, granting you a second chance at life. But you must atone for the heresies you have committed!"

"Yes, yes, of course!" the crowd groaned, prostrating themselves. "Glory to the Emperor!"

Pitiful. Puttana clicked his tongue. The mission had been far easier than he expected. Cure the infected, convert them, and dilute the political power of rivals within the Gene Stealer faction—everything was falling into place.

"Come forward to receive your medicine and food," he barked. "But remember—this is the Emperor's blessing. It is His mercy that saves you!"

The crowd surged forward eagerly, muttering prayers of gratitude. Puttana smirked, watching as the Emperor's charity solidified his faction's dominance.

With the plague and famine eradicated, the heretics' influence would wither and die.