Leaving the cacophony of Wall Market behind, the road leading to the Sector 5 slums felt quieter and significantly older. The buildings here were constructed more from brick and rotting wood, rather than the flimsy zinc sheets of Sector 7 or the labyrinthine scrap heaps of Sector 6.
This stretch of road was known as The Rusty Highway.
It was an old asphalt road, severely cracked and flanked by high wire fences. It was desolate, far removed from the noise of Wall Market. Massive concrete pipes lay stacked along the roadside, discarded and forgotten.
However, monsters did not discriminate based on architecture.
At a lonely bend near the stack of pipes, two Grashtrikes—nightmarish hybrids of spider and praying mantis, the size of car tires—descended from their webbed nests.
These monsters made their homes in the gaps between the concrete pipes. They chittered, mandibles clicking, ready to fire binding silk and spray their venom.
Johnny didn't break his stride. His right hand moved in a blur to his back.
SHING.
The cloth wrapping the blade fell away.
"You're blocking the road," Johnny stated flatly.
WHAM!
The battle was brief and brutal. Johnny gave the spiders no chance to fire their webs. Capitalizing on the immense reach of his Scrap Greatsword, he pulverized the first spider's head while it was still mid-air.
The second spider attempted to leap onto Johnny's back. Johnny dropped into a low crouch and spun his body a full 360 degrees. The tip of his iron slab slammed into the monster's abdomen, hurling it against a concrete wall until it shattered.
Johnny wiped the green ichor from his blade. He quickly harvested the pincers and poison sacs.
Upon reaching the Sector 5 market, Johnny stopped at an item shop. He sold his latest spoils, including the remnants from Sector 6.
"Good stuff," said the old merchant of Sector 5. "400 Gil for the lot."
Johnny nodded, accepting the cash. Now, he was clean. He washed the grime from his face at a public spigot, smoothed back his messy red hair, and tightened the straps of his backpack.
The pulse in his chest grew stronger. It wasn't painful, but a gentle, insistent tug. It felt as if a red thread of fate were tied to his pinky finger, guiding him toward the outskirts of the city.
Johnny walked deeper into the Sector 5 settlement.
Here, the houses didn't stand in orderly rows. They were piled atop one another like termite mounds. The structures were a patchwork of ancient, moss-covered bricks, rotting construction timber, and the carcasses of old buses converted into bedrooms.
The streets weren't cracked asphalt, but packed dirt turned into sludge by household runoff.
Johnny watched children chasing rolling tires amidst massive Mako pipes that wound through the ground like the roots of a demonic tree. The pipes hissed softly, thin wisps of green gas leaking from several joints, making the air smell sickly sweet yet suffocating.
The difference in atmosphere was palpable. If Sector 7 was a cold "factory" and Sector 6 was a noisy "brothel," then Sector 5 felt like... an old village forgotten by time.
"This place..." Johnny thought. "It feels older. More... alive."
Johnny observed a group of elderly men sitting in a circle on oil drums, playing chess with pieces made from nuts and bolts. They laughed, sipping cheap tea from tin cups.
Sector 5 had a flea market selling all manner of oddities, red lanterns hanging askew, and graffiti scrawled across towering concrete walls.
Johnny continued his exploration.
His steps faltered before a strange sight. A massive black pipe—a Mako Reactor Pipe—protruded from the earth, arching through the center of the settlement like the root of a giant tree from hell.
Johnny approached, placing his small hand on the cold surface of the pipe. He could feel a subtle vibration within.
Hiss...
The sound of escaping steam came from a leaking joint. Thin green vapor drifted out, carrying a sweet, nauseating aroma.
"The blood of the planet," he thought bitterly. "Shinra sucks it dry, and these people live by breathing in the leaks."
He pressed on, passing a unique structure made from the wreckage of military vehicles. An old school bus was stacked atop a rusted steel tank, converted into a shop.
"The Weapon Shop."
A merchant shouted from the window of the bus driver's seat, offering bullets and dynamite.
Guts had seen tanks like that on the battlefields of the past—though often in the form of Apostles crushing his comrades into pulp. But here, the killing machine had become a place to make a living. The irony tugged at the corner of his mouth in a cynical smile.
Not far away, the laughter of children broke his reverie again.
Johnny turned toward a large wooden building with a low fence. The Leaf House.
In the yard, dozens of orphans ran around chasing a ball, watched over by several young women dressed simply. The children were dirty, their clothes full of patches, but their eyes were bright. There was no fear of war, no shadow of mercenaries coming to burn their village tonight.
Johnny stood frozen for a moment. Images of his own childhood—brutal sword training under Gambino, sleeping while clutching a sword because he trusted no one—flashed through his mind.
"Strange world," Johnny muttered softly, watching the kids. "Amidst this pile of trash and monsters, they still have a place to be children."
In the center of the market square, a large Shinra monitor flickered to life, broadcasting propaganda. The face of a Shinra executive spoke of "Public Safety" and "Technological Progress," while behind him, troops of SOLDIER marched in formation.
The people in the market only glanced at it, then returned to haggling over the price of vegetables and rat meat. They were immune to the lies.
Johnny turned his face away from the screen. He didn't need news. The pulse in his chest was pounding harder now, pulling him away from the warmth of the market.
He saw a dirt path leading to the sector's edge, toward a quieter area filled with gray concrete ruins.
"Enough sightseeing," Johnny whispered.
Johnny kept walking, following the pulse in his chest, until the bustle of the crowd slowly faded.
He reached the outskirts. Here, the scenery shifted drastically. The slum houses vanished, replaced by an expanse of colossal concrete debris—remnants of the Plate construction above, discarded and forgotten.
Quiet. Still.
There was only the sound of the wind whistling through the gaps in the rebar that jutted out like the ribcage of a giant.
And in the center of this gray, dead desert of rubble stood a building that defied reason. An old wooden Church, boasting architecture from a bygone era.
He pushed the door open slowly. The roof was riddled with holes, eaten away by time, tilting and fragile.
But what transfixed Johnny wasn't the building. It was what lay around him.
On soil that should have been poisoned by Mako, soil where nothing should grow, there were patches of green. Grass. Real grass.
Johnny stepped closer, his heavy boots creaking on the wooden floorboards.
Shafts of afternoon sunlight pierced the holes in the roof, falling in divine beams that illuminated the church's interior. Dust motes danced in the air, creating an atmosphere bordering on the sacred.
And there, in the center of that tranquil space, a field of yellow lilies bloomed in defiance of this harsh world's logic.
Amidst that sea of flowers, a girl was bent over, her back to Johnny, tending to the petals with tender care.
Johnny stopped breathing for a moment. The beauty of this place... was too alien for eyes accustomed to blood.