The night was quiet, but Liam wasn't.
He writhed in bed, drenched in sweat, trembling with fever.
The cold wind from the broken window did nothing to cool the **burning storm inside his body**. He had stripped to the waist, every muscle twitching, veins glowing faintly blue. His breathing came in shallow gasps as though every breath fought back the beast clawing to break free from inside him.
He knew what this was.
This was the **awakening**.
And if he failed — if he **couldn't control it** — the ARC energy would mutate him. Not like the slow mutations of pets or animals. **He would lose everything**: his mind, his form, his soul.
He would become **one of them** — a monster without thought, driven only by instinct: **to kill, to feed, to destroy**.
---
The past week had changed him more than he dared admit.
He had indulged the ARC too much, fed it with blood, with violence, with death. His body had grown too fast. He had not trained his **mind** to match it.
Now the price was here.
His body was either going to adapt — or break.
And he could feel it happening:
The energy was **condensing**, surging toward his chest again — not to form a core this time, but to **ignite** it.
---
Then it happened.
A searing pain shot through his limbs, like his bones were being **melted and reforged**. He bit down on a rag, muffling a scream. Blue veins pulsed violently across his skin, crawling like fire beneath the surface. His spine arched off the floor as muscles spasmed.
Then — the burning surged to his arms.
And in that pain…
**He understood.**
---
The ARC energy inside him wasn't wild anymore. It was organizing. Taking shape.
It wasn't just making him stronger — it was fusing with his **nervous system**, accelerating impulses, strengthening control over his own body.
And deeper than that… it was forming a **combat-oriented ability** — unique to him. Born from how he fought, how he thought, how he survived.
He saw it in his mind's eye: sparks of electricity and arcs of kinetic energy snapping between nerves, wrapping around muscles, enhancing reflexes and muscle feedback.
Then, a word — not one he thought of, but one that echoed from the ARC itself, as if naming what it had birthed within him:
> **"Combat Thread."**
A technique — no, an ability — that allowed him to channel ARC energy into **thread-thin tendrils of kinetic force** between muscles, bones, and even weapons, acting as **real-time amplifiers** of motion, force, and control.
It wouldn't shoot blasts or fire beams.
But with every punch, every twist, every weapon movement — it would **magnify speed, strength, and reaction** beyond normal human limits.
His rods would hit **like hammers**, and his body would **move like lightning**.
---
The pain reached its peak.
And then — stopped.
Liam collapsed on the floor, steam rising from his skin, heartbeat echoing in his ears. His body… had changed.
Not grotesquely.
But **perfectly**.
Tighter muscle definition. Enhanced circulation. Faster reaction. Stronger grip. The blue veins of ARC energy had settled beneath the surface — like **wires beneath flesh**.
And deep inside him, in the core near his chest, **Combat Thread** was ready.
---
He stood slowly, staggered to the bathroom mirror.
His eyes had changed. The faint glow had returned — not fierce, not bestial — but sharp. Focused. Intelligent.
The madness was gone.
His **will** had won.
But now… the cost was clear. He couldn't keep feeding the ARC like he had before. He couldn't lose himself to violence again.
**He had to train it** — master it — or it would consume him next time.
He stared at his steel rods leaning in the corner, now wrapped in strips of cloth for grip. He picked one up. It felt lighter. Quicker. As he moved it through the air, he focused ARC energy into it — and watched as faint, invisible **threads of kinetic force** danced down its length.
When he swung, the power **cracked the air**.
A smile — tired, but confident — curled across his face.
---
The next morning, Liam began his new routine.
He avoided fights. Hunted only to survive. Meditated, experimented. Practiced using Combat Thread in silence — focusing it into specific muscles, learning how to amplify speed, or transfer momentum from one limb to another mid-strike.
He could now **twist mid-air**, adjust a swing, dodge in impossible ways. His control was surgical. Brutal. Efficient.
He wasn't a berserker anymore.
He was becoming something **far more dangerous**:
A **weapon with purpose**.
---
Far above Osaka, beyond Liam's knowledge, the **ninth crack** had already appeared — in the **depths of the Atlantic**.
Earthquakes had followed.
New lands had risen.
The world was expanding — literally.
But down here, in the growing ruins of a broken city, **Liam Perez** had survived his first trial.
And soon, the world would need him to survive what came next.
---