Jera sat in the absolute silence of his Infinite Fortress. He was analyzing the data he had mentally recorded from the fight with the Corrosive Ravager.
The Azure Sentinel spies were a problem. His "messy" one-punch kill had been a calculated display—a warning to the Guilds to stop following him. But it had also been a mistake. It showed too much.
He had exposed a sliver of his true, "Overlord" level of power. Now, the rumors would shift from "heroic miner" to "dangerous monster." Captain Elara Kane would be more suspicious than ever.
"I need to go deeper," Jera concluded. He needed to leave the public, Guild-controlled dungeons and find a new, unmonitored Unregistered Rift. He needed a place where he could hunt A-Rank and S-Rank monsters freely, a place to grind his level to 100 without anyone watching.
He was pulling up a map of known dimensional anomalies when his entire world went red.
A blaring, crimson warning light filled his vision. It wasn't an external alarm; it was his Multiplier System itself. All other information—his stats, his inventory, his level—vanished.
A single line of text pulsed in the center of his view. It was not a request. It was a command.
[SYSTEM INTEGRITY CHECK: INITIATED.]
[User's psychological state is diverging from baseline. A loyalty and stability test is required to ensure continued function.]
[Preparing Trial Dungeon. Entry is mandatory.]
[Accept: Y / N]
Jera's blood ran cold. This was the first time the System had ever acted against his will. It was forcing him into a test. What if he failed? Would he lose the Multiplier?
He thought about refusing, but the "N" in "Y/N" was greyed out. It was not a choice.
"Accept," Jera said aloud, his voice flat.
His vision did not fade to black. It dissolved in a wave of painful, static-filled light. The solid, multiplied rock of his fortress melted away.
When his sight returned, he was no longer in his safe, hidden base.
He was standing in the living room of his old, three-room apartment.
It was exactly as he'd left it two weeks ago, but terrifyingly wrong. The air was cold and damp. A dark, oily-black substance dripped from the ceiling, a physical form of mana corruption. The picture on the wall—a photo of him and Sarah on their wedding day—had its glass cracked, and the faces were smeared with the same black ooze.
This was not a memory. This was a nightmare given form.
[Trial Dungeon: The Shattered Hearth.]
[Objective: Survive. Overcome the Past.]
[WARNING: All System-granted powers (Multiplier, Inventory, Skills) are now SEALED.]
[User's current stats have been reset to pre-Awakening baseline. Good luck.]
Jera felt it instantly. The surging, limitless power in his veins... was gone. He felt his [Aetheric Shield] vanish. He tried to access his Unlimited Inventory; there was nothing.
He was Jera Murphy again. A 24-year-old, failed Hunter with a broken heart. He was weak. He was powerless.
"Jera...?"
A voice whispered his name. He turned.
Sarah was standing in the bedroom doorway. But it was not his wife. Her skin was a dead, porcelain white. Her eyes were two empty, black pits, and when she spoke, the voice was a twisted echo of his old boss, Markos Vance.
"You were always so weak, Jera," the Sarah-thing hissed, its neck cracking at an unnatural angle. "You were a failure. A deadbeat. You couldn't even keep your wife happy."
The Sarah-illusion lunged. It didn't run; it glided across the floor, its fingers elongating into black, shadowy claws.
Jera's body reacted on instinct. He dodged to the side, his heart hammering in his chest. He was no longer a god-like being. He was just a man, and he was in a real fight.
He punched the creature. His fist connected with its shoulder. It was a solid hit, but it lacked the conceptual, one-shot power he was used to. The creature just laughed—a sound like glass breaking.
"See? Weak," it mocked.
It swiped at him. He tried to raise his Aetheric Shield, but nothing happened. The shadow-claws raked across his chest, tearing through his shirt.
The pain was real. Bright, burning lines of agony flared across his skin.
"This isn't real," Jera grunted, backing away. "You're an illusion."
"We are more real than you, Jera," the illusion of his wife said, its voice now mixed with his own inner doubts. "We are your failure. We are your weakness. You built your power on us. Without us... you are nothing."
A second figure emerged from the kitchen, its heavy footsteps shaking the floor.
It was Markos Vance. But he was ten feet tall, his body merged with the monstrous, six-limbed form of the Mana-Gorgon from The Scrapyard. Its eyes glowed with the same malice Jera remembered from that final, fatal day.
"Time for your severance package, Jera," the Markos-Gorgon boomed. It smashed the kitchen wall down with one blow and charged.
Jera was completely outmatched. He was weak, slow, and terrified. He ran into the bedroom, but the Markos-Gorgon smashed through the wall and grabbed him, its massive hand closing around his chest.
Jera felt his ribs crack. The pain was blinding.
The monster lifted him into the air, pinning him to the wall. The Sarah-illusion glided in, its dead eyes looking into his.
"You should have just died in that pit," it whispered. "You are worthless."
"A deadbeat."
"A failure."
"Nothing."
The words hit him harder than the claws. This was his deepest, most secret fear. That the Multiplier System hadn't made him strong; it had just given a weak man a powerful weapon. And now, with the weapon gone, he was exposed.
He was back in the darkness of The Scrapyard, buried alive, with the weight of the world crushing him. The emotional trauma, the pain, the betrayal—it all came flooding back, a black tide he couldn't stop.
The Markos-Gorgon tightened its grip, and Jera screamed as his bones fractured.
"This is where you belong, Jera," the illusions whispered in unison. "In the dirt. Dead."
They were right. He was going to die here. Jera Murphy, the pathetic miner, was going to be killed by his own past.
The Sarah-illusion raised its hand, its claws sharpening into a 12-inch, shadow-like knife. It aimed for his heart.
"Goodbye, Jera."
Jera looked at the claw. He looked at the monsters. He was in agony. He was broken.
And then... he smiled.
It was not a happy smile. It was the same cold, empty, terrifying smile he'd had in the pit, right before his System awakened.
The illusions hesitated, confused by his reaction.
"You're right," Jera whispered, his voice a raw, bloody gurgle.
The illusions stopped.
"Jera Murphy... he was weak," Jera coughed, spitting blood onto the floor. "He was a failure. He was a deadbeat who trusted the wrong people and wasn't strong enough to see the truth."
He lifted his head, and his eyes... they were no longer the eyes of a terrified man. They were the cold, calculating, empty eyes of Cain Walker.
"But Jera Murphy is dead," he stated, his voice suddenly hard as iron. "You killed him. You two, in that dungeon. You burned him away."
The illusions shrieked, as if his words were acid.
"I," Jera continued, "am just what's left."
He grabbed the monster's giant wrist. He had no multiplied strength. He had only his own, raw, human will. He pulled.
His muscles tore. His broken bones ground together. But the monster's grip loosened.
"You are just a memory," Jera snarled. "And you have no... more... power... over ME!"
With a final, desperate roar, he broke his arm free. He didn't attack the illusion of Markos. He lunged, his broken body moving with pure hatred, at the illusion of Sarah.
She tried to stab him, but he moved past the claw, ignoring the blade as it sank into his shoulder. He grabbed her by the throat.
"You are nothing," he hissed.
The Sarah-illusion shrieked, and its form dissolved like black smoke, fading into nothing.
Jera turned, his arm hanging useless, a shadow-knife in his shoulder. He faced the Markos-Gorgon. The monster roared in rage and swiped at him.
Jera, with his one good arm, punched the monster's giant, charging fist.
It was a suicidal, powerless move. But as his fist connected, he poured every ounce of his new, cold, empty identity into the blow.
The Markos-Gorgon did not dissolve. It exploded.
The black ooze, the broken furniture, the apartment—it all vanished in a flash of pure, golden light.
Jera was on his knees. He was back in his Infinite Fortress.
He was breathing hard, covered in sweat. He looked down. His chest was fine. His arm was not broken. The shadow-knife was gone. It had all been in his mind. But the exhaustion, the mental and spiritual fatigue, was immense.
The System interface returned, but it was no longer red. It was a bright, clean, golden-white.
[Trial: The Shattered Hearth. COMPLETE.]
[User has successfully overcome the core psychological anchor. The 'Jera Murphy' persona has been successfully purged.]
[System Integrity: 100%. User-System bond is now absolute.]
[Unlocking failsafe rewards...]
[Calculating reward based on user's resolve and speed of completion... Calculation complete.]
A new message appeared, so bright it made Jera squint.
[A one-time System Core Boost is being applied.]
[Multiplier $\times 512$ is now being permanently applied to ALL current Core Stats (Strength, Agility, Mana, Endurance) and ALL banked Experience Points.]
[PLEASE BRACE FOR PHYSICAL RECONSTRUCTION.]
"Brace for... what?"
A wave of power so vast, so overwhelming that it made his previous level-ups feel like static electricity, slammed into Jera's body.
His bones didn't just heal; they shattered and were instantly rebuilt with multiplied, S-Rank density.
His muscles tore apart and were re-woven, thicker and more powerful.
His mana core, the small ball of energy in his chest, detonated. It expanded, compressing and purifying itself a thousand times over, becoming a tiny, white-hot star.
Jera roared, a sound that was not human, as his entire body was forcibly evolved.
The process took ten agonizing seconds. When it was over, he collapsed to the floor, smoke rising from his skin.
And the level-up notifications began.
[Level Up! User is now Level 72!]
[Level Up! User is now Level 73!]
[Level Up! User is now Level 74!]
[Level Up! User is now Level 75!]
[Level Up! User is now Level 76!]
His banked XP, multiplied by 512, had launched him five levels in an instant.
Jera slowly pushed himself to his feet. He felt... different. He looked at his hands. They were the same, but they felt... heavier. Denser. He felt like a walking block of steel.
He looked at his new, permanent, base stats. They were astronomical. The $\times 512$ boost had made his baseline power, even without a random multiplier, stronger than most A-Rank Hunters.
He had been forced to face his past. He had been broken down to his weakest point.
And he had come back as a god.
Jera closed his eyes, feeling the new, terrifying power thrumming in his veins. He had truly left Jera Murphy behind. Only Cain Walker remained.