The golden number did not fade.
It lingered in Kael's perception, a ghostly watermark overlaid on the real world. 1/100. It was there as he stumbled out of the protein vat chamber, the foreman's gruff "good work" sounding distant and meaningless. It was there as he trudged back through the crowded, neon-lit corridors of the Outer Settlement, a silent counterpoint to the jostling bodies and blaring advertisements for dungeon-grade gear.
It was there as he sat on the edge of his thin mattress in his tiny, cubicle-like hab-unit, staring at his hands.
One. One single, insignificant Glitch-Rat. It had taken him a month of despair to kill the first one that truly counted. A month to go from zero to one.
Ninety-nine to go.
The thought should have been crushing. An insurmountable mountain of filth and repetition. But for the first time in years, the hollow ache in Kael's gut wasn't just from hunger. It was from a terrifying, exhilarating sense of purpose.
The next day, he returned to the pits not as a condemned man, but as a prospector.
His shift in the recycling pits was a study in monotony. Sorting shattered plastic from brittle metal, his mind was no longer numb. It was racing, the golden "1/100" a constant mantra. When the minor breach alarm blared and Bor's voice echoed, calling for vermin control, Kael didn't wait to be shoved forward. He was the first to grab an electro-prod.
The vat chamber was the same. The smell was the same. But Kael was different.
He moved with a new focus. He wasn't just clearing pests; he was hunting for progress. He ignored the easy kills in the open, instead using his knowledge of their habits to seek out the hidden ones—the ones nested deep in the machinery, the cautious survivors.
He found one cowering inside a broken ventilation shaft. A precise jab. A crackle of energy. The dissolution into green motes.
The ice-pick sensation in his mind. The shimmering gold.
| Proficiency Points +1 |
| Total for [Survival Instinct]: 2/100 |
A grim satisfaction, cold and sharp, settled in him. Two.
The other worker, a hulking man named Durn, laughed. "By the System, Kael, you're zealous today. Found a taste for it, eh?"
Kael didn't answer. He was already moving, his eyes scanning the pipes overhead. He'd seen a shadow.
The grind was slow. Agonizingly so. The rats were scarce and wary. An hour passed, and he'd only added two more to his count, bringing it to four. Each kill was a small burst of that cold satisfaction, followed by the crushing weight of the remaining ninety-six.
During his fourth kill, something shifted. As the rat dissolved, the golden text flashed, and for a split second, a phantom sensation flickered through him—a sudden, sharp hunger, a craving for the warm, yeasty sludge of the vats. It was gone as quickly as it came, leaving behind a faint revulsion.
He shook his head, dismissing it as fatigue.
By the end of the second day, his count was at eleven. His body ached with a deeper weariness, a mental exhaustion from the constant, hyper-focused hunting. Durn had long since stopped trying to talk to him, shooting him uneasy glances instead.
On the third day, he found a nest.
It was behind a primary filtration unit, a tangled mess of six rats. His heart hammered, not with fear, but with a predator's thrill. He moved methodically, using the machinery as cover, cutting off their escape routes. The electro-prod became an extension of his will. Crackle. Dissolve. +1. Crackle. Dissolve. +1.
When the last one vanished, his count stood at twenty-three.
And the world… sharpened.
It was subtle. The constant, oppressive hum of the vats didn't just sound loud; he could feel its vibrations in his teeth, could distinguish the healthy hum from the strained whine of a failing motor nearby. The scent of ozone wasn't just a smell; it was a map, telling him where the electrical currents were strongest. He could feel the shift in the air currents, a faint draft from a crack in the wall he'd never noticed.
This was the "Survival Instinct." It wasn't just a counter. It was a physical change.
As he left the chamber, Durn was staring at him, his electro-prod held loosely. "You alright, Kael? You're… quiet."
Kael looked at him. Really looked. He saw the way Durn shifted his weight to his left foot, a old injury acting up. He saw the slight tremor in the man's hand—not from fear, but from a mild stimulant addiction. He saw the faint sheen of sweat on his brow, the quickened pulse at his neck. A cascade of information, meaningless before, now painting a vivid picture of the man's state.
"I'm fine," Kael said, his own voice sounding strangely calm in his ears. "Just tired."
He walked past Durn, and for the first time, the larger man didn't clap him on the back or make a joke. He simply moved out of the way.
Lying in his bunk that night, Kael didn't feel the grim satisfaction of progress. He felt a cold knot of anxiety in his stomach. The phantom hunger from the rat had been real. The heightened senses were real. He was changing. The system wasn't just giving him points; it was rewriting him, one rat at a time.
He closed his eyes. The number 23/100 burned in the darkness.
He was no longer just grinding for power. He was grinding against his own erasure. And he had no idea what would be left when he reached one hundred.