My stomach twisted, a sharp, violent cramp that nearly buckled my knees.
It wasn't just hunger. It was a system failure. My hands were shaking so hard I almost dropped the black phone.
"Damn it," I hissed, gripping the desk to stay upright.
I tapped the screen. The interface was simple enough—universal icons. I found the [Shop] and hit [Rations].
The list popped up.
Synth-Paste (Bulk) – 5 Credits
Standard Nutrient Pack – 50 Credits
Officer's Meal (Beast Meat) – 500 Credits
I glared at the 5-credit paste. My thumb hovered over it. It was the smart play for a broke grunt with only 1,500 credits.
"Screw that," I muttered.
I slammed my thumb on the 50 Credit option.
Purchase Confirmed.
I wasn't going to eat slop. If I wanted to drag this corpse of a body out of the gutter, I needed real fuel, not filler.
A pneumatic hiss sounded from the wall. A panel slid up, spitting out a gray tray.
I grabbed it, kicked the metal chair away from the wall, and sat down heavily. I ripped the lid off.
A beige brick of protein and a vial of green vitamin fluid. It smelled like chalk and chemicals.
I shoved a piece into my mouth. It tasted like wet cardboard.
My gut screamed at me to wolf it down, to shovel it in like a starving dog. I forced myself to stop. I took a breath, chewed, and swallowed. I wasn't going to choke to death on my first meal. I ate with a grim, angry focus, forcing the trash down because I needed it.
When the tray was empty, the shaking in my hands stopped. The cold sweat on my neck dried.
I pushed the tray aside and grabbed the phone.
Time to see what kind of mess I'd inherited.
I hit the [Profile] tab. A holographic wireframe of a human body hovered in the air, flashing with red warning lights.
[ ID: VARHIAN ]
[ AGE: 21 ]
[ RANK: KNIGHT (GRADE F-) ]
[ SOUL STRENGTH: 5.5 (STAGNANT) ]
I stared at the text.
Knight.
"Don't make me laugh," I scoffed.
The title sounded fancy—warriors, honor, power. But that "Grade F-" branding stamped right next to it made it look like a bad joke.
I tapped on [Soul Strength]. A window popped up.
Soul Strength (SS):Genetic value for Aether density. Fixed at birth.
0.0 - 4.9: Unawakened (Peasant).
5.0: Ignition Point.
I looked back at the profile. 5.5.
"Trash," I spat.
The kid had barely crossed the finish line. He was technically "Awakened," but he was scraping the absolute bottom of the barrel.
I scrolled down to the [Medical History].
Year 2140: Ignition confirmed.
Year 2142: Rejected from Academy. Reason: Insufficient Potential.
Year 2143: Warning - Detected trace amounts of Stim-9.
Year 2144: Critical Hospitalization. Diagnosis: Soul Scarring.
The picture was clear.
The kid found out he was garbage tier. He tried to cheat the system with illegal drugs—Stim-9. It didn't work. Instead of expanding his potential, he cracked his foundation and turned himself into a junkie.
I let out a long, frustrated sigh, rubbing the bridge of my nose.
"Stupid bastard," I muttered.
He chased a dragon he couldn't ride and got eaten. And now I was the one stuck paying the bill.
I opened the search bar. I wasn't going to accept "Fixed at birth" without checking for a back door.
How to increase Soul Strength.
[ 0 RESULTS FOUND ]
[ NOTE: Soul Strength is immutable. ]
I deleted the text. I typed again.
Forceful expansion of Soul Blueprint.
[ WARNING: Soul Fracture is lethal. Technique banned by Imperial Decree. ]
Survival rate of Soul Fracture.
The screen buffered for a second before spitting out a number.
[ 0.02% ]
I stared at it for a few seconds before closing the interface.
"Not zero," I whispered.
I shoved the phone into my pocket. I didn't have time to dig deeper. I had to survive the day before I could worry about rewriting the laws of physics.
I checked the time. My shift at the "Conduits"—whatever those were—started in fifteen minutes.
I stood up. My legs were stiff, but they held. I grabbed the gray jumpsuit from the floor and pulled it on. It was heavy, stiff canvas that smelled of oil and old sweat. I zipped it to the chin, scowling at the itch.
I jammed my feet into the heavy magnetic boots and stomped them down to lock the fit.
I caught my reflection in the bathroom mirror on the way out.
White hair. Gaunt face. Eyes like two dark pits.
I looked like a dead man walking.
"Good," I grunted.
I turned and walked out the door.