The Beast Core burned against Rat's skin like a brand.
It was tucked inside the rags wrapped around his chest, pressed directly against his sternum. The heat it radiated wasn't just thermal; it was a heavy, throbbing pressure that synced with his heartbeat. Thump. Thump. Thump.
Gallery 4 was a hive of chaotic activity. The corpse of the Deep-Earth Burrower was being butchered not for food, but for evidence. The Overseers needed to prove to the higher-ups that the threat was neutralized.
"Line up! Inspection!" Grol's voice cracked like a whip over the noise.
Rat's blood ran cold.
Inspection. It was the miner's nightmare. Usually, it was a cursory pat-down to ensure no one was smuggling high-grade ore or tools back to the Kennel. But today, with a monster dead and the smell of valuable reagents in the air, the guards would be thorough.
If they found the Core, Rat would not just be killed. He would be flayed alive as an example. Theft of magical resources was a capital offense in the Empire, punishable by the "Slow Death."
Rat joined the line of soot-stained slaves. He kept his head down, his shoulders hunched. He adopted the posture of the defeated—the universal language of the oppressed.
Heart rate: 140 BPM. Too high, Rat analyzed. Adrenaline will trigger micro-tremors in the hands. Suspicion vector.
[Monarch's Soul Active.] [Directive: Regulate autonomic nervous system.]
He forced a long, slow breath through his nose. He visualized his heart as a mechanical pump, turning a dial to lower the pressure. The thumping in his ears slowed. His hands steadied.
The guards moved down the line, rough and angry. They checked pockets, patted down waists, even checked mouths.
"Open up," a guard grunted to the man next to Rat—Number 45.
Number 45 opened his mouth. The guard shoved a finger in, checking under the tongue for nuggets of gold or raw mana stones. Finding nothing, he shoved Number 45 forward.
"Next. You, Number 7."
Rat stepped forward. It was Boros's partner, a guard named Harek. He still looked shaken from the battle, his eyes darting nervously at the shadows.
"Arms up," Harek commanded.
Rat lifted his arms. The rags across his chest tightened. The lump of the Beast Core was visible if one knew where to look, a slight unnatural protrusion against his emaciated ribs.
Harek patted down Rat's legs, then his waist. His hand moved up to the chest.
Rat's mind raced.
Simulation: If he touches the sternum, he feels the heat. Probability of discovery: 95%.
Action: Misdirection.
Just as Harek's hand reached his lower ribs, Rat let out a wet, hacking cough. He didn't cover his mouth. He sprayed a fine mist of saliva and coal dust directly onto Harek's gloved hand.
"Ugh!" Harek recoiled, wiping his hand on his trousers in disgust. "Filthy rat!"
"I... I am sorry, sir," Rat wheezed, doubling over, clutching his chest—specifically, clutching the spot where the Core was hidden, masking its bulk with his own hands. "The dust... the explosion..."
"Get out of my face," Harek growled, shoving Rat toward the lift cage. "Go die in the Kennel, not here."
Rat stumbled forward, keeping his head low to hide the lack of fear in his eyes.
Success. Variable utilized: Guard's hygiene aversion.
He shuffled onto the lift, the burning stone safe against his skin. He had survived the monster. He had survived the inspection. But the hardest part was yet to come.
The Kennel was quieter than usual that night. The attack in the mines had rattled everyone. The usual gambling and fighting were replaced by hushed whispers about "demons" and "bad omens."
Rat sat in his shadowed niche, his back to the cold stone wall. He waited until the breathing of the slaves around him deepened into the rhythm of sleep.
Only then did he reach into his rags and pull out the prize.
In the gloom of the cavern, the Beast Core glowed with a dull, amber light. It was heavy, far heavier than a rock of its size should be. It felt like holding a condensed piece of gravity.
[Item Analysis Complete.] [Object: Beast Core (Rank 1 - Low).] [Attribute: Earth / Vitality.] [State: Unrefined.]
Rat stared at it. This was the currency of the powerful. Knights used these to strengthen their Aura. Mages used them to refill their Mana reserves.
For a slave, it was a ticket to the gallows. Or... a ticket to the throne.
How do I use it?
He had no teacher. No manual. The "Monarch's Soul" gave him analysis, but it couldn't download knowledge he didn't possess. It could only optimize what he attempted.
Hypothesis, Rat thought, turning the stone over in his skeletal fingers. The Burrower was an Earth-attribute creature. High defense. immense physical strength. This energy is dense.
He remembered the feeling of the Ice mana from the wall—sharp, fluid, cold. This felt opposite. Solid. Stubborn.
If I try to channel this like the Ice mana, it will clog my veins. It's too thick.
But he had no choice. His body was failing. The earlier use of magic had left him in a caloric deficit so severe his vision was permanently slightly blurred. If he didn't absorb this energy, he would likely die of heart failure within days.
Eat or be eaten.
Rat placed the core on his lap. He placed both hands over it, skin to stone.
"Take it," he whispered.
He closed his eyes and focused on the void inside him—the empty vessel that hungered. He pulled.
For a moment, nothing happened. The stone was inert.
Then, the dam broke.
It didn't flow like water. It crashed like a landslide.
CRUNCH.
Rat's back arched off the wall. A silent scream tore at his throat, but he clamped his jaw shut so hard he chipped a tooth.
It wasn't cold this time. It was heavy.
Imagine swallowing a mouthful of molten lead. Imagine your blood turning into wet concrete. That was the sensation flooding his arms.
The amber energy surged up his hands, past his wrists, and into his forearms. Where it passed, it didn't just fill him; it changed him.
[Alert: Foreign Mana Density Exceeds Safety Limits.] [Host Structure: Insufficient.] [integrity Breach Detected in Radial Arteries.]
Rat looked down at his arms. The veins were bulging, turning a dark, muddy brown. They looked like tree roots trying to burst out of his skin.
Too much, his mind panicked. It's too much!
The energy hit his shoulder and slammed toward his heart. His chest felt like it was being crushed by a hydraulic press. He couldn't breathe. His lungs were too heavy to expand.
I'm turning to stone.
He was going to die here, solidified into a statue of meat and bone in a pile of filth.
NO.
The [Monarch's Soul] flared. It was the only thing not screaming in pain. It was the pilot in the crashing plane, calmly flipping switches.
[Directive: Adaptation.] [Solution: Reinforcement.] [Redirecting Mana from "Storage" to "Reconstruction".]
Rat's perspective shifted. He was no longer feeling the pain; he was observing the biology.
He saw his own muscle fibers—frayed, weak, starved protein strands. He saw the Earth Mana—dense, structured, hexagonal lattices of energy.
Don't store it, Rat realized, seizing the concept the System offered. Use it. Don't try to hold the mountain. BECOME the mountain.
He stopped fighting the heaviness. He welcomed it. He mentally pushed the energy out of his bloodstream and into the tissues themselves.
He visualized his bones drinking the density. He visualized his skin soaking up the hardness.
The flesh is weak, he chanted internally. Make it Iron. Make it Steel.
The agony changed flavor. It went from the pain of destruction to the pain of growth—the searing burn of muscles tearing and knitting back together instantly, stronger, denser.
The amber light of the core began to dim. The stone in his lap was dissolving, turning into fine grey dust that sifted through his fingers.
Rat sat rigid, sweat pouring off him in rivulets, mixing with the dirt on the floor to make mud.
Minutes passed. Or maybe hours.
Finally, the last echo of the "landslide" settled in his core. The crushing weight lifted, replaced by a sensation of incredible solidity.
Rat opened his eyes.
The world looked different. Sharper.
He looked at his hands. They were still thin. He hadn't suddenly grown muscles like Krog. He still looked like a starved teenager.
But the trembling was gone.
He clenched his fist. The skin felt tighter, like cured leather. The bones felt like iron rods.
[Absorption Complete.] [Attribute Acquired: Earth (Trace).] [Physical Constitution: Upgraded.] [Current Status: Novice of Iron (Early Stage).]
Rat stared at the notification.
Novice of Iron. The first step on the Path of the Sword. The stage where the body begins its transformation into a weapon. Usually, it took years of training and a high-protein diet to reach this.
Rat had brute-forced it in one night with stolen magic.
He picked up a small stone from the floor—a jagged piece of slate. He squeezed.
He didn't strain. He didn't grunt. He just applied pressure.
Crack.
The stone crumbled into dust in his palm.
Rat stared at the dust. It wasn't the strength of a giant. It was the strength of density. His muscles were now capable of generating force far beyond their size, because the fibers were reinforced with mana.
And the hunger?
It was gone. The gnawing, desperate starvation was replaced by a warm hum in his belly. The energy of the core had acted as a hyper-caloric substitute.
Rat leaned back against the wall, exhaustion finally claiming him. But it was a good exhaustion. The exhaustion of a builder who had laid the first brick of a fortress.
"I am still a rat," he whispered to the darkness. "But now... I am a rat made of iron."
The next morning, the bell rang too early.
Rat woke instantly. There was no grogginess. His mind was clear, his body responsive. He stood up from the straw.
For the first time in years, his joints didn't pop. His back didn't ache.
He walked to the trough for breakfast. The slurry looked just as disgusting, but he ate it efficiently. It was fuel. Nothing more.
"Look who's still alive."
Krog.
The bully was back, and he looked angry. Yesterday, Rat had humiliated him with words. Krog had clearly spent the night stewing on it, realizing that a verbal defeat was still a defeat. He needed to reassert the pecking order.
Krog stepped in front of Rat, blocking the path to the cages. His two lackeys fanned out, cutting off escape routes.
"You got a big mouth, Rat," Krog grumbled, cracking his knuckles. "And you got lucky with the explosion yesterday. But luck runs out."
The other slaves watched, stopping their chewing. This was the morning entertainment.
"I have work to do, Krog," Rat said calmly.
"Work?" Krog laughed. He reached out and shoved Rat's shoulder. "You work when I say you—"
The shove connected.
By all laws of physics, Rat—who weighed maybe 110 pounds wet—should have been sent flying backward.
He didn't move.
Rat's feet were planted. His center of gravity shifted imperceptibly. When Krog's massive hand slammed into his shoulder, it felt like shoving a pillar of salt. There was no give.
Krog stumbled, his own momentum betraying him when the target didn't yield. He nearly fell forward.
Silence descended on the Kennel. Absolute, stunned silence.
Krog regained his balance, his face turning beet red. He looked at his hand, then at Rat. He couldn't process what had happened.
"You..." Krog snarled. "You putting rocks in your boots, boy?"
He pulled back his fist. This wasn't a shove. This was a haymaker, aimed right at Rat's jaw.
Rat watched the fist coming.
[Monarch's Soul Active.] [Target: Right Hook.] [Trajectory: Wide. sloppy.] [Speed: Slow.]
To the old Rat, this punch would have been a blur. To the new Rat, it was telegraphing its arrival by post.
Rat didn't dodge. He didn't block.
He stepped in.
He moved inside the arc of the punch, invading Krog's guard. He brought his right hand up—not in a fist, but in a flat palm strike.
He didn't aim for the face. He aimed for the solar plexus.
Impact.
Rat drove his palm into the soft bundle of nerves below Krog's sternum. He didn't use just his arm strength; he used the Earth mana settled in his bones, a short, sharp pulse of kinetic density.
"Oof!"
The sound that left Krog was the sound of a balloon being deflated. His eyes bulged. His feet left the ground for a fraction of a second.
The giant man folded. He dropped to his knees, clutching his stomach, gasping for air that wouldn't come. He retched, vomit spilling onto the dirt.
Rat stood over him. He wasn't panting. He wasn't shaking.
He looked at the two lackeys. They were staring at him with pure terror, as if he had just grown horns.
"Pick him up," Rat said quietly.
The lackeys didn't move.
"Pick. Him. Up," Rat repeated, his voice carrying a metallic edge.
They scrambled forward, grabbing the wheezing Krog and dragging him away as fast as they could.
Rat smoothed his rags. He didn't look at the other slaves. He didn't gloat. He simply walked toward the lift cages.
Inside, his heart was beating steadily.
Test complete, he noted. Physical output increased by 300%. Durability increased by 200%.
But as the cage descended into the dark, Rat's improved senses picked up something else.
[Alert: Vibration Detected.]
It wasn't the machinery. It wasn't the heartbeat of a slave.
It was coming from deep below, from the hole the Burrower had made.
It was a rhythm.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Intelligent. Deliberate.
And then, a voice. Not spoken, but felt. A telepathic whisper that brushed against the edges of his newly awakened mana sensitivity.
"...found... you..."
Rat gripped the iron bars of the cage. The hairs on his arms stood up.
The Burrower hadn't been a random monster. It had been a scout.
And whatever had sent it... knew someone had killed it.
Rat looked into the abyss below. The darkness stared back.
Let them come, Rat thought, a cold violet light flickering in his eyes. I am not just digging for ore anymore. I am digging a grave.