The adrenaline was fading, and in its wake, it left a hollow, trembling exhaustion that settled deep in Elian's marrow.
He sat on the wet asphalt, staring at the carcass of the Corpse-Stalker. Rainwater pooled in the creature's open ribcage, mixing with the black ichor that passed for blood in these mutated beasts.
Ten minutes ago, Elian had been a rat scurrying in the shadows. Now, he was a rat that knew kung-fu. Or at least, a rat that remembered knowing kung-fu.
He tried to stand up, but his legs turned to jelly. He collapsed back onto his haunches, groaning.
"Status," he croaked.
[Name: Elian Vance]
[Class: None]
[Level: 2]
[Health: 45/110 (Fatigued)]
[Mana: 12/20]
[Stamina: 8/100]
[Strength: 9 | Agility: 11 | Intelligence: 14 | Vitality: 8]
[Trait: False Regressor (Active)]
[Current Mental Load: 14%]
Elian rubbed his temples. The "Mental Load" statistic was new. It pulsed in the corner of his vision like a persistent migraine aura. Every time he focused on an object—a rock, a weapon, the dead monster—a stream of data tried to force its way into his conscious mind. It was like having a supercomputer hardwired into a pocket calculator; the hardware was struggling to keep up with the software.
Harvest it, a voice whispered in the back of his head.
It wasn't an audible voice. It was a thought that felt foreign, tinged with a righteous, professional authority that Elian definitely didn't possess. It was Kaelen. Or rather, the data-ghost of Kaelen.
The venom sac is located under the sub-lingual gland. Value: 400 Credits. Use a slant cut.
"Shut up," Elian muttered to the empty street. "I know how to gut a beast. I've been a Vulture for six years."
He pulled out his skinning knife—a jagged, serrated piece of scrap metal wrapped in duct tape. He approached the Corpse-Stalker's jaw. Normally, he would just smash the teeth out with a rock and leave the rest. Speed was life. The longer you stayed, the more likely something bigger would come along to eat you.
But the Ghost in his head was insistent. It projected a faint, blue overlay onto the monster's throat, highlighting an incision line.
Don't hack. Slice. Preserve the sac.
"Fine," Elian grumbled. "But if I get eaten by a wandering Troll, I'm haunting you back."
He followed the blue line. His hand, usually clumsy and prone to rushing, moved with a strange, borrowed steadiness. The knife slid between the tough muscle fibers, bypassing the bone. He reached in, his fingers brushing against the slimy, pulsating venom sac, and pulled it out intact.
It was a translucent blue organ, glowing faintly.
Elian stared at it. He had seen these in alchemy shops in the Inner Sector, usually behind reinforced glass.
"High-grade material," he whispered. "This alone is worth three weeks of rent."
Greed, warm and comforting, washed over him, temporarily numbing the headache. He quickly wrapped the sac in a rag and shoved it deep into his pack, along with the teeth.
He stood up again. This time, he managed to stay on his feet.
"Okay, Hero," Elian said, looking back at the crater where Kaelen's body lay. "Thanks for the payday. I'm going to go drink until I forget your face."
He turned and began the long trudge back to the Wall.
The journey from the Raid Zone to the Safe Zone was usually a terrified sprint. The "Grey Zone"—the miles of ruined suburbs between the active dungeons and the city walls—was a no-man's-land.
But today, the walk felt... different.
Elian moved through the ruins of a shopping mall. Usually, he would stick to the shadows, freezing at every snapping twig. But the memories overlaid the world with information.
He looked at a dark alleyway to his left.
Danger. Nest of Shade-Rats. Avoid.
He looked at a puddle of water blocking his path.
Acidic runoff from the factory uphill. Do not step.
He looked at the sky.
Wind shift. A Wyvern patrol usually passes here at 16:00 hours. Current time: 15:55. Take cover.
Elian ducked under a concrete overhang just as a massive shadow swept over the shattered skylights above. The beat of leathery wings shook dust from the ceiling. A Wyvern. If he had been out in the open, he would have been a snack.
He pressed his back against the cold wall, his heart hammering.
"I'm cheating," Elian realized, a manic grin spreading across his face. "I'm actually cheating."
For the first time in ten years, the world didn't feel like a random, chaotic meat grinder. It felt like a clock. And he was the only one who could see the gears turning.
________________________________________
Sector 4: The Outer Ring.
"The Rust Bucket."
The massive steel walls of the Safe Zone loomed ahead, rising fifty meters into the smoggy sky. They were patched with scrap metal, reinforced concrete, and the mana-barriers of the mages' guild.
A long line of people waited at the South Gate. Hunters returning from low-level dives, merchants with their guarded caravans, and the filth—people like Elian.
Elian pulled his hood low, hiding his face. He joined the "Non-Combatant" line. It moved slowly. The guards at the gate were checking IDs and scanning for contagion.
At the front of the line, a burly guard named Griggs was harassing a young girl selling scavenged copper wire.
"This is contaminated," Griggs sneered, kicking the girl's small cart. The wire spilled into the mud. "Confiscated. Get lost, rat."
"Please, sir," the girl wept. "It's clean! I scrubbed it with ash!"
"Move!" Griggs raised his baton.
Elian watched from ten feet away. The old Elian would have looked down at his boots. Don't make eye contact. Don't get involved. Survival of the fittest.
But the Ghost in his head flared. A surge of hot, righteous anger boiled up in Elian's chest. Kaelen Lightbringer didn't tolerate bullies. Kaelen Lightbringer would have drawn his sword, decapitated the corrupt guard, and given the girl a gold coin.
Elian's hand twitched toward his pry-bar.
Execute Justice, the memory commanded. Strike the knee. Throat punch. Disarm.
"No, you idiot," Elian hissed under his breath, fighting the urge to play hero. "I'm Level 2. Griggs is Level 15. He'll snap me in half."
He forced his hand away from the weapon. He wasn't Kaelen. He was a survivor. And survivors didn't fight fair; they fought dirty.
He focused on Griggs.
Search Memory: Griggs, Sector 4 Gate Guard.
The database in his brain whirred. Kaelen had never met Griggs. Kaelen dealt with Kings and Guild Masters. Why would he know a random gate guard?
But then, a fringe memory surfaced. Not a direct memory of Griggs, but a memory of a report Kaelen had read in the future. A scandal that had rocked the Sector 4 Guards in Year 12.
Subject: Guard Captain Griggs. Convicted of smuggling "Red Dust" narcotics through the South Gate for the Viper Gang. Hidden compartment in the left sole of his boot.
Elian smiled. It was a sharp, nasty smile.
He stepped out of line.
"Hey! Griggs!"
The big guard turned, his face flushing red. "Who said that? You want a beating, trash?"
Elian walked forward, hands raised in a mock surrender. He adopted the posture of a sniveling coward—shoulders hunched, eyes wide.
"Sorry, sorry! I just... I saw something fall out of your boot, sir."
Griggs frowned, lowering the baton. "What?"
Elian leaned in close, dropping his voice to a whisper so only Griggs could hear.
"The Viper Gang says the shipment is late, Griggs. And they say if you don't stop kicking over carts and drawing attention to yourself, they're going to check the hollow heel of your left boot. And maybe cut the foot off with it."
The color drained from Griggs's face instantly. He went from red to a sickly, terrified white.
"You... how do you..." Griggs stammered, his eyes darting around to see if anyone else had heard.
"I hear things," Elian said, his voice shifting. The whine was gone, replaced by a cold, flat tone. "Now, let the girl go. And let me through. Or I start shouting about Red Dust right here."
Griggs swallowed hard. He looked at the girl, then at Elian. He stepped aside, sweat beading on his forehead.
"Get out of here," Griggs hissed. "Both of you."
Elian winked. He walked past the checkpoint, the mana-scanners buzzing over him.
As he passed the weeping girl, he didn't stop to help her pick up her wire. He didn't offer a comforting word. He just kept walking. He had saved her to get through the gate, not because he cared.
That was efficient, the Ghost conceded, though it felt disappointed.
But cowardly.
"It worked," Elian thought back. "Welcome to the bottom of the food chain, hero."
________________________________________
Sector 4 Slums. "The Docks."
The Safe Zone was divided into tiers. The Inner Sanctum was where the High Rankers lived—clean water, electricity, real sunlight filtered through glass domes.
Sector 4 was where the sewage went.
It was a labyrinth of shipping containers stacked four high, connected by rusty walkways and hanging cables. Neon signs flickered in the gloom, advertising "Recycled Meat" and "Cheap Mana Potions."
Elian climbed the rusted ladder to his unit—a dented shipping container perched precariously on top of a noodle shop. The smell of frying synthetic pork almost made him vomit, reminding him he hadn't eaten in two days.
He unlocked the heavy padlock on his door and stepped inside.
It was a small space. A mattress on the floor, a bucket for water, and a workbench covered in scrap electronics. The walls were plastered with hand-drawn maps of the nearby ruins.
Elian locked the door behind him and engaged the three deadbolts. Only then did he let out the breath he had been holding.
He slid down the door until he hit the floor.
"I need to think," he muttered. "I need to organize."
He dumped his pack onto the floor. The Venom Sac, the Stalker Teeth, and a handful of mana crystals clattered onto the metal.
But the real treasure was in his head.
He closed his eyes and focused.
Recall: The Third Gate.
Pain lanced through his skull, sharp and blinding. His nose began to bleed, warm droplets splashing onto his shirt. The System had warned him: Low Soul Capacity. His brain was a cup trying to hold a gallon of water. Accessing deep memories, specific future events, hurt.
Images flashed.
New York City. Central Park. A tear in the sky. Not monsters this time. Machines. Living metal. The "Mecha-Legion". Humanity's magic didn't work on their shields. The slaughter was absolute.
Date: 3 days from now.
Trigger Event: The destabilization of the Mana Grid.
Solution: The backdoor.
"The backdoor," Elian gasped, wiping the blood from his nose.
Kaelen had discovered, too late, that the System had a fail-safe. A maintenance mode. If someone could reach the Pillar of Ascendance in the tutorial dungeon and input a specific mana-code, they could delay the Gate opening.
Or, they could redirect the rewards to themselves.
Elian's eyes snapped open.
Kaelen wanted to stop the Gate to save millions.
Elian realized that if he stopped the Gate, or even just delayed it, the System would grant a "Server First" achievement.
[Global Achievement: Crisis Averted]
[Reward: Unique Class Awakening Token + 50,000 Credits.]
A Class Awakening Token.
For a Vulture like Elian, that was the holy grail. Hunters were born or awakened by expensive rituals. Vultures were the ones who failed. But with a Token... he could become a real player.
"I have three days," Elian whispered. "The Pillar is inside the 'Beginner's Tomb' dungeon."
It was a cruel joke. The "Beginner's Tomb" was a Level 5 dungeon. Easy for a Guild team. Suicide for a solo Level 2 Vulture with a pry-bar.
But Kaelen knew every trap. Every spawn point. Every glitch.
Elian looked at the Venom Sac on the floor.
"I need gear," he decided. "I need a weapon that isn't held together by tape. And I need to visit the Black Market."
He stood up, swayed, and grabbed a protein bar from his shelf. He tore the wrapper off with his teeth.
He had a plan. It was insane, dangerous, and relied entirely on the memories of a dead man who had failed to save the world twice.
Elian took a bite of the stale, chalky bar.
Time to go shopping.