Markus crossed the invisible border into the Tier 4 district, and the change was instantaneous. The air lost its heavy, sulfurous bite, replaced by the sterile scent of ozone and synthetic rain-scent. Here, the neon wasn't flickering; it was a vibrant, steady pulse of sapphire and violet. Holographic advertisements—larger than life—danced in the air, selling dream-simulations and high-grade nutrient infusions.
Markus felt like a ghost walking through a Blade Runner set. He lacked the sleek, high-collared jacket of the protagonist, but as he caught his reflection in a polished chrome storefront, he realized his father's sacrifice had worked. In his clean shirt and sturdy trousers, he didn't look like a Tier 5 gutter-rat. He looked like a Tier 4 citizen who had fallen on slightly hard times.
A bitter taste filled his mouth. He was a walking monument to his father's starvation. He couldn't stay here; the sight of people laughing in cafes while his father handled soul-poisoning crystals made his skin crawl.
He turned back, descending once more into the bowels of the city, reaching the industrial trash sector of Tier 5. As he crossed the threshold, the sky finally broke.
It didn't just rain; it wept filth. The droplets were heavy and viscous, shimmering with an iridescent, oily sheen. As the liquid hit the pavement, it didn't splash—it smeared.
Oil-rain, Markus thought, shielding his eyes. Tf is wrong with this world?
Markus crossed the invisible border into the Tier 4 district, and the change was instantaneous. The air lost its heavy, sulfurous bite, replaced by the sterile scent of ozone and synthetic rain-scent. Here, the neon wasn't flickering; it was a vibrant, steady pulse of sapphire and violet. Holographic advertisements—larger than life—danced in the air, selling dream-simulations and high-grade nutrient infusions.
Markus felt like a ghost walking through a Blade Runner set. He lacked the sleek, high-collared jacket of the locals, but as he caught his reflection in a polished chrome storefront, he realized his father's sacrifice had worked. In his clean shirt and sturdy trousers, he didn't look like a Tier 5 gutter-rat. He looked like a Tier 4 citizen who had fallen on slightly hard times.
A bitter taste filled his mouth. He was a walking monument to his father's starvation. He couldn't stay here; the sight of people laughing in cafes while his father handled soul-poisoning crystals made his skin crawl.
He turned back, descending once more into the bowels of the city, reaching the industrial trash sector of Tier 5. As he crossed the threshold, the sky finally broke.
It didn't just rain; it wept filth. The droplets were heavy and viscous, shimmering with an iridescent, oily sheen. As the liquid hit the pavement, it didn't splash—it smeared.
Oil-rain, Markus thought, shielding his eyes. Tf is wrong with this world?
The water was toxic, a lethal effluent from the upper tiers' refineries. It would choke any plant life and burn the lungs of anyone who breathed the mist for too long. These "Benevolent" bastards were literally dumping their chemical waste onto the heads of the poor. It was a hierarchy built on a pyramid of poison.
His mind drifted back to the beggar. The man had said he was twenty-two, yet he looked sixty, his body ravaged by the environment. Then he thought of his father. If the life expectancy here was so low, his father was likely younger than Markus had been in his previous life.
A dark, hysterical laugh escaped him. "I'm being raised by a kid," he muttered into the oily downpour.
Suddenly, a sharp, electric buzz vibrated at the base of his skull. It wasn't the dull ache of his concussion; it was a rhythmic, pulling sensation, like a compass needle swinging toward North.
He followed the feeling, his boots squelching through the black, oily sludge of the trash heaps. The buzz grew into a frantic hum, vibrating behind his eyes. He reached into a pile of rusted scrap and pulled out a jagged, palm-sized piece of metal.
To any other eye, it was a piece of junk—a blackened, twisted shard of an old alloy. But to Markus, it felt... warm. It pulsed with a faint, rhythmic heartbeat that resonated through his fingertips.
What is this? he wondered, turning the heavy shard over. I "sensed" this.
His mind was changing. Perhaps the detective's psychic intrusion had cracked something open, or perhaps the stress of the transmigration was finally manifesting. His brain, already a high-performance engine, seemed to be developing a new sensor. He looked at the piece of old iron, frowning.
"Will this be useful?" he asked the rain.
He didn't have a laboratory or a forge. He was a starving kid in a toxic slum. But he knew one thing: in a world of scarcity, anything that "hummed" had a price.
"Let's see what the bottom-feeders will pay for a piece of 'magic' junk," he muttered, tucking the warm metal into his pocket and heading toward the flickering lights of a nearby black-market pawn shop.
----
The pawn shop was a claustrophobic tomb of forgotten things. It sat at the end of a jagged alley, a neon sign flickering above the door: THE TITHE. Inside, the air was thick with the scent of burnt wiring, stale tobacco, and the metallic tang of oxidized copper. Shelves groaned under the weight of rusted prosthetic limbs, cracked mana-batteries, and heaps of "pre-Manifestation" relics that were now little more than paperweights.
Behind a counter of reinforced, scratched plexiglass sat a man who looked like he was made of spare parts. His skin was the color of old parchment, and one of his eyes had been replaced by a whirring, brass-cased optic lens that clicked as it focused.
"Whatcha got, Tier 4?" the man wheezed, his voice sounding like two stones grinding together. He took in Markus's clean shirt and sturdy boots with a greedy, calculating glint. "You look a long way from the high-rises."
Markus didn't say a word. He reached into his pocket and placed the blackened metal shard on the counter. It let out a soft thud, and the rhythmic hum it emitted seemed to vibrate the plexiglass.
The man squinted, his mechanical eye whirring. He poked the shard with a grimy finger and snorted. "Junk. It's slag from a refinery cooling vent. I'll give you half a bitshard just to take it off your hands and save you the walk to the scrap heap."
Markus didn't flinch. He leaned in, a cold, knowing smile playing on his lips. "Slag? Interesting. I didn't know you were so fucking blind. But hey, if you're not interested, the guy three blocks over will check it. I'll just take it to him. No loss to me."
He reached for the shard, but the man's hand clamped down over it with surprising speed. The mechanical eye was clicking frantically now.
"Wait, wait," the owner muttered, his tone shifting from dismissive to desperate. He pulled a small, handheld scanner from beneath the counter and ran it over the metal. The device let out a high-pitched, melodic chime. "Core-vein... actual solidified mana-ore. Where the hell did a kid like you find this?"
He looked at Markus, his greed warring with suspicion. "I need to call a friend. An expert. To make sure of the purity before I give you a price. Don't move."
Markus watched him pick up a comm-unit, a sense of déjà vu washing over him. Nice piece, kid... let me call an expert. It was a scene straight out of an old-world reality show. Every pawn shop in every universe was exactly the same.
"Nice piece, kid," the man said, leaning back as he waited for the "expert." "Seriously, what is a Tier 4 doing down here in the mud? You looking for a thrill? Or did Daddy cut off your credit line?"
Before Markus could craft a biting response, the air behind him shifted.
A massive hand, calloused and heavy, slammed into Markus's shoulder, spinning him around. Before he could find his footing, a fist like a lead weight crashed into his jaw.
Markus's head snapped back. He hit the floor hard, his vision exploding into white sparks. He rolled onto his side, coughing as the metallic taste of blood filled his mouth.
Above him stood a mountain of a man—a Tier 5 bruiser who clearly spent his bitshards on synth-protein and cheap stimulants. He wasn't skinny like the others; he was a wall of thick, slab-like muscle, wearing a sleeveless vest that showed off arms mapped with scarred veins.
The pawn shop owner stood up, the metal shard gripped tightly in his hand. He wasn't calling an expert; he was calling his muscle.
"Sorry, kid," the owner sneered, his mechanical eye spinning with malicious glee. "But in this district, there's no such thing as a fair trade. This piece is mine for free. Do you fucking understand? Now get out before my friend here decides to see what your organs are worth."
The bodyguard looked down at Markus, a slow, predatory grin spreading across his face. He was twice Markus's weight and significantly healthier.
Markus stayed on the ground for a moment, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He wiped a smear of blood from his lip, his eyes darkening. The pain was there, sharp and throbbing, but beneath it, the adrenaline was beginning to boil.
He didn't feel fear. He felt an icy, clinical rage.
Markus got up slowly, his movements deliberate. The bodyguard chuckled, cracking his knuckles.
"You want more, little Tier 4?" the bruiser mocked.
Markus didn't answer. He tensed his jaw, his eyes locking onto the man's throat. His body was weak, yes. It was skinny and battered. But his mind knew exactly where to strike to make a giant fall.