Bertram's a smart kid, no doubt. But his martial arts talent is trash, and in this world, that usually means you don't get to grow old.
Leaving the school grounds, Bertram heads straight for the shop Mr. Javion pointed him to.
The place is tucked away, hidden deep in the city's belly. He navigates a maze of streets and narrow alleys, the press of the crowd a constant around him.
The flow of people is a stark contrast. There are adults, their faces marked by the hard-won security of a city residency permit.
There are kids in school uniforms, still sheltered, their biggest worry a test grade.
And then there's him, a lone figure moving against the current, walking straight into a future that's a giant question mark.
Then, a sound cuts through the city's hum. A muffled cry, choked and desperate, from a shadowed alley to his left.
His instincts snap his head toward the noise. In the dim gap between buildings, he sees three figures shrouded in black hooded robes.
They're dragging a girl, her clothes fine and expensive, into the deeper darkness. One of the robed men turns slightly, a nasty scar cuts down his cheek, pale against his skin.
Shit.
Bertram's heart jackhammers against his ribs. He curses low in his throat, forces his head down, and picks up his pace. He doesn't look back.
That girl has power written all over her. The kind of person who gets snatched in broad daylight? That's high-stakes trouble.
The kind of trouble that erases bystanders. If he tried to play hero, he wouldn't change a damn thing. He'd just end up dead in that alley, another nobody who saw too much.
A pang of guilt twists in his gut for the girl, but it's smothered by cold, hard logic. He doesn't have the strength. Survival comes first.
He walks for what feels like forever, shoulders tense, listening for footsteps behind him. Only when he's sure he's not being tailed does he let out a sharp, shaky breath.
Finally, he reaches the shop. It's secluded, yeah, but pristine. The windows are clean, the sign simple.
Inside, it smells of herbs and clean wood. The owner is a middle-aged man with a neat beard and calm eyes. He looks… trustworthy.
"Sir. Mr. Javion sent me," Bertram says, getting straight to it. "I need to buy extra-dimensional creature flesh and blood. If you've got an affordable blood source, I want that too."
Martial arts cultivation here runs on fuel, the nutrient-rich flesh of the invaders. That's the new path humanity clawed from the apocalypse.
A blood source is even better. It's the concentrated life-essence, the purest energy left behind when one of those things dies. It's the premium fuel.
"Javion's kid, huh?" the shopkeeper muses. "Just got a fresh shipment in. Black Burst Rabbit meat. Good quality. A hundred Dawn Coins per pound. Interested?"
The Black Burst Rabbit is a low-tier otherworldly beast. Don't let the name fool you, it's all compact, explosive muscle, its blood thick with power.
Think of it as a rabbit that's been cultivating for a hundred years. For a martial artist, it's solid, reliable nutrition.
Bertram feels the temptation.
But he also feels the clock ticking. Even the best meat takes time to digest and convert into strength. Time is the one thing he's running out of.
A blood source, though? That's almost instant absorption.
For him, a guy with the full understanding of the F-rank realm but a body that hasn't caught up, it's the perfect key.
The problem is always the price.
He's a ward of the state. All his savings, scraped together over years, amount to 2000 Limin coins. He came here ready to blow it all today.
The shopkeeper's sharp eyes seem to read his struggle. "I've got a damaged blood source," he offers after a moment. "I can let it go cheap. You interested?"
He pulls a small wooden box from under the counter and opens it. Inside, resting on velvet, is a blood-red bead.
It glows with a faint, misty light, but the glow is weak, thin. The bead itself looks brittle, with a hairline crack almost invisible along one side.
Damaged goods.
"How much you got?" the shopkeeper asks.
"Two thousand."
The man hesitates, then nods. "Tell you what. The blood source, plus three pounds of the Black Burst Rabbit meat. For your two thousand. Final offer."
Bertram's eyes widen. Even a novice like him knows that's a steal. A serious favor.
"Thanks, boss," he says, the words heavy with gratitude. This is his chance.
Bertram heads straight for the school's training room. It's empty, quiet. He pulls out the damaged Blood Source, its faint red glow pulsing in his palm.
He sits cross-legged on the worn mat, closes his eyes, and focuses. The absorption begins.
Threads of crimson energy, thick and hot, seep from the bead into his skin. They travel up his arms, flooding his bloodstream with raw, violent power.
His muscles tremble.
His bones feel like they're being tempered in a forge. With each passing minute, his physique hardens, his qi pathways burn brighter, inching him closer to that critical threshold.
If this keeps up… absorbing the whole thing might actually push me to F-rank!
The thought fuels his focus.
Reaching F-rank would mean every scrap of effort, every coin he saved, wasn't wasted. It would mean a fighting chance.
---
Meanwhile, back in the cramped dorm room, Bertram's roommates are throwing their meager belongings into bags. The air is thick with finality.
"Where's Bertram? Haven't seen him all day," Vernon mutters, shoving a worn textbook into his pack.
"Someone saw him bolting for the training room," Barton replies without looking up. "Probably making one last desperate push. Trying to break through."
Hector lets out a bitter, humorless laugh. "We're about to get thrown out of the city. If he hasn't broken through in all these years, what's a couple of days gonna do?"
The gloom is a physical weight. All of them have F-rank potential, not yet achieved, the bare minimum.
They know exactly how monstrous that final barrier is. And they know the cold truth: even a fresh F-rank is pathetically weak compared to the monsters waiting beyond the walls.
"Instead of this sweat-and-blood crap," Hector says, a faint, desperate hope in his voice, "we should be praying to get picked by a non-combat department somewhere. A safe desk job. That's worth more than a hundred years of training."
A sudden, chilling silence falls. Barton looks up, his face pale. "Did… did you all apply for non-combat posts?"
"You guys applied too?" The question comes from all three of them at once, their voices overlapping in dawning horror.
"I applied for the West Zone 2 Logistics Department…"
"Me too. West Zone 2 Logistics."
"Same."
The color drains from their faces. "That damn informant… he said only a few people knew about that opening!"
Despair, cold and suffocating, floods the room.
This is worse than bad. They've all competed for the same impossible lifeline. Their chances just evaporated.
How are they supposed to survive now?
---
Training Room.
Bertram's eyes snap open. A full day has passed.
He takes a deep breath, and the air feels different.
He clenches his fist. Power thrums through him, dense and solid. He feels like he could punch through stone, outrun a car. His body is a coiled spring of refined force.
So this is F-level martial arts.
A fierce, triumphant grin spreads across his face. I finally made it.
With this strength, his odds just got a hell of a lot better.
"Let's see if they really did," he murmurs, his gaze sharpening.
A full day has passed. The cooldown is over. He can activate the Infinite Life Simulation for the second time.
He needs to see.
Now that he's reached F-rank, now that he chose three front-line combat postings instead of safe traps… how does his fate change?
It has to be better than the Dawn Army's slaughterhouse.
The familiar metallic bronze disk shimmers before his eyes. It begins to spin, and the new simulation unfolds in lines of stark text.
[June 13, Year Z100: In the school's training room, you successfully absorb the blood essence, breaking through to F-level in martial arts. Knowing the hell that waits outside, you aren't satisfied. You use your remaining time wisely. You find a martial arts gym in the city's outer sectors. You work as a sparring partner during the day, earning scraps of coin and hardening your combat instincts with real blows. At night, you push your body further, grinding your new strength and training your nascent [Silver Threads] ability.]