The adrenaline of the confrontation with Brent began to ebb as Roman exited the Academy Spire. The midday sun of Sector D was a pale, sickly orange, filtered through layers of industrial smog. As he walked toward the derelict industrial zone—a place where the Academy's biometric scanners were weak—his chest began to thrum.
It wasn't the rhythmic pulse of the ritual. It was a vibration that felt like a localized earthquake centered right against his sternum.
"You are pushed, Host," a voice resonated. It didn't come through his ears. it was a bone-conduction signal, vibrating directly through his jaw and into his skull.
Roman stopped in a secluded alleyway behind a row of rusting ventilation fans. He reached beneath his uniform and pulled out the Solstice Core. The soot-covered surface was gone, replaced by a dark, crystalline metal that felt warm and organic, like living skin. The violet gem at its center wasn't just glowing; it was dilating like a pupil.
"You can speak," Roman whispered, his eyes scanning the rooftops for drones.
"I am the Archive of the Solstice," the voice replied, its tone a mix of mathematical precision and ancient weariness. "I am the record of the Star Form. And I must advise against further interaction with the Carbon-Lifeform known as 'Xylia'."
Roman frowned. "She's the only one in this sector with the equipment to handle my energy output. Without her catalyst, I can't reach the Flesh-Refining stage in time for the duel."
"The girl is a primitive," the necklace vibrated, its light flickering a sharp, warning red. "Her catalyst is a blunt instrument. By forcing Stage 3 Bone Hardening, she has already created a 'Tension Imbalance.' Your skeleton is now denser than your muscular envelope can support. If you attempt another ritual of her design, the pressure of your bones will shear your muscles from the attachments. You will become a cage of stone with no way to move the bars."
Roman leaned against a damp brick wall, feeling a sudden, cold tremor in his hands. He looked down and realized the necklace was right. When he had caught Brent's wind-blade, his bones hadn't broken—but the muscles in his forearm had felt like they were being crushed from the inside. His bones were too strong for his "Normal" human flesh.
"Then what do I do?" Roman asked. "Brent is going to use the -Dragon Elixir. He'll be a Stage 5 monster in three days. If I go into the Pit with only my bones, he'll just vibrate my organs into jelly through the gaps."
"The solution lies not in external catalysts, but in Internal Compression," the Core replied. "Xylia's equipment is a risk to my integrity and your survival. She is curious. Curiosity leads to dissection. I will provide the cultivation path, but you must find a source of 'Pure Ionic Flux.' Not the dross she sells in her basement."
Roman sighed, the weight of his secret life pressing down on him. The necklace was sentient, protective, and clearly possessed a superior ego. But it was right about one thing: Xylia was too smart. She was already looking at him like a puzzle to be solved. In a world where Information was the highest currency, a "Low-Key" protagonist couldn't afford a witness who knew his exact energy signature.
As he stood in the shadows, Roman felt a sharp, stabbing pain in his shoulder—the one Kaelen Jax had "broken." He pulled back his sleeve and turned on his tablet's flashlight.
His skin was turning a faint, translucent grey around the joints. It wasn't bruising. It looked like the skin was becoming thin, stretched tight over the unnatural density of the bone beneath.
"The Repercussions," the Core whispered. "Your 'Normal' biology is being consumed to fuel the Star-foundation. To survive the next seventy-two hours, you do not need a mechanic. You need a Hunter."
Roman closed his eyes, his mind racing. If he couldn't go to Xylia, he had to find another way to acquire the high-tier nutrients and ionic fluids needed for the Star Cultivation Manual's version of Flesh Refining: the Astral Integument.
But as he turned to leave the alley, a shadow detached itself from the wall
It wasn't Brent. It wasn't a drone.
It was a man dressed in a tactical stealth-suit, the kind used by the Shadow-Wraith trackers Brent had mentioned. The man's face was obscured by a multi-lens sensory mask that glowed with a predatory blue light. In his hand was a high-frequency stun-baton.
"The Young Master was right," the tracker said, his voice distorted by a vocal-filter. "A Level 2 doesn't walk with that much weight unless he's carrying stolen tech. Hand over the necklace, kid, and maybe I'll only break your legs before I bring you in."
Roman didn't panic. He felt the necklace against his chest pulse with a violent, eager violet light.
"Host," the Core vibrated. "He possesses a Profound-rank internal battery. His ionic flux is... compatible."
Roman looked at the tracker. He didn't see a threat anymore. He saw a source of nutrition.
"I was told to be low-key," Roman whispered to the necklace.
"Dead men do not write reports," the necklace replied coldly.
The tracker lunged, his stun-baton whistling through the air with a kinetic hum. In the past, Roman would have been too slow to react. But now, his brain was synchronized with the Core. The world slowed down. He saw the arc of the baton, the flicker of the man's muscle under his suit, and the glowing battery pack on his hip.
Roman didn't dodge. He stepped into the strike.
The stun-baton slammed into his chest, exactly where the necklace sat. Ten thousand volts of electricity surged into Roman's body. Any other student would have been convulsing on the ground.
But Roman didn't even flinch. The necklace acted like a lightning rod, drinking the entire discharge in a micro-second.
"My turn," Roman said.
He grabbed the tracker's wrist. The man's eyes widened behind his mask as he realized his baton had done nothing. Roman's grip didn't just hold him; it felt like a hydraulic press.
Crunch.
The sound of the tracker's wrist-bones shattering echoed in the narrow alley. Roman didn't stop there. He punched the man's chest, not with a closed fist, but with an open palm.
"Extraction," Roman commanded, echoing the Manual's script.
The violet light flared. The tracker screamed as the energy was ripped out of his suit's battery and his own bio-electrical field. He collapsed like a puppet with its strings cut, his suit's lights flickering and dying.
Roman stood over the unconscious man, feeling a surge of raw, ionic power flowing from the necklace into his own muscles. The thin, grey skin on his arm began to glow, the fibers of his flesh tightening and knitting together with a new, metallic strength.
"He will live," the Core said. "But he will remember nothing but a flash of violet light. We have our first dose of flux, Host. But the 'Wind-wyvern' is still coming. We need more."
Roman looked down at his hands. They were no longer trembling. The "Normal" boy was fading, replaced by something that didn't just survive the darkness—it thrived in it.
"I need to find where the rest of these trackers are hiding," Roman said, pulling his hood back up. "If Brent wants to send me 'nutrients,' I shouldn't be rude. I should accept them all."