The streets of the outer zone were calm.
Damian walked quietly, thoughts crashing inside his head.
Around him, life still looked normal—men hauling goods, children chasing each other, vendors shouting about fresh bread and roasted meat.
But the buildings told the truth.
No shining towers. Only crumbling blocks left over from before the Cataclysm.
Walls patched with crooked steel bars. Windows sealed with rusted iron sheets.
The further from the core, the worse it became—broken stairwells, leaking roofs, the stink of mold and smoke.
And ten years from now? All of this would vanish.
The streets would be full of beggars. The starving would huddle in alleys.
Laughter would turn to groans. The only children left would stand in line at relief stations.
Even now, one such line stood at the corner.
A row of thin, hollow-eyed kids clutched their terminals.
Most were ordinary, never admitted into the orphanages.
The staff handed out the cheapest nutrient packs—one each.
Damian's gaze lingered.
Those packs could barely keep them alive. Never enough to help them grow.
He tossed one toward the group.
Noise exploded—shouts, curses, small bodies fighting over it.
A silver-haired boy was shoved to the ground.
Damian didn't stop. He didn't look back.
He just walked away.
He had been lucky.
When his parents died, they left just enough to send him to an orphanage.
There, he awakened as a Combatant.
He had never felt the kind of hunger those children suffered.
Taking a breath, he opened his terminal.
A lease notice blinked on the screen.
Three-bedroom apartment. Near the core. One hundred square meters. Fifty thousand credits a month.
He had rented it—because Elian Frost deserved the best.
Not anymore.
After some tough negotiation, he changed the contract.
Now it was a one-bedroom in the outer zone. Only ten thousand a month.
Forty thousand saved. His wallet suddenly felt heavier.
So did something else in his chest—lighter.
In his last life, he and Elian had lived in an expensive home.
Damian hunted corpses every day. He bled, broke bones, traded crystal cores for money.
Every coin went to living costs—and to Elian's cultivation.
He was always injured. Elian healed his wounds, but not his rank.
No matter how hard he fought, Damian stayed stuck at C-rank.
Elian grew disappointed. The distance only widened.
The memory cut like broken glass. His chest ached.
Now he carried his few belongings into the new apartment.
One bedroom, one living room. Not even forty square meters.
But sturdy—rare in the outer zone.
Not one of the shacks ready to collapse in the next storm.
There was even furniture. A worn sofa. A bed. A kitchen. A tiny washroom.
Best of all, a solar battery that powered the lights for four hours at night.
It wasn't near the core. That distance made it cheap.
The room was bare. The air was damp. He looked around and realized—he had almost nothing.
Even in the home he once shared with Elian, nothing had ever truly belonged to him.
His hand touched the pouch at his waist.
Inside were more than thirty mid-grade crystal cores.
They had been meant as a gift for Elian.
Now, they were his.
For the first time in years, he felt lighter.
Those cores would last him a month of cultivation.
Meanwhile, Elian went back to his cramped home—eight siblings, clothes on the floor, half-empty bowls on the table.
In Damian's last life, that scene had ended the moment Elian accepted his confession.
They had moved into their luxury home.
Back then, Elian had truly loved him.
To an E-rank Psionic, Damian—a handsome C-rank Combatant—was a partner out of reach.
Elian admired him. Cherished him. Moved in by his side.
They shared their first new home. The happiest days they had ever known.
But joy had chained Damian to ten years of regret.
Now, regret was gone. In its place, something new was growing—something that belonged only to him.
Damian lay back on the worn sofa, crystal core warm in his palm.
This time, the power would be his.
Not for love. Not for chains.
Somewhere in the city, Elian Frost walked home to his crowded, suffocating house.
Their paths had split for good—and would never cross the same way again.