The bodyguard didn't expect speed. He expected a whimpering retreat.
Markus lunged low, his center of gravity shifting with a fluid precision his new, scrawny limbs struggled to follow. He drove his shoulder into the giant's solar plexus, but the man was like a wall of meat. The bruiser grunted, more annoyed than hurt, and brought a massive, hammer-like fist down onto Markus's back.
The blow sent a white-hot spike of agony through Markus's spine, slamming him into the floor. He tasted copper and felt the jagged edge of a tooth cut into his cheek.
"Stay down, scrap-rat!" the bodyguard roared, stepping forward to deliver a finishing stomp.
Markus rolled, the heavy boot whistling past his ear and splintering the floorboards. He didn't think; he reacted with the muscle memory of a thousand sparring sessions. As the bodyguard overextended, Markus lashed out with a lightning-fast kick to the side of the man's knee.
CRACK.
The joint buckled. The giant let out a guttural howl, his balance vanishing. As the man stumbled, Markus was already up, ignoring the screaming protest of his bruised ribs. He stepped into the bruiser's guard, his hands moving in a blur of calculated violence.
He delivered a double-palm strike to the man's ears—disorienting his equilibrium—followed by a brutal, rising elbow that caught the bodyguard square under the chin. The man's head snapped back, his eyes rolling into his skull. Markus didn't stop. He grabbed the man's head and drove his knee into the bridge of his nose.
The sound of shattering cartilage echoed through the quiet shop. The mountain of a man collapsed like a felled oak, his unconscious body twitching in a pool of his own blood.
Markus stood over him, his chest heaving, a thin trail of blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. His body was trembling from the strain, but his eyes were cold and predatory. He turned his gaze toward the counter.
The pawn shop owner was backed against a shelf of rusted mana-cells, his mechanical eye whirring in a frantic, erratic circle. He looked at his broken bodyguard, then at the blood-splattered teenager who looked less like a boy and more like a demon.
Markus leaped over the counter in one fluid motion, his fingers locking onto the owner's grease-stained collar and slamming him against the wall.
"Okay! Okay! Please!" the man shrieked, his hands held up in a trembling gesture of surrender. "Don't kill me! I'll pay! I'll pay!"
"How much?" Markus hissed, his face inches from the man's.
"Two hundred bitshards!" the owner gasped. "That's the market rate! I swear!"
Markus tightened his grip, the fabric of the man's shirt groaning. "Make it four hundred. Consider the extra two hundred my medical fees for the jaw your pet just tried to break."
"Four hundred?!" the man wailed. "That's... that's almost half a Flux-Core's worth of shards! I'll go broke!"
Markus's eyes darkened, and he pulled the man closer, the cold steel of his gaze promising a slow, painful end. "Do I look like I'm in the mood to negotiate with a thief?"
"No! No! Four hundred! Four hundred it is!" The owner frantically reached for a digital transfer plate on the counter. "Just... just let me go!"
Markus didn't let go until the device chimed, confirming the transfer to his ID card. He felt the weight of the credits—a fortune for a Tier 5, a pittance for the man he used to be. He finally released the collar, smoothing out the man's shirt with a terrifying, mocking politeness.
"What's your name?" Markus asked, his voice suddenly calm.
"Vane," the man stuttered, rubbing his throat. "Silas Vane."
"Well, Silas," Markus said, wiping the blood from his lip with the back of his hand. "It'll be a pleasure working with you from now on. I've decided I'll only sell my 'finds' to you. You've got a good location, and now, you have a very healthy fear of me."
He leaned over the counter, his expression turning solemn.
"Remember this, Silas: Trust is the only currency in this world that doesn't depreciate—until you spend it all on a lie. Don't spend yours again. I won't be so 'benevolent' next time."
Markus turned and walked out of the shop, the bell chiming a cheerful note behind him. He stepped back out into the oily rain, four hundred bitshards richer and one step closer to the Awakening. He was hurt, his body was screaming, and he was soaked to the bone—but for the first time since he'd arrived, he felt like he was winning.
----
Markus moved through the Tier 4 markets with the efficiency of a man who knew the value of every cent. He didn't just buy supplies; he bought a future. He picked up a medical kit—real antiseptics, not the watered-down trash from the slums—and a week's worth of "Gold-Label" nutrient packs that actually tasted of salt and fat. He found a jar of synthetic muscle-fiber protein, a thick, chalky sludge designed to jumpstart a malnourished body. By the time he was done, half of his hard-earned bitshards were gone, but as he clutched the heavy bags, he felt a rare sense of pride. He wasn't just surviving; he was upgrading.
Back at the apartment, he moved with a quiet, focused energy. He laid out a new, sturdy work shirt on his father's bed and tucked a pair of reinforced trousers under the pillow. He spent an hour pushing his new body to its limits—push-ups, squats, and shadow-boxing until his scorched skin screamed and his lungs burned. He washed away the grime with cold water, the chill sharpening his mind.
As he went to set the table, he found it. A small, battered metal canister sitting near the heating coil. Inside were 377 bitshards—a staggering sum for a man who wore rags. Beside it lay a scrap of synth-paper, the handwriting shaky and rushed.
Markus, tomorrow you start the Awakening Training. It lasts a month. I paid the 300-bitshard fee at the precinct office today. This extra is for you to eat well while I'm at the refinery. Remember, son: do what you can, with what you have, and don't think about anything more. I'll be home late.
Markus stared at the note, his heart heavy. Dad...
The realization hit him again, sharper this time. His father might be younger than Markus had been in his previous life—a "man" who was barely more than a boy, perhaps grown in a gestation tank and thrown into the gears of the city. Yet, he had the soul of a titan.
Markus prepared the table, laying out the high-quality nutrient blocks. He sat. He waited.
The hum of the city's power grid was the only sound. One hour passed. Then two. The food grew cold, the synthetic fats congealing into a dull, unappetizing film. Markus stared at the door, his jaw tightening. A cold, oily dread began to seep into his chest, more toxic than the rain outside.
He couldn't sit there anymore. He pulled on a second-hand neon hoodie he'd picked up—a vibrant, electric-blue garment that made him look like a mid-tier citizen—and stepped out into the night.
The rain had returned, a heavy, black downpour that hissed against the metal walkways. He ran, his boots splashing through oily puddles, until he reached the towering, monolithic gates of the refinery. It was a hellish maw of grinding gears and venting steam, glowing with a sickly, radioactive green light.
He approached the security kiosk, his breath coming in ragged gasps. "I'm looking for my father," he shouted over the roar of the machinery. "He's on the double shift. He works the crystals."
The guard, a man with a cybernetic jaw, looked at him with bored indifference. "Name?"
Markus opened his mouth to speak, and the world seemed to stop.
He didn't know.
The "Markus" whose body he had stolen knew, but the memories were locked away, buried under the trauma of the beating and the transmigration. He knew the man's face, his smell, the sound of his tired laugh—but he didn't know his name.
"I... I don't..."
Before he could spiral into panic, an older worker in a lead-lined apron stepped out of the steam. He looked at Markus, his eyes filling with a sudden, crushing pity.
"You're the Oneata kid, aren't you?" the man asked, his voice barely audible over the screech of a nearby turbine.
Markus nodded frantically. "Where is he? Where's my dad?"
The man didn't answer. Instead, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, heavy pouch. He pressed it into Markus's hand.
"There was a containment breach in the core-vats," the worker said, his head bowing. "He stayed to manual-lock the valves so the rest of us could get out. He's gone, kid. I'm sorry. This is the 'Decease Payment' from the Faction. His body... the Bodiaris have already collected him. It's their protocol for mana-contamination."
The man turned to leave, his shoulders slumped under the weight of a thousand similar tragedies.
"Wait!" Markus screamed, the sound tearing at his throat. "What was his name?! Please! Tell me his name!"
But a massive pressure-valve hissed nearby, a deafening roar of steam swallowing his voice. The worker didn't hear him. He disappeared into the green-lit fog of the refinery, leaving Markus alone at the edge of the abyss.
He tried to pass, but some strange devices pointed at him, danger...
So Markus stood in the black rain, the "death payment" heavy in his hand. His chest felt like it was being crushed by an invisible vice. He wanted to scream, to howl at the gods who had brought him to this wretched place only to strip away the one spark of light he'd found.
He felt a tear burn down his cheek, but he snarled, wiping it away with a violent motion. He wouldn't cry. This world didn't deserve his sorrow.
He looked at the hellish entrance of the refinery, the place that had consumed a hero whose name he didn't even know. He stood straight, his neon hoodie glowing defiantly against the dark, and he bowed deeply.
"Thank you, Dad," he whispered into the roar of the machines. "I'll make you proud. I'll make them all regret this."
He turned away, and left.