The portal spat Liam out like a piece of unwanted gristle.
He stumbled into the terminal, his boots hitting the concrete with a heavy, uncoordinated thud. The transition sucked. One second he was breathing the metallic, rotting air of the rift, and the next, the recycled, sterile chill of the terminal's AC was burning his nostrils.
He didn't look like a survivor. He looked like the reason people avoid the subway at night.
His shirt was a memory. His skin was a roadmap of dried black sap, goblin grease, and dark streaks of Bradley's lifeblood. Above his collarbone, the violet runes didn't just glow—they throbbed, a dull, aching heat that felt like a localized fever.
"ID," a drone buzzed, hovering three feet from his face. Its red scanner lens clicked, ready to log his arrival.
Liam didn't even blink. He walked right through the drone's path, forcing the machine to lurch upward to avoid a collision. His head was a mess. Every time he swallowed, he could still taste that silver, metallic essence. It wasn't a metaphor. It was a physical film coating his tongue.
Worse were the flashes. A wooden sword in a sunny backyard. A woman's face—Bradley's mother? The smell of expensive cologne. Fragments of Bradley's life were rattling around in Liam's skull like loose glass.
[Digestion: 12%...] [Caution: Neural overlap detected.]
"Shut up," Liam muttered. The words felt like sandpaper.
He didn't care about 'neural overlap.' He'd spent twenty-four years being nobody. If Bradley's ego wanted to scream in the back of his mind while Liam used his strength to break bones, Bradley was welcome to watch.
"Liam?"
The voice was thin, like breaking glass.
He stopped. The shadows around his feet crawled slightly—a twitch of the [Shadow Step] skill he didn't even command. He didn't turn. He just waited.
It was Sarah. She was huddled in a foil emergency blanket that crinkled with every tremor of her hands. Her fancy robes were shredded at the hem, and her face was a smear of expensive mascara and dungeon dirt. She wasn't looking at his face. She was staring at the violet marks on his chest with the kind of look people give a ticking bomb.
"You're out," she whispered.
"I am," Liam said. He turned his head just enough to catch her eye. "Problem?"
Sarah flinched as if he'd swung at her. "The Guild... the investigators. They're inside. They're already talking about the 'Mutation.' They're looking for someone to blame, Liam. Bradley's father... he has friends in the Association."
"I'm sure he does." Liam stepped toward her. The crinkle of her blanket grew frantic. "And what did you tell them, Sarah? Did you tell them how your 'Silver Rank' leader pissed his pants and tried to use a Porter as a human wall?"
Sarah's face went from pale to ghostly. "I told them... I told them you were a hero. That you distracted the Treant while I... while I prepared the evacuation."
Liam let out a dry, hacking sound that might have been a laugh. "A hero. That's a new one. You didn't do it for me, though. You did it because if the truth comes out—that a Zero handled a D-Rank Boss while you hid in a corner—your family loses everything. Your license gets revoked. You'd be back in the dirt with me."
He got close enough to smell the burnt ozone on her robes.
"I've got Bradley's credit-chip, Sarah. That's my payment. You keep your story, and I keep my silence." He leaned down, his voice dropping into a low, jagged growl. "But if I hear my name in an Association report... if I see a single psychic trying to 'help' me process my trauma... I'll find you. And I won't be carrying your bags this time."
Sarah didn't answer. She couldn't. She just nodded until the blanket slipped from her shoulders.
Liam left her there. He didn't take the medical transport. He walked out of the terminal, blended into the crowd of night-shift workers, and caught the last train to the Slums.
His apartment was a coffin with a leaky ceiling.
He locked the three separate deadbolts, stripped what was left of his clothes, and sat on the floor. No lights. Just the neon red glow of a 'Liquor' sign from the street reflecting off his cracked window.
"Status," he croaked.
The shadows on the wall didn't just form text; they seemed to bleed into shapes.
[Liam Scott | Level: 8] [Class: Locked] [Str: 22 | Agi: 19 | Int: 14 | Vit: 20]
The numbers were staggering. Yesterday, he couldn't have won a fight with a stray dog. Now, he had the raw physical stats of a C-Rank warrior. But the 'Locked' status on his class rank felt like a taunt.
"Why?" he demanded.
[You are an 'Empty Vessel'. Conventional classes are like putting a muzzle on a god. To unlock your path, devour a 'Class Core'. Sources: Tier 1 Bosses or Awakened (Level 20+).]
Liam leaned his head back against the cold concrete. Level 20. Those were the guys on the billboards. The ones who ran the city. The System wasn't just giving him a path to power; it was pointing a finger at the elite and telling him to eat them.
A sudden, stabbing pain lanced through his brain. He gasped, clutching his head as the 'Digestion' ramped up.
It was Bradley. Or the memory of him. Liam could see the inside of a high-end training hall. He could feel the weight of a practice sword. He could hear a trainer's voice: "Focus on the breath, Bradley. The 'Iron Skin' isn't a shield, it's a tension in the blood..."
He stood up, his vision swimming, and threw a punch at the wall.
[Heavy Strike]
The concrete shattered. A hole the size of a dinner plate appeared in the wall, exposing the rusted rebar inside. But Liam screamed. His knuckles weren't just bruised; they were split to the bone.
[Warning: Physical body is 'Soft'. Stolen skills without 'Refinement' will tear you apart.]
"Right," Liam hissed, clutching his bloody hand. "Nothing is ever free."
He spent the rest of the night in a fever dream of training. He mimicked Bradley's memories, tensing his muscles until they cramped, breathing until his lungs burned. Every time he got the rhythm right, a bit of that silver 'essence' in his mind would dissolve, easing the pressure in his skull.
By 5:00 AM, the headache broke.
[Digestion Complete: 100%] [Iron Skin & Heavy Strike stabilized.]
He stood by the window, watching the first light hit the spires of the Upper District. His phone, a cracked piece of junk on the floor, buzzed.
It was a city-wide alert.
"PUBLIC NOTICE: E-Rank Rift 'Green Abyss' closed. Survivors required for Mandatory Psychic Screening. Reward for information: 5,000 Credits."
Psychic screening. Liam felt a cold pit in his stomach. The Association telepaths would peel his brain like an onion. They'd see the System. They'd see him devouring Bradley. It wasn't an invitation; it was a manhunt.
If he stayed, they'd find him. A Porter surviving a massacre was too big a loose end.
He looked at the credit-chip on the table. Bradley's savings. It was enough to buy a fake ID, maybe some gear. But not enough to hide forever. He needed to disappear into the one place the Association couldn't see.
The Underground.
"System," Liam whispered. "How do I hide? My mana signature... it's too loud."
The shadows on the wall shifted into a single, blunt sentence.
[Find a 'Mimic'. Devour its heart. Until then, stay in the dark.]
Liam pulled on a black hoodie, the fabric rough against his new, hardened skin. He had a few hours before the 'peacekeepers' started kicking in doors in the Slums.
He didn't know where to find a Mimic, but he knew where the rats gathered. He'd spend his whole life being the dirt under their boots. It was time to see how they liked it when the dirt started biting back.
He walked out, the door clicking shut on his old life.