The climb back up to the surface was harder than the descent. It wasn't the physical exhaustion—in fact, Elian felt terrifyingly awake. His muscles didn't burn with lactic acid; they hummed with a restless, electric energy that made his skin crawl. The problem was the heat.
It radiated from his chest, spreading outward like a fever that refused to break. Every time his heart beat, he felt a pulse of warmth wash over his ribs.
Elian hauled himself over the lip of the rusted girder and collapsed onto the concrete slab of Sector 4. The grey sky greeted him, indifferent and suffocating. He ripped the broken filtration mask off his face, gasping for air. The air here was toxic, filled with micro-particles of divine ash, but he needed to feel the cold wind on his skin.
He looked down at his right arm. The sleeve of his scavenger coat was torn, revealing the skin beneath. The intricate, golden lattice pattern that had appeared in the cave was fading, sinking deeper into his flesh, but the veins still looked like they were carrying molten gold instead of blood.
"Hide it," he muttered, his voice raspy. "You have to hide it."
He hurriedly unwrapped the dirty bandages from his ankles and rewrapped them tightly around his right arm, covering every inch of exposed skin from his wrist to his elbow. If the Iron-Blood patrols saw him glowing—if they saw Magic running through the veins of a Dust-Rat—he wouldn't make it past the sector checkpoint. They would dissect him alive to find the source.
He stood up, swaying slightly. The mechanical voice in his head had gone silent, leaving behind a dull headache.
He checked his canvas bag. It was light. Too light.
Elian's stomach dropped. He frantically dug his hand inside, his fingers scraping against the rusted chisel and the scrap metal knife.
Empty.
The Blue Core Fragment—the crystal that was supposed to save Mara, the rock worth a year of food and medicine—was gone. He remembered the moment vividly: the crystal shattering, turning into mist, and entering his body.
He hadn't just found the treasure. He had consumed it.
"No," Elian whispered, gripping the edge of the bag until his knuckles turned white. "No, no, no."
He had the power of a God inside him, perhaps, but you couldn't pay a pharmacist with power. You couldn't buy bread with glowing veins. He was coming home empty-handed.
A siren wailed in the distance, cutting through his panic. The Sector 4 sweepers were coming to clear the streets for the night. Elian grit his teeth, shoved the bag over his shoulder, and began the long run back to the Dregs.
The Dregs were the bowels of Oakhaven, a sprawling shantytown built into the drainage systems beneath the massive, suspended plates of the upper city. Here, the sun never reached. The only light came from bioluminescent fungi farmed on the walls and the flickering neon of cheap scrap-tech.
Elian moved through the crowded alleys with his head down. The air smelled of frying oil, unwashed bodies, and the sweet, rot-like scent of Ash-Sickness. Beggars reached out to him with hands that were turning to stone, their fingers fused together by the disease. He ignored them. He had to. Compassion in the Dregs was a quick way to starve.
He reached a small shack made of corrugated tin and salvaged plastic sheets, wedged between two leaking steam pipes. This was home.
Elian paused at the door, composing himself. He rubbed his cheeks to bring some color back into his pale face and pulled his sleeves down. He couldn't let her know he was terrified.
He pushed the door open.
"Mara?"
The interior was dim, lit only by a single, dying glow-lamp. In the corner, bundled under a pile of rough wool blankets, a girl lay shivering. She looked small, far younger than her seventeen years. Her skin was the color of parchment, and when she breathed, it sounded like dry leaves scraping together.
Mara opened her eyes. They were grey, clouded by the sickness, but they lit up when she saw him.
"El," she whispered, struggling to sit up. A coughing fit seized her immediately, racking her thin frame. She coughed until she gasped, wiping a fleck of grey blood from her lip.
Elian was at her side in an instant, pouring a cup of filtered water from their meager supply. "Easy, easy. Don't try to talk."
She drank greedily, then leaned back against the wall, watching him. "You were gone long. I thought... I thought the patrols got you."
"I'm too fast for them," Elian said, forcing a smile. He sat on the edge of the mattress, his hand instinctively going to his bandaged arm. It was throbbing again.
Mara's eyes drifted to his bag. She didn't ask, but the question hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Did you find anything?
Elian looked away. The shame burned hotter than the magic in his veins. "The Red Zone was... picked clean," he lied. "The Iron-Blood Guild must have swept it yesterday. I found some copper wiring. Maybe enough for a meal or two."
The disappointment on Mara's face was microscopic, quickly hidden behind a brave mask, but Elian saw it. It shattered his heart.
"It's okay," she said softly, reaching out to touch his hand. Her fingers were cold, the tips turning hard and grey. The petrification was spreading. "We have enough for tonight. We're okay."
We are not okay, Elian wanted to scream. You are dying, and I ate the cure.
Suddenly, a sharp spike of pain shot up Elian's arm.
[ WARNING: ENERGY FLUX DETECTED. ]
The voice was back.
Elian jerked his hand away from Mara as if he had been burned.
"El?" Mara asked, alarmed. "What's wrong? You're burning up."
"I'm fine," Elian gasped, clutching his wrist. The bandage was beginning to smoke. The heat was unbearable. It felt like his blood was boiling.
[ HOST BODY IS MALNOURISHED. INSUFFICIENT VESSEL STABILITY. CONVERTING AMBIENT MANA TO SUSTAIN LEGACY. ]
What? What are you doing? Elian thought frantically.
The air in the small shack suddenly grew cold. The glow-lamp flickered and died. The warmth from the steam pipes seemed to be sucked into Elian.
"Elian, you're glowing," Mara whispered, her eyes wide with terror.
He looked down. Through the thick bandages, a golden light was piercing through. But it wasn't just light. He could feel the energy around him—the tiny bit of heat in the air, the static electricity in the wires, the life force of the fungi on the walls—being pulled into him.
He was a black hole.
"Get back!" Elian shouted, scrambling backward, knocking over the water jug. "Stay away from me!"
He could feel the hunger of the entity inside him. It wanted fuel. And if he didn't control it, it would drain the nearest source of energy.
Mara.
"Elian!" Mara tried to get up, but she was too weak.
Elian slammed his back against the tin wall, squeezing his eyes shut. Stop it! Stop it! You'll kill her!
[ EMOTIONAL OVERRIDE DETECTED. HALTING ABSORPTION SEQUENCE. ]
The pulling sensation stopped abruptly. The heat in his veins cooled to a simmer. The glow-lamp flickered back to life, dim and sputtering.
Elian sat on the floor, panting, sweat dripping from his chin. The room was silent except for the dripping of the overturned water jug.
Mara stared at him, her fear replaced by a bewildered awe. "El... that wasn't a mutation. That was... that was Divine Essence."
She looked at him, not as a sister looks at a brother, but as a believer looks at an idol. "Where did you go? What did you do?"
Elian looked at his hands. He couldn't lie anymore. Not about this.
"I found a grave," Elian whispered, his voice trembling. "And I think... I think I woke something up."
Meanwhile, in the Upper City – The Cathedral of Gears.
High above the slums, where the air was filtered and the sun was artificially simulated, High Inquisitor Kaelen stood before a massive console of brass and glass.
The machine was the Seismograph of the Soul, an ancient relic that monitored magical fluctuations across the region. Usually, the needles barely twitched. The Gods were dead, after all.
But tonight, the central needle had scratched a deep groove into the paper drum. It had spiked so high it had nearly broken the machine.
Kaelen traced the jagged line with a gloved finger. He was a tall man, wearing the pristine white and crimson robes of the Orthodoxy. Half of his face was replaced with golden clockwork prosthetics, a sign of his devotion to the Machine God.
"Report," Kaelen commanded.
A trembling acolyte stepped forward. "Sir... the reading came from Sector 4. The deeper ruins. The magnitude is... impossible. It matches the energy signature of a Class-S Divinity."
Kaelen turned slowly, his mechanical eye whirring as it focused on the acolyte. "Class-S? There hasn't been a Class-S signature since Valdor fell."
"It was brief, sir. A heartbeat. Then it vanished."
Kaelen looked out the stained-glass window toward the smog-covered Ashlands below. Someone down there in the filth had found something. A weapon? A relic? Or something worse?
"Mobilize the Hunter Squads," Kaelen said, his voice cold and metallic. "Burn Sector 4 to the ground if you have to. If a God is trying to return, we must kill it before it learns to walk."
He paused, looking at the reading one last time.
"Bring me the source. Alive."
Continue for Chapter 3