Waking up with the residual mental remnants of a Navigation God in your brain provided a very specific and, honestly, very disturbing experience.
You didn't just 'wake up'. You initiated spatial awareness protocols.
When my eyes opened, I didn't see the damp wooden cabin ceiling. I saw a neon green coordinate grid digitally overlaying it on my retinas. My brain, still contaminated by Aleron's 'Absolute Direction' concept, immediately processed environmental data by force.
I knew exactly where the bathroom was (4 steps, azimuth 45 degrees), how many degrees the ship's floor tilted due to undercurrents (1.2 degrees left), and the intensely annoying fact that there was a 0.4-millimeter dust layer on the table—an inefficiency that made my nerves twitch.
The problem was, that knowledge came packaged with an obsessive urge to organize it.
"Boss..." Miri's voice sounded muffled. "Why am I wrapped like a spring roll?"
I blinked, forcing my eyes to stop calculating light angles. My consciousness was slowly dragged forcibly from the 'God's Absolute Command' realm back to pathetic Rax reality—namely the reality of a bankrupt Cardsmith.
I stood in the middle of the luxurious cabin Vane had provided. The room that was messy last night now looked terrifying.
Very tidy. Too tidy. Psychotically tidy.
My clothes were folded with geometric precision on the chair. Navigation maps rolled in alphabetical order. And Miri... Miri was wrapped in a wool blanket with perfect 45-degree corner folding technique. Only her white snout and purple eyes were visible, staring at me with murderous intent.
"That's not a spring roll," I replied stiffly. My hands trembled, still itching to straighten a picture frame tilted 0.05 degrees. "That's Tactical Sleep Formation. Maximum body heat efficiency."
"That's torture," Miri growled. "Release me, or I'll piss inside your Tactical Formation. Now."
Threats about bodily fluids were always effective. I immediately unwrapped the blanket. Miri rolled out, fur disheveled, and as an official protest, she immediately bit my big toe.
"OW!"
I jumped, hitting the table. That physical pain jolted the residual 'Navigator' Backflow completely out of my head. The green grid vanished.
I exhaled long, slumping in the chair. The sensation of being a universal admiral had disappeared, leaving exhaustion behind.
"We need to shop," I muttered. "We can't rob a monster bank in a torn shirt."
I felt my chest pocket, making sure the [The Astral Lighthouse] card—the card containing God Aleron—was still there. The card felt hot. Hotter than usual.
Suddenly, my brain—now sharp again—realized a miscalculation. A gaping logical hole.
"Wait a minute," I whispered to the empty room. "Vane said God Aleron was the main battery for Port 404's storm barrier. If Aleron's in this pocket... then what's holding the purple storm outside?"
Miri's eyes widened. "Oh. Right. If we pulled the battery... the house explodes, doesn't it?"
WOOOONG.
At that exact second, a low siren suddenly droned throughout Port 404. A bass vibration sound that made teeth ache. Power Failure siren. The cabin lights died, replaced by dull orange emergency lighting.
"Shit," I cursed. "Let's get to the bridge. Now."
On the main bridge, the atmosphere was tense. Ghost crew and rust golems looked anxious. They weren't working; they were waiting for apocalypse.
Admiral Vane stood with his back to us, staring at the drastically declining shield status screen. His condition was far worse than last night. His glitched body parts flickered wildly. Black-and-white static was eating his left shoulder with painful buzzing sounds.
"You noticed," Vane said without turning.
"You're insane," I said, breath racing. "You ordered me to turn your city's battery into a pocket card. This barrier is collapsing! We'll die crushed by the storm before we even depart!"
Vane turned. He held an antique pocket watch whose hands spun backward at insane speed.
"Not collapsing. Transitioning," Vane corrected calmly, though his face grimaced. "When you removed Aleron, the backup system activated. We're now running on Residual Echo—energy echoes left in the conduit pipes."
He held up the watch.
"We have exactly 12 hours. After that, the echo fades. Shield dies. The purple storm out there will enter and erase Port 404 from history's map."
I stared at the timer. 11 hours 50 minutes remaining.
"Twelve hours?" I repeated in disbelief. "That's nap time, Vane! Not operational time to infiltrate enemy territory, rob a god bank, and return!"
"And every minute we talk, that echo gets weaker," Vane added, grinning with half his face crumbling into pixels. "Go shopping. My fast ship will be ready in 45 minutes."
"Forty-five minutes?!" I protested. "I need crafting time!"
"Work fast, Navigator. Or we all die poor and obliterated."
The stakes had just risen from 'Wealth' to 'Survival'. And I hated working under time pressure. Pressure was the natural enemy of price negotiation.
"Come on, Miri," I growled. "We're going Panic Buying."
***
I burst into The Curio Cabinet of Dr. Hestia like a madman chased by tax collectors.
Hestia, an old woman with six mechanical arms, was polishing a comb for a mermaid customer.
"I need raw materials," I cut in, slamming Hestia's table. "Now. I need Abyssal Pufferfish Air Bladder, Electric Eel Oil, and Used Tax Stamps."
"Get in line, Boy," Hestia said coldly. "Lady Mariana is choosing a comb."
I looked at the skull clock on the wall. TICK-TOCK. Time remaining: 11 hours 35 minutes.
"Lady Mariana is bald!" I snapped at the mermaid. "Move! This is a national emergency!"
The mermaid was deeply offended and swam away angrily. Hestia finally turned. Six mechanical arms crossed.
"Chasing away my customer? Price goes up."
She moved quickly, placing three items on the table:
Pufferfish Air Bladder (Dry, wrinkled, Grade C).
Electric Eel Oil (Cloudy color, nearly expired).
Used Tax Stamp (Cracked handle).
"Total is 300 gold," Hestia said with an evil grandmother smile.
"Three hundred?!" My eyes bulged. "Hestia, you're robbing me?! That pufferfish died of depression, not hunting! Its meat is stiff! And that oil smells like stale french fries!"
"Supply and Demand, dear. You look rushed. Rushed people pay panic premiums."
My heart ached. My Value Hunter soul screamed. The cost of this garbage was at most 40 gold. Normally I'd insult her goods' quality until she begged me.
But the clock on the wall ticked.
I ground my teeth. I had to pay expensive prices for this garbage. It felt like an invisible hand squeezing my wallet and heart simultaneously.
"150," I offered quickly, desperate, trying to save a bit of dignity.
"280."
"180! And I won't report to the Health Department that you're selling illegal frog eye pickles in that jar behind you."
Hestia's bionic eyes narrowed. Her camera lenses rotated focus. She knew I was serious, but she also knew I had no time to report.
"You're sharp for someone panicking," she cackled. "200. Final price. And you get me coffee from the shop next door."
"200. No coffee. I'm busy saving your life too, old woman!"
"Deal."
I threw a pouch containing 200 gold onto the table with devastated feelings. The clinking coin sound sounded like a death knell. My advance from Vane was now half gone. Hestia caught it with one mechanical hand, grinning wide.
"Pleasure doing business with you, Hero. Come again when you need expensive garbage."
I snatched the items.
We walked out of Hestia's shop with heavy steps.
In the narrow alley squeezed between two shipwrecks, I stopped briefly. I leaned my back against the cold rusty metal wall.
I stared at the now-deflated coin pouch in my hand. Two hundred gold. That was a two-story shophouse. That was three months' operating capital. And now it was gone, traded for rotten oil and a broken stamp.
"Two hundred gold..." I whispered, voice hoarse. "Miri, it feels like I just got robbed in broad daylight, but I handed over the wallet myself."
Miri patted my knee gently. "At least we got biscuit pockets in this vest, Boss. That's a real asset."
I exhaled long, then looked up.
Up there, the city's protective dome ceiling trembled. Fine cracks began appearing on its surface, emitting purple light from the storm pressing outside. Thunder rumbled faintly.
This city was dying. And for the first time, my lost money felt small—very small—compared to the void waiting overhead.
"Come on," I said, straightening my back. The pain in my wallet turned into cold focus. "We have work. And I'll make sure that monster bank pays back these losses, with interest."
Back in the cabin, the fusion workbench was ready. Time remaining: 11 hours 10 minutes.
"System. Infinite Grimoire. Mode: Panic Crafting."
I placed my work shirt in the center. I had no time to neatly stitch concepts. I had to forcibly cram them in.
I injected the 'Slippery' concept (Eel Oil) into fabric fibers so physical attacks would miss.
I pressed the 'Bureaucracy' concept (Stamp) into the collar so I'd look authoritative.
I forced the 'Bloated' concept (Pufferfish) into the inner layer as an emergency airbag.
[WARNING: PROCESS UNSTABLE]
[CONCEPT CLASH DETECTED: "SLIPPERY" VS "RIGID BUREAUCRACY"]
[FORCING FUSION...]
The table shook violently. Smoke smelling of burnt rubber filled the room.
POOF!
Light faded. On the table lay a suit.
Charcoal gray color with thin lines moving restlessly. The suit looked... permanently wet. The eel oil hadn't merged perfectly, creating a slippery residue layer on the fabric surface.
[ITEM CREATED: The Liquidator's Suit (Rush Edition)]
[Rank: Rare (Flawed)]
[Effect 1: Slippery Ethics - Increases chance to avoid physical attacks 50%]
[Drawback: Friction Loss - User has 15% chance to slip when walking fast]
[Effect 2: Bureaucratic Aura - Enemies hesitate to attack]
[Effect 3: Inflation Bubble - Expands suit into protective ball]
"Flawed," I cursed, feeling the fabric that felt oily on my fingers. "But this is the best defense I could buy with 15 minutes."
I put it on. It felt strange. Like wearing a second skin trying to slide away from my body.
"Boss," Miri commented, already wearing her new leather vest. "Boss looks like a corrupt eel. And Boss is... kinda wobbly."
"My foot friction is gone," I grumbled, trying to step and nearly slipping on the flat wooden floor. "I have to walk carefully, or I'll break my own neck before enemies touch me."
***
The journey with The Glitch Runner was the definition of torture.
The dragon bone hydrofoil ship sliced through waves at suicidal speed. Vane piloted like a madman. Every time the ship jumped over waves, black pixel fragments fell from his left shoulder. He was losing physical integrity being far from Aleron. His left face skin was becoming transparent, revealing broken binary code.
"Drop Zone!" Vane yelled. "2 miles vertically down!"
Engine died. Black ocean silence ambushed us. No stars, no moon. Only eternal darkness.
"Target below," Vane said, breath heavy. "Use your card. Bring us in."
I pulled out [The Astral Lighthouse]. The card was extremely hot now, angry from overuse.
"This will be rough," I warned. "Very rough. Hold on!"
[CARD ACTIVATED: The Astral Lighthouse]
[Transport Mode: FORCE WARP (Short Range Overload)]
The world didn't curve elegantly. The world shattered.
It felt like being hit by a sledgehammer in the chest. We were forcibly pulled through reality layers and water pressure. My body felt stretched.
BOOM!
Not like a superhero landing.
We fell from three meters above the Kraken Bank lobby's marble floor, hitting the hard floor at full speed.
I landed shoulder-first.
CRACK.
[HP: -150 (Impact Damage)]
"Ugh..." I groaned, iron taste of blood filling my mouth.
Vane fell worse. His robotic leg hit the floor and broke, sparking. He hissed, trying to stand but failed.
"Get up!" Vane hissed. "Don't look weak! They're watching!"
I forced myself up. Dizzy. My Liquidator's Suit made me slip on the slick marble floor. I had to do ridiculous windmill movements to balance myself, feet sliding left and right without control.
And damn it, we were now a spectacle.
Hundreds of Shark, Dragon, and Mermaid eyes stared at this clown troupe that fell from the ceiling.
In front of us, a security guard—a three-meter-tall Giant Crab with a police hat—approached. Its claws clicked sharply. It didn't look impressed. It looked bored.
"Landing zone violation," the crab's voice bubbled. "You're bleeding. You smell of ozone. And your friend's leg is about to explode."
It tapped the marble floor with its baton.
"I'm not paid enough to deal with trash. Show Customer ID or I'll call the cleanup crew."
This was it. A bureaucrat guard fed up with life. He didn't need drama, he needed compliance.
Vane reached for his pistol.
"Don't!" I whispered. "Let me handle this."
I stepped forward. Shhht. My left shoe slipped again. I nearly fell into the Crab's embrace, but I converted the falling momentum into an aggressive slide forward, stopping right in front of its startled face.
"ID?" I asked, trying to cover my physical clumsiness with an arrogant tone. "Officer, do you really want to see ID from the Disaster Audit Team?"
The Crab's compound eyes blinked. "Audit?"
"Surprise Structural Audit," I said firmly, pointing at the floor where I'd just slipped. "We just performed a Stress Test on your lobby floor using the 'High Impact Landing' method. And the results..."
I pointed at blood stains and shoe scrapes on the floor.
"...Very disappointing. Zero traction. Slow security. And you..." I pointed at its badge with a trembling index finger. "...You let us bleed here for 30 seconds without offering insurance claim forms."
I brought my face closer, leveraging the Bureaucratic Aura from my suit.
"Do you want me to note 'Procedural Negligence' in my report? Or will you let us pass to the Third Ventricle to complete this inspection before your superiors know?"
The Crab hesitated. It looked at Vane whose leg was destroyed (evidence of brutal 'Stress Test'), then at me slipping (evidence of slippery floor).
For a bureaucrat, 'Inspection' was more terrifying than robbers.
"B-but the schedule..."
"Schedule?" I cut in. "Disasters have no schedule, Mr. Crab! Move aside, before I audit your shell thickness!"
Its claws lowered. Fear of administrative work won.
"P-pass," it said, nervously pointing at stairs. "Quick. Don't let the Branch Manager see this mess."
"Wise choice," I said.
I signaled Vane. We walked—or more accurately, I slid—past the guard.
"Disaster Audit?" Vane whispered once we were far down the spiral stairs. "You used your falling stupidity as an alibi?"
"That's called improvisation, Admiral," I replied, wiping cold sweat. "If you fall, pretend you're testing gravity."
We descended the stairs. Below, a pulsing red flesh corridor greeted us. The fishy blood smell began emerging.
"Time remaining: 7 hours," Vane whispered, dragging his damaged leg.
We reached the stairs' end. Not a treasure room that greeted us.
But a massive black iron door with a stone basin in front. No keyhole. Just a thirsty drainage channel, with dried red stains around it.
VAULT LEVEL 1: LIQUID ASSETS
DEPOSIT REQUIRED: VITALITY (BLOOD)
MINIMUM: 2 LITERS
"Easy," Vane said relieved. "Knight, pour the Leviathan blood."
The knight turned the canister on its back.
Nothing came out.
"What?" Vane's eyes bulged.
We looked at the canister. Its thick glass was badly cracked from the 'Stress Test' landing impact earlier. The precious blue liquid had leaked completely, leaving a trail on the stairs behind us.
"Empty," the Knight reported flatly. "Container compromised."
Silence.
The door needed 2 liters of blood. We had no supplies.
I stared at Vane. Vane stared at me. Then we both stared at two Knights who had no blood; they only had steam and oil.
Then we stared at ourselves.
"Two liters," I muttered, face pale. "Humans have about 5 liters. Losing 1 liter makes you faint. Losing 2 liters..."
"...makes you die from shock," Vane finished.
He stared at me with his weakly flickering glitch eye.
"We need a donor, Rax. And we don't have time to go back up looking for volunteers."
I saw the knife at Vane's waist.
This heist had only been running 15 minutes, and we already had to decide whose artery would be cut. That knife looked very sharp under the dim light.
"Welcome to the banking world," I whispered bitterly, starting to roll up my slippery suit's shirt sleeves. "It's always the little people who bleed first."