Malcolm also understood the fundamental nature of Armaments and their extraordinary ability to grow stronger over time.
Through careful observation and repeated experimentation, he had discovered a method of accelerating this growth. By feeding an Armament the pure Inkforce extracted from the heads of slain abominations and other Inkforce-corrupted creatures, he could gradually increase its strength.
According to his observations, when Inkforce pushed abominations beyond the limits of ordinary biological existence, a significant portion of their power and energy became concentrated within their brains. Upon death, this concentration of energy could be extracted from their heads, providing a relatively pure source of Inkforce that could be fed directly to an Armament.
The process was remarkably effective.
With every offering it consumed, the Armament grew stronger, accumulating more power and becoming increasingly formidable. As long as Malcolm continued supplying it with suitable nourishment, its growth showed no obvious limit.
However, his experiments had also revealed a serious drawback.
The stronger an Armament became, the more difficult it was to claim and control.
Malcolm intended to eventually equip the helmet-shaped Armament before him. Yet as he observed its immense form and the Inkforce tendrils constantly flowing into and out of its surface, he couldn't help feeling a trace of hesitation.
He had spent years strengthening it, believing that a more powerful Armament would ultimately provide him with greater benefits.
Now, however, he was beginning to question whether he had made a terrible mistake.
After all, the more powerful the Armament became, the greater the strength and willpower required to subdue it. What he had regarded as a sensible investment in his future might ultimately turn out to be an act of extraordinary stupidity.
He had been making his future prize stronger, but in doing so, he had also made it increasingly difficult—and dangerous, for himself to claim.
And if he failed when the time finally came to establish control over it, the consequences could be catastrophic.
A failed attempt might not simply leave him empty-handed. It could cost him his life, or worse, subject him to a fate far more terrible than death.
For the first time in a long while, Malcolm had a compelling reason to reconsider his approach.
His own abilities, formidable as they were, did not make him invincible.
He had encountered abominations possessing a degree of intelligence that set them apart from their more primitive counterparts. Some of these creatures had developed the terrifying ability to suppress or completely conceal the thermal signatures radiating from their bodies.
Such creatures were natural counters to his Thermal Omni-Perception.
Without a detectable thermal signature, even his most reliable means of locating and tracking enemies could become useless. Against such opponents, he could no longer depend entirely on his supernatural perception to maintain the upper hand.
He would have to rely on strategy, careful preparation, and overwhelming physical force whenever an opportunity presented itself.
So far, a combination of exceptional luck, impeccable timing, and cunning had allowed him to survive encounters that might otherwise have ended in his death.
But Malcolm was under no illusion that his luck would last forever.
The wastelands were simply too dangerous.
Abominations lurked everywhere, and whenever he activated his Thermal Omni-Perception, he could sense countless hostile presences scattered throughout the surrounding world.
He couldn't determine their exact number, but their sheer abundance was staggering. There might be thousands of them within the regions he could perceive, hundreds of thousands across the wider wastelands, or perhaps even millions roaming beyond his immediate awareness.
The thought alone was enough to make him contemplate the unimaginable possibilities.
What would happen if he could detonate all those abominations simultaneously and absorb the heat released by their destruction?
How powerful would he become if he could convert even a fraction of that immense energy into his own strength?
Perhaps he would become a god.
The possibility was tempting, almost intoxicating.
Yet Malcolm had never dared to attempt such an experiment.
He knew that the energy released by abominations was not ordinary heat. It was entangled with the polluted Inkforce that had transformed those creatures into the horrors they had become. Attempting to absorb that energy might expose him to the very corruption he had spent years avoiding.
His Permanent Strengthening could preserve the heat he absorbed and convert it into lasting growth, but he had no guarantee that it would protect him from Inkforce corruption.
What if the energy corrupted him from within?
What if, instead of growing stronger, he lost control of his own body and mind?
What if the very power he sought to absorb transformed him into another mindless abomination?
The risks were simply too great to ignore.
Even if he estimated that he had a fifty percent chance of successfully absorbing an abomination's released heat without suffering any corruptive consequences, Malcolm still wouldn't consider it a worthwhile gamble.
A fifty percent chance of success meant a fifty percent chance of losing everything he had built.
And no matter how tempting the potential rewards might be, he had no intention of wagering his life on such uncertain odds.
He had survived too much to throw everything away for the possibility of becoming stronger.
No. He wasn't ready to experiment with something as chaotic and unpredictable as Inkforce itself.
There had to be another way.
An alternative method of strengthening himself, one that offered substantial benefits without exposing him to the risk of irreversible corruption.
Malcolm's brow furrowed as he continued contemplating the problem.
For a ruler who had built an entire Sanctuary around his power, the prospect of encountering something he couldn't safely control was deeply unsettling.
But whether he liked it or not, the wastelands had never been a place where strength alone guaranteed survival.
And if he wanted to remain the Heat Emperor, he would have to find a way to grow stronger without allowing his own ambition to become the very thing that destroyed him.
Meanwhile, after spending some time assessing the situation within the Sanctuary, examining the settlement and familiarizing himself with the surrounding environment, Marco finally decided to leave the group for a while.
They were not children who needed constant supervision. Steven, Brant, Veronica, and even One were capable of handling unexpected situations on their own. At least, that was the excuse Marco gave himself.
More importantly, he had an urgent matter to attend to, something that required his personal involvement.
Then, without saying a word, he quietly slipped away, disappearing into the deeper shadows of the settlement and leaving the others to continue observing their surroundings and familiarizing themselves with the locals.
By then, the settlement had grown considerably livelier.
Many mutant humans of all shapes and sizes hurried along its narrow streets, each bearing the unmistakable marks of their mutations. Girls with animal ears darted between the crude buildings, carrying bundles of scavenged materials. Their ears twitched at the slightest suspicious sound, betraying their constant vigilance.
Elsewhere, thin, emaciated figures with crystallized limbs shuffled through the alleys, their strange bodies scraping against the uneven ground. Glowing-eyed teenagers peered cautiously through the broken windows of dilapidated houses, watching the strangers passing through their territory.
On the rooftops, several towering mutants maintained silent patrols, their imposing figures moving between crumbling structures as they scanned the surroundings for potential threats. Every movement, every glance, and every pause carried the weight of hard-earned caution.
Fear was woven into the very fabric of daily life here.
Beyond the Sanctuary's boundaries lurked polluted creatures capable of tearing apart the unwary, while within its walls, stronger residents could be just as dangerous. Even in the relatively safer inner settlement, survival depended on knowing whom to avoid, when to retreat, and when to fight.
The air carried a faint mixture of metallic odors, scorched earth, and residual Ink, mingling with the pungent stench of mutant sweat. Nearby, a heavy metal gate creaked open as two armored scavengers passed through, their crude weapons clinking against their equipment.
Their presence served as a reminder that even these seemingly peaceful streets were far from safe.
Talon, who had been observing the group from a distance for some time, immediately noticed Marco's disappearance.
The departure of the tall, bald man presented an opportunity he had been waiting for.
From a concealed corner beyond the reach of ordinary observation, Talon beckoned one of his subordinates and issued a quiet order.
The man was a wiry, pale-skinned mutant with mottled flesh and a set of jagged claws protruding from his fingers. He was one of the lesser followers Talon had recruited during his scavenging expeditions, a subordinate useful enough to carry out menial tasks but hardly important enough to warrant much concern if things went wrong.
His name was Gillian.
Gillian possessed an energy-shield ability. A faint, crackling field of energy occasionally arced across his body, granting him a modest enhancement to his physical capabilities. His strength, physique, and regenerative abilities were all somewhat superior to those of an ordinary mutant human, making him more than capable of bullying weaker individuals.
However, he was far from a particularly formidable fighter.
Upon receiving Talon's unequivocal order, Gillian hesitated for a moment. Nevertheless, knowing better than to disobey, he carefully observed the group before finally approaching them.
His target was Brant, the scar-faced, muscular man.
Among the adults in the group, Brant's presence seemed the least intimidating to him. Of course, Gillian had also noticed the dark-haired boy, One, but the child's appearance hardly seemed worth considering.
The others were a different matter.
In particular, Gillian had paid close attention to the tall man with long, dark hair. There was something about the way he carried himself that made Gillian instinctively cautious. His composure, his cold demeanor, and the subtle pressure he seemed to exude all suggested that he was the leader of the group.
Even if Gillian had possessed twice his usual courage, he wouldn't have dared provoke someone like that without a very good reason.
Brant, on the other hand, appeared to be a much safer target.
Having made his decision, Gillian straightened his back and boldly strode toward Brant, seemingly unconcerned by the gazes that followed him.
The moment he arrived, he pointed a clawed finger at Brant, his pale face twisting into a malicious sneer.
"Hey, you! What the hell are you looking at?"
His voice was deliberately loud, attracting the attention of several nearby residents.
"You're new here, aren't you? Don't you know that staring at people like that can get your eyes plucked out?"
He paused, allowing his threat to sink in before continuing with a cruel smile.
"Since you're new and haven't had enough time to learn how things work around here, I'll be generous and reduce your punishment. Just one eye should be enough for now. Do that, and perhaps I'll consider letting you keep the other one."
With that, Gillian extended his left hand and held it out expectantly, as though he genuinely believed Brant would obediently pluck out one of his own eyes and place it in his palm.
His vicious intentions were now on full display.
Brant, however, merely studied the wiry, pale-skinned mutant for a moment.
Rather than feeling threatened, he found the encounter unexpectedly interesting.
He had only recently been strengthened by the serum, and he was eager to discover just how much his abilities had improved. A convenient target had practically delivered himself to Brant's doorstep.
What more could he ask for?
The corners of Brant's mouth gradually curled upward.
Then, his expression changed.
The faint amusement vanished, replaced by undisguised disdain. He looked Gillian up and down as though examining a particularly repulsive insect that had crawled into his path.
In fact, Brant felt a sudden urge to step on the miserable creature just to see what would happen.
Gillian immediately noticed the contempt in his eyes.
For a brief moment, the vicious expression on his face froze.
Then his features twisted with rage.
"You're looking down on me?"
Grinding his teeth, Gillian took an agitated step forward, his clawed fingers tightening as energy began to flicker around his body. He had expected fear, perhaps even an attempt to bargain. He certainly hadn't expected his target to regard him with such blatant contempt.
But just as he was about to move closer, a cold gaze fell upon him.
Steven had turned his attention toward him.
That single glance was enough to make Gillian's entire body stiffen.
An indescribable chill crawled down his spine, and his heart seemed to seize inside his chest. For an instant, it felt as though he had been plunged into an endless darkness, with something terrifying lurking within it, patiently waiting to swallow him whole.
It wasn't merely intimidation.
It was the overwhelming sensation that death had fixed its attention on him.
Gillian had encountered powerful mutants before. He had even witnessed people being slaughtered in front of him. Yet nothing in his previous experiences had prepared him for the sheer terror that washed over him beneath Steven's gaze.
His instincts screamed at him to run.
And for once, he immediately listened.
Whatever anger he had felt toward Brant was instantly extinguished, leaving behind nothing but raw, instinctive fear. He hurriedly withdrew, forcing his trembling body to remain composed as he backed away from the group.
Then, without daring to look at Steven again, Gillian scrambled into the surrounding crowd and disappeared among the settlement's inhabitants.
He had approached the group intending to intimidate someone and establish his dominance.
Instead, a single glance from Steven had nearly frightened him out of his wits.
Most importantly, by retreating before he could provoke anyone further, Gillian had managed to escape with his life intact..