According to Jake's memories, MK-14 had been formed by merging three major underworld gangs in the outer city.
It was the largest gang in the region—its influence even surpassed that of Silas's Frontier Academy.
He hadn't planned to provoke them. But honestly? He was just too tired. Especially after awakening, petty nonsense like this was beneath him.
Sleep came first. And once he slept, he slept like a log.
"Ahhh…" Jake stretched with a groan. Finally, a proper rest. But the moment he stood up, his stomach let out a dramatic grrrr.
"Mundane bodies are such a hassle!"
He reached for a March Pill, pinched it between his fingers, and brought it to his lips—only to feel a strange resistance rise from deep within.
"Hm?" He paused, then understood.
This is soul-level rejection from the mundane body. A craving for real food.
Jake considered for a moment. Fine. A little indulgence wouldn't hurt. Sure, it was inconvenient—but not unforgivable.
He weighed his options… and then came to a tragic realization: the best food in the outer city was a beef cheese burger. And that thing cost 500 credits apiece.
Ordinary folks survived on Spirit March Pills—highly concentrated multivitamin protein pellets made from synthetic vitamins and cockroach protein.
Yes. Cockroach protein.
Jake stared at the pill in his hand, sighed, and muttered:
"This world really knows how to humble a man."
Jake's previous life had fasted for a thousand years—he couldn't care less about food.
But this life's Jake? He felt it in his soul. Deep disgust.
Back then, his greatest dream was simple:
"Once I'm rich, I'll eat cheese burgers every damn day."
Self-awareness came fast. Without hesitation, Jake pulled out his terminal and placed an order—for ten.
Five thousand credits. What did that even mean? His monthly rent was five thousand. And that had already forced him to borrow from a loan shark.
Ding! A new order alert rang out from the Hungry Papa's Cheese Burger shop.
"Damn, finally a new order. Life in the Outer City's getting worse by the day."
Chef H-Papa cursed under his breath and lazily raised his wrist to check the terminal.
"By the Celestial Saint… is this from some inner city disciple sent out for training?"
He slapped the apprentice next to him on the head.
"Get up! Big order! Move your ass!"
Meanwhile, Jake finally took his time to change clothes. He hadn't even had a chance since he got back.
He tapped a few times on his terminal. A row of hangers extended from the wall—helmet rack on top, shoe rack below.
He laid out a full outfit, tapped again, and the rack retracted.
The terminal displayed: Cleaning and drying will complete in five minutes.
"This world has some clever tricks," Jake muttered, "but compared to my old enchanted gear, it's still leagues behind.
I need to resume training and start forging some basic Magic Artifacts."
He stripped off his clothes, ready to change—only to pause as his nose twitched. He glanced down.
His feet were pitch black. And they reeked.
"I'll need a shower too. Mundane bodies are such a pain."
Just as he was about to step into the bathroom, the door burst open.
A blond head poked in. Then three people walked in.
It was Leo, Marcus, and a skinny man in red.
Leo bowed and grinned at the red-clad man.
"Brother Feit, we were heading to the Red Mill, but this punk owes me money and cursed me out. Since it's on the way, I figured—why not teach him a lesson BTW and get some more money and we have better happiness."
The red-clad man nodded, looking like he couldn't care less.
"Jake, you little bastard! Let's see if you dare act tough again. Beat him!" Leo shouted, jabbing a finger at Jake's nose.
Before the words finished, Marcus launched a flying kick straight at Jake.
Jake, still in his oversized shorts, froze for a moment—but quickly pieced together what was happening.
Jake took a moment to sort things out.
Only after fully grasping the situation did he lift his head to look at Marcus—who was still mid-air.
From Jake's perspective, Marcus had just taken off. He was moving slower than a turtle. No—slower than a snail.
This was the passive ability granted by an Archon-tier soul: Ultra Bullet Time.
Everyone around him now moved in slow motion. So slow, Jake almost felt embarrassed for them.
His reaction speed had already surpassed his physical strength by an absurd margin.
He sidestepped, twisted, and—bam—a foul-smelling black foot slammed straight into Marcus's nose.
Like it was there, waiting for Marcus's nose to smash his foot.
Pfft! A jet of blood burst out, accompanied by two flying front teeth.
The three intruders froze.
They hadn't expected this high schooler to fight back—let alone knock Marcus down.
Even if Marcus had been careless, a teenager shouldn't have been able to land a hit.
After all, these three weren't baseline humans anymore.
They were part of the MK-14's outer circle.
People like them—who failed the university entrance exams and paid out of pocket for low-grade genetic enhancement—were known as Augments.
Their Energy Levels typically ranged from 2 to 9. Only a rare few could push past 10 and reach the Aspella Class.
But every single Dymin weren't supposed to be challenged by a baseline human.
That rule was practically etched into everyone's brain.
Although the war between humanity and the Bisolarens had triggered a Ki-Energy resurgence on the Blue Planet, humans had only just begun to harness this mysterious energy through technology—boosting individual combat power across the species.
Yet their mastery of it, especially in terms of technique and application, remained in a primitive, exploratory stage.
That was why anything—be it a cultivation method or an artifact—leaking from a Spatial Convergence Point was treated as a priceless treasure.
"Energy is justice." That was the universal belief on the Blue Planet.
And today, that belief had just been shattered—by a tenth grader.
Leo knew he was slightly stronger than Marcus. But only slightly.
After sizing up the situation, he wisely chose not to charge in. Instead, he turned to the skinny red-clad man beside him.
"Brother Feit, this kid's got something weird going on. What do you think?"
The red-clad man spat out the toothpick in his mouth.
He didn't say much. Leo had invited him for a night of fun at the Red Mill. Helping out with a minor errand like this? No big deal.
As a baseline human, Jake knew exactly where his physical limits were. Taking down one Dymin was doable.
But based on his Spirit Perception, the red-clad man's combat power had reached EL 12—standard Aspella Class.
That was way beyond what a high schooler could handle.
Even if Jake's reaction speed was absurdly fast, his muscle strength couldn't keep up. He could see the attacks coming—but could only watch them land.
That was the gap in combat power.
Raw strength crushes finesse.