Dev lay on the shattered, glass-like obsidian of Tartarus-7, his soul-form at the brink of disintegration. He was Level 10. He had a new, personal System. And before him, the fading, spiritual remnants of the Devourer's "fool's army" were dissolving into the sulfurous air.
His new, black-and-gold interface was open, the prompt stark and clear.
[...FADING SOULS (34) DETECTED...]
[...DO YOU WISH TO 'ENSLAVE'? Y/N]
He didn't hesitate. His will was iron, his (SPI: 39) mind a razor. He selected 'Y'.
It was not a gentle process. His "Hunger for Strength" (EX-Trait) erupted from his core, not as a defense, but as a vortex. A wave of black-and-gold energy tore out from him, a psychic net that ensnared the 34 fading spirits.
The souls—the Skitterers, the Ghouls, the Hounds, and the two massive Hulks—were sucked from the air. They didn't just fade. They were harvested, pulled screaming into his being, into the new, four-dimensional [Soul Space] that his [Eternal Bond] had created for him.
His interface gave a single, clean update.
[SOUL SPACE (TIER 1): 34 SOULS (SLAVE) CAPTURED]
[...SLAVES (32): LV. 0-2 (CHAFF)]
[...SLAVES (2): LV. 3 (HULK)]
He had an army. A small, weak army, but it was his.
The moment the last soul was cataloged, the cold, blue Nexus System re-asserted itself.
[LEVEL 10 THRESHOLD DETECTED. INITIATE STATUS UPDATED.]
[RECALLING TO EBONGUARD HUB... PREPARE FOR FACTION RE-ASSIGNMENT.]
There was no time to rest, no time to savor the victory. The world dissolved around him, and he was pulled.
He materialized in the cold, gray, tomb-like expanse of the Ebonguard Hub. Selina was there, exactly where he had left her, her arms crossed, her expression already set to deliver a cold, pragmatic reprimand.
She opened her mouth to speak, and then she saw him.
Her eyes, normally as flat and dead as obsidian, went wide. Her jaw, a model of aristocratic composure, literally dropped.
Selina, the woman who had faced his S-Rank potential with a mere flicker of interest, was speechless.
She wasn't looking at him. She was staring, in pure, unadulterated shock, at the Faction Status Panel floating above his shoulder, visible only to her.
She had sent a Level 5 Initiate on a simple "cull" mission.
The Initiate who returned, less than a single night-cycle later, was:
[LEVEL: 10]
[SYNC RATE: 10.0%]
[TITLE: INDOMITABLE]
[SKILL (EX-RANK): ETERNAL BOND]
He had doubled his level. He had solo'd a World Boss. And he had acquired an EX-RANK SKILL—a tier of power Selina had likely only ever read about in Faction reports, a power gods wielded.
"You..." Her voice, always so crisp and cold, shook. She had lost all composure. "What... how... how did you...? That's... impossible..."
Before she could finish her sentence, Dev's soul-form, now thrumming with a 10% connection to his physical body, violently flickered.
A new, urgent, crimson prompt overrode everything.
[WARNING: PHYSICAL BODY METAMORPHOSIS IN PROGRESS. 10.0% SYNC RATE ACHIEVED. SOUL RECALL IMMINENT!]
[CRITICAL RECONSTRUCTION DETECTED. FORCING WAKE-STATE.]
He was ripped from the Nexus, his soul-form dissolving mid-word, leaving a stunned, gaping Selina alone in the Hub, staring at the empty space where her impossible, anomalous asset had just been.
He woke up, and it was agony.
This was not the gentle healing of 2%. This was not the accelerated recovery of 4%. This was a violent, hostile reconstruction of his very being.
He screamed into his pillow as his bones screeched, stretching and lengthening, his growth plates fracturing and re-fusing at an impossible rate. His muscles, all of them, felt like they were on fire, being systematically torn apart and re-woven, thicker, denser, and stronger. His skin felt like it was ripping apart at the seams, trying to contain the explosive, radical change happening within.
This was the 10% Sync Rate. This was his Level 10 (STR: 11, CON: 10, AGI: 11) soul forcing his pathetic, broken, human body to match it.
The agony lasted for ten, earth-shattering seconds.
And then, as if a switch had been thrown, it stopped.
Dead silence.
Dev lay in his sweat-soaked bed, his body thrumming with a deep, resonate power. Real, dense, physical power. His room, which had always been his sanctuary, now felt... tiny. Like a cage.
He stumbled out of bed. His feet felt strange on the floor. His perspective was wrong. He was higher.
He walked to the small, cracked mirror in his bathroom.
And he froze.
The person in the mirror was a stranger.
The "victim" was gone. Erased.
Height: He had to look up slightly to meet his own eyes. The top of his head was inches from the top of the doorframe. He was tall. No longer the shortest kid in class, he was a full 6 feet (180cm), towering over his old self.
Face: The last, lingering traces of the weak, fearful boy were gone. His jawline was sharp, defined, carved from stone. His cheeks were no longer hollow with malnutrition, but lean and defined. His (SPI: 39) eyes, cold, clear, and piercing, stared back, radiating an intimidating, predatory intelligence. He was, by any objective measure, handsome.
Body: He grabbed the collar of his tiny, sweat-soaked t-shirt and ripped it from his body. The skinny, bruised frame was a memory. His new body was a testament to his new level.
It wasn't the puffy, useless bulk of a bodybuilder. It was the lean, dense, functional muscle of a warrior. A perfectly proportioned physique, his (STR: 11) and (CON: 10) stats made manifest in the real world.
He had to go to school.
He looked at his uniform. It was comical.
When he put it on, the sleeves of his shirt were tight, straining against his new shoulders and biceps, ending halfway up his forearms. The pants were high-waters, ending a good four inches above his ankles. The shirt was skin-tight, outlining the lean, hard planes of his chest and back.
He looked ridiculous. And he looked dangerous.
He walked to school. The world was different. People stared. He was no longer invisible, a piece of trash to be ignored. He was an event. Whispers followed him, the sound of the entire student body trying to process the impossibility of his transformation.
He arrived at the school gate.
And he saw Devis.
Devis wasn't with his usual two cronies. He was standing with a group of older, tougher-looking guys in black, sleeveless jackets, their arms covered in cheap tattoos. They were smoking, leaning against the school wall, radiating a petty, thuggish aura. This was the local street gang, the "Blackwood Crew."
Dev's (SPI: 39) mind analyzed the new data. Devis, the "apex predator" of his old life, was just an errand boy. A fawning, pathetic taskboy for a bigger, meaner dog.
One of the older guys, clearly the leader, noticed Dev. He was big, with a buzz-cut and a cheap metal ring in his nose. "Who the hell is that?" he said, his eyes sizing Dev up. "New kid?"
He nudged Devis, who was nursing his fake "cast." "Hey, Devis. Isn't that your little pet? The one you were whining about?" He laughed. "He looks... different. Go get your money, idiot. He owes you for your 'arm'."
Devis, who had been living in pure terror since the "handprint" incident, looked up.
His eyes went wide. His face paled, all the blood draining from it.
He wasn't looking at "Dev." He was looking at a 6-foot, muscular, cold-eyed stranger who was wearing Dev's skin. He looked at the boy, then at his boss, and shrank, physically cowering.
"I... I... I don't know him," Devis stammered, his voice a terrified whisper.
The leader, Rhys, scoffed. "Useless."
Rhys dropped his cigarette and stepped directly in front of Dev, blocking his path. Rhys was used to being the biggest, toughest guy in school. He was the "king."
"Hey, pretty boy," Rhys sneered, looking up at Dev, which only made him angrier. "You're new. You pay a 'tax' to Devis. And Devis pays a tax to me. So, pay up."
Dev's (SPI: 39) mind just... processed. A "Level 0" threat. An obstacle. He didn't care. He needed to get to class.
He didn't speak. He didn't react. He just... walked past him.
Rhys, his authority publicly challenged, roared in fury. "Hey! I'm talking to—"
He grabbed Dev's new, muscular shoulder, his fingers digging in, trying to spin him around.
CHTH.
Rhys's fingers connected.
And his hand stopped dead.
It wasn't muscle. It wasn't skin. It was like grabbing a steel I-beam. He couldn't grip it. It was too dense. Too hard.
Dev stopped.
He didn't turn around. He just stood there, his back to the gang, Rhys's hand still on his immovable shoulder.
The entire "Blackwood Crew" froze.
At the end of the hall, inside the school building, Mina was at her classroom window, watching.
She had been watching the gate, waiting for the "impostor."
She saw the 6-foot stranger. She saw the gang. She saw Rhys step up. She saw Rhys grab him.
Her "impostor" theory was confirmed in the most terrifying way imaginable. This wasn't a human. This was a monster.
And she was about to watch it interact with the top of the human food chain.