The walk to the transit hub was a blur of neon and rain, but once they boarded the mag-lev bus, the world slowed down. The vehicle hummed with a low-frequency vibration, gliding along a shimmering rail that wound through the heart of the city like a silver vein.
Markus pressed his forehead against the cool glass of the window, watching the "Benevolence" Faction's capital drift by. It was a city of vertical extremes. At the top, the spires of the High-Contribution citizens pierced the clouds, glowing with a soft, ethereal gold. Down here, at the mid-levels, the architecture was a chaotic marriage of rusted iron and flickering holographic advertisements. He saw a woman on a balcony tending to flowers that glowed with a rhythmic violet light; a block later, he saw a squad of enforcers dispersing a crowd with gusts of conjured wind.
"I've picked up extra shifts at the mana-refinery," his father said, his voice barely audible over the hum of the bus. He was staring at his own hands—calloused, stained with the iridescent oils of raw magical fuel. "The foreman promised a bonus if I handle the volatile crystals. It's enough, Markus. We'll have enough for the rent and the nutrient packs."
He looked at Markus, a forced, weary smile touching his lips. "You shouldn't worry about the Awakening ceremony next month. If the spark doesn't take... if you stay unawakened... we'll manage. I'll find a way to get you an apprenticeship in the lower wards. You don't have to be a warrior or a mage to have a life."
Markus didn't answer immediately. He was looking down at his own clothes. Even though his shirt was scorched and shredded from the lightning strike, the fabric was a durable, low- to medium-grade synthetic—far better than the thin, frayed rags his father was wearing. His shoes were old but sturdy; his father's were held together by layers of industrial tape.
The realization hit him like a physical blow. In this world, this man was starving himself, working in a lethal refinery, and wearing garbage just to ensure his son looked like he belonged to a higher class. This father wasn't like the one Markus had left behind—the man who only valued him for his results. This man loved him, like a dad should.
"Don't worry, Dad," Markus said, turning away from the window. His voice was no longer the raspy whisper of a victim. It was steady, resonant, and filled with absolute confidence.
He reached out, placing a firm hand on his father's trembling shoulder. The older man blinked, startled by the sudden intensity in his son's eyes.
"We aren't going to just 'manage,' Dad" Markus promised, a dark, ambitious spark flickering in his gaze. "We're going to climb and be First Tier."
His father stared at him, stunned into silence by the sheer gravity of the statement. To a Tier 5, "First Tier" was a fairy tale, a myth told to children. He looked at his son, with the blood and the bruises…
"Silly kid," he patted his head and smiled.
---
The apartment was a cramped, utilitarian box that smelled of damp concrete and recycled air. Their "kitchen" was nothing more than a rusted metal table and a heating coil that hummed with a sickly yellow light.
Markus watched as his father carefully slit open two silver foil pouches and squeezed the contents onto a single chipped ceramic plate. The "meal" was a rectangular slab of quivering, beige gelatin. It didn't smell like food; it smelled like a chemistry lab—sterile, salty, and vaguely metallic.
Tf is this? Markus thought, his stomach doing a slow, horrified roll. Where's the meat? Where's the seasoning? Is this a meal or a brick of industrial caulk?
"Humm, Dad," Markus said, staring at the slab.
"Yes, son?" his father answered, wiping his hands on a rag that was cleaner than his jacket, but not by much.
"Any vegetables? And... where is your food?"
His father let out a short, dry laugh, the sound catching in his throat. "Vegetables? Hah. Son, real greens are for Tier 3 and above. They grow them in the hydroponic domes near the spires. We get the synthesized packs." He pushed the plate toward Markus, his eyes soft. "I'm not hungry, son. You had a rough day; you need the strength for your recovery. I'll eat something later at the shift change."
Markus felt a knot form in his throat that had nothing to do with the beige sludge. He looked at his father's sunken cheeks and the way his hands trembled slightly from exhaustion. He knew that "later" was a lie.
He reached out, grabbed a dull knife, and sliced the slab in half, sliding one portion onto a smaller lid. "No, Dad. We both eat. Half for you, half for me."
"Markus, really, I—"
"Eat," Markus commanded, his voice leaving no room for argument. "I'm going to go out later. Find some work, maybe a side hustle. I need to earn some credits before the Awakening ceremony. We can't rely on just your refinery shifts."
His father's face clouded with immediate worry. "No, son. You can't. The city is too dangerous at night, and any work you find will be back-breaking. You need to save your strength. If you exhaust your body now, your core might not ignite during the ceremony."
"But—"
"No buts, Markus," his father said firmly, though his eyes remained kind. "Now eat, and go clean yourself up. We don't have hot water tonight—the district grid is flickering—but I'll heat some on the coil for you. You're hurt; the warmth will help the bruising."
Markus took a bite of the nutrient block. It tasted like wet cardboard mixed with chalk. He forced himself to swallow, his mind racing. I was a millionaire. I had the best chefs, the best wine... and now I'm eating flavored insulation in a basement. He looked around the room, waiting for a blue screen to pop up, for a voice in his head to grant him a "System," or for some hidden power to surge through his veins.
Where the hell is my cheat? he screamed internally. I got reincarnated into a death-trap world and all I got was a concussion and a block of gelatin?
"Aren't you gonna ask me how I got hurt, Dad?" Markus asked, his voice low.
His father paused, a piece of the nutrient block halfway to his mouth. He looked at Markus for a long time, the shadows under his eyes deepening. "No need. You're a good son. I know you didn't do anything wrong. Just... be careful, Markus. Without you... I..." He trailed off, his voice cracking. He cleared his throat and stood up, avoiding Markus's gaze. "Let's not talk about it. Eat, clean up, and rest. I have to head back out. I'll eat my share on the way to the refinery."
Markus froze a litte, but kept eating. Clenching his jaw with a lot of force
His father grabbed his damp jacket, gave Markus a tired pat on the shoulder, and headed for the door. The realization hit Markus like a cold wave: his father wasn't just working a double shift; he was working a life sentence. He was going back to handle volatile, soul-eroding crystals in a dark factory just so Markus could have a "chance" at a ceremony that might not even work.
The door hissed shut, leaving Markus alone in the dim light. He looked at the half-eaten block of sludge and the cold room.
"Fuck this," he whispered, closing his eyes, frown deep. "I need to do something."