It was, in Ricky's eyes, an undeniable win—something deceptively simple, yet strategically massive. It turned every encounter, every proximity, into a potential harvest. No more lunging. No more grappling. His very presence could now wear down opponents without them even realizing it.
That wasn't all.
There were subtler shifts as well—things the system hadn't highlighted, but Ricky could feel pulsing beneath his skin, deep within the architecture of his new form.
His control over the sleeper cells he had planted—scattered like seeds across distant hosts—was now sharper. The connection between him and them felt strengthened, less like invisible threads and more like living nerves. With a single thought, he could influence them more precisely, more aggressively. They no longer felt like passive tools.
They felt like extensions of his will.
Weapons.
With that in mind, Ricky moved.
