Michael woke with a gasp.
THUMP-THUMP-THUMP.
His head was pounding, a dull, rhythmic echo of the soul-tearing agony he'd just endured.
The world swam back into focus.
He was still strapped into the Alchemist's cold, metal chair.
The chaotic shop was eerily quiet, save for the low HUMMM of a data server and the soft plip-plop-bubble of a green liquid in a nearby beaker.
The cybernetic spider-drone skittered silently across the ceiling, its single blue lens fixed on him.
Recording.
Always recording.
The Alchemist was wiping down his chrome hand with a greasy rag, his scarred face completely impassive.
"Congratulations, kid," he grunted, not even bothering to look up.
"You survived your first dose."
His voice was a gravelly rasp, like stones grinding together in a dry riverbed.
"Most people scream for a solid hour."
"You only managed twenty minutes."
"Consider me unimpressed."
Michael pushed himself up, his muscles protesting with a silent scream of their own.
His body felt… hollowed out, but strangely, unnervingly clean.
He pulled up his Status screen with a mental command.
The venomous red warnings were gone.
His HP and VE were full, buzzing with a nervous energy.
But the line item for his Bloodline Seal was now a permanent fixture, a constant, chilling reminder of the cage built around his soul.
[BLOODLINE SEAL (DIVINE-TIER): 99.7% INTEGRITY (DAMAGED)]
The number had dropped.
By a minuscule, almost insulting fraction.
But it had dropped.
The acid was working.
"It worked," Michael whispered, his voice hoarse and cracked.
"Of course, it worked," the Alchemist scoffed, tossing the rag onto his cluttered counter.
"I'm not a peddler of snake oil."
"I am a purveyor of solutions."
"Painful, expensive solutions."
He gestured around the chaotic shop with his polished metal hand.
"This fine establishment, this sanctuary of forbidden science, doesn't run on good intentions."
"That serum, that beautiful, agonizing poison you just enjoyed?"
"It isn't free."
Michael's stomach clenched into a tight, cold knot.
He was a broke student. He lived in a tiny Brooklyn apartment with his retired, traumatized father.
He had maybe forty-three dollars to his name.
What could he possibly offer a man like this?
"What do you want?" Michael asked, forcing his voice to remain steady.
The Alchemist's red, cybernetic eye whirred softly, a tiny motor spinning as it focused on him. WHIRRR-CLICK.
"You're a Hunter now, kid."
"Whether the DGC knows it or not."
"And Hunters," he said, a cruel smile touching his lips, "they hunt."
He tapped a chrome finger on an empty, glowing containment unit on the counter.
"I want monster cores."
"The purer, the better."
"Gutterfang Alphas, Tunnel Lurkers, Sewer Wyrms."
"I don't care."
"Anything that crawls, slithers, or flies out of a Gate and bleeds Raw Mana."
"My… projects… require a steady supply of high-quality energy."
Michael frowned, the grim reality of his situation setting in. "How many?"
The Alchemist let out a dry, humorless chuckle that sounded like coughing.
"Simple economics, kid."
"One dose of my Void Integration Serum is worth ten F-Rank cores."
"Or two D-Rank cores, if you can find a Gate that won't swallow you whole."
"Bring me the cores, and I'll give you another taste of that sweet, soul-rending agony."
It was a cycle.
A hamster wheel from hell.
To get stronger, he needed the serum.
To get the serum, he needed to hunt.
To hunt, he needed to be stronger.
"It's a trap," Michael said flatly.
"It's a business model," the Alchemist corrected him with a sharp grin, revealing teeth of steel and yellowed bone.
"Now get out."
"My next appointment is here, and they're not nearly as interesting as a broken Arcana with a death wish."
Michael didn't need to be told twice.
He pushed the heavy steel door open, its hinges groaning in protest, and stepped back into the Undercroft's neon-lit gloom.
The walk home was a blur of shadowy streets and distant sirens.
His father was asleep on the couch, the Hunter News Network flickering silently on the oversized screen. A grim-faced reporter was standing in front of a quarantined zone in the Bronx.
Marcus looked old.
So much older than Michael had ever seen him.
A deep, twisting guilt wormed its way through Michael's gut, sharp and bitter.
He was walking the exact path his father had tried so desperately to wall off, to protect him from.
He slipped into his room, the silence of the apartment feeling heavy and suffocating.
He needed to get stronger.
Faster.
He couldn't afford to get caught by the DGC.
He couldn't afford to fail the Alchemist.
Most of all, he couldn't afford to worry his father.
"Warden," he whispered to the empty room.
The ancient, weary voice echoed in his mind, laced with its usual tired amusement.
"Well now."
"Look what the cat dragged in."
"You smell of ozone, desperation, and poor life choices."
"The Alchemist's serum," Michael thought, his mind racing. "It works."
"It does," the Warden conceded, its voice a low hum in his consciousness. "In a brutish, unsophisticated way."
"Think of your Bloodline Seal as a dam of divine energy, built by your mother to contain the void within you."
"The serum is like a potent acid."
"It doesn't break the dam with force."
"It forces the dam to use its own divine substance to neutralize the acid, weakening itself, layer by layer, in the process."
"It is a war of attrition against your own soul. A slow, painful corrosion."
"I need to get stronger," Michael repeated, the words a mantra. "I need to be ready to hunt for real."
"The Simulation Chamber awaits," the Warden hummed. "Your… awakening… has unlocked new combat protocols. The System is eager to see what its new toy can do."
"Let's see what this Void Reaper can really do."
[SIMULATION CHAMBER UNLOCKED]
[ENTER?]
Michael focused his will on the affirmative. YES.
His bedroom dissolved into the familiar, infinite white grid.
But this time, it felt different.
The air itself seemed to thrum with a dark energy, a low vibration that answered a call from deep within his bones.
He was no longer a baseline human flailing with a virtual sword.
He was a predator in his own hunting ground.
[ENTERING SIMULATION 2-1: VOID REAPER COMBAT ASSESSMENT]
[ENEMY: LV. 5 SIM-BEAR]
The same hulking, pixelated beast that had humiliated him before coalesced in front of him.
ROOOAAARRR!
Its roar was synthetic and hollow, but the intent was clear.
Michael didn't charge this time.
He stood his ground, the Reaper's Fang dagger materializing in his hand, its matte black surface drinking the artificial light of the grid.
He felt the well of Void Energy inside him, a cool, dark pool of power waiting to be unleashed.
The bear lunged, swiping its massive claws in a deadly arc. SWOOOSH!
Michael didn't dodge.
He simply ceased to be there.
[SHADOW STEP (LV. 1) ACTIVATED]
ZIP!
He reappeared behind the bear, the world shifting with a silent, instantaneous tear in space.
The beast, confused, turned its massive head, its coded eyes searching for him.
Too slow.
Michael channeled his energy into the blade.
[VOID SLASH (LV. 1) ACTIVATED]
The Reaper's Fang glowed with a faint, purple-black aura.
He drove the dagger deep into the back of the bear's leg, at a joint in its simulated armor. SHLIIICK!
The blade sank in with no resistance, the Void Energy bypassing the coded defenses entirely.
The bear roared in simulated pain, a cascade of red error messages flickering around the wound.
It swiped wildly behind it. WHUMP!
But Michael was already gone, using Shadow Step again to create distance. ZIP!
He moved like a ghost, a flicker in the code.
Step, slash.
Step, slash.
He was a phantom, bleeding the beast dry with a thousand tiny, perfect cuts.
It was a dance of death, and he was leading.
Finally, the great beast fell with a thunderous THUD, dissolving into a shower of light and data.
[SIM-BEAR DEFEATED. 15 EXP GAINED.]
[LEVEL UP! YOU ARE NOW LEVEL 2.]
[ALL STATS +1]
A faint warmth spread through him as his stats increased.
It was intoxicating.
For what felt like days, he trained.
He fought hordes of Gutterfangs, giant armored boars, and new enemies he'd only seen in DGC files.
He faced a simulation of a Level 7 Sky-Screecher, a winged beast whose sonic attacks could shatter concrete.
SCREEEEEEE!
The sound wave blasted towards him.
He Shadow Stepped right through it, appearing above the beast and plunging his Void-infused dagger into its back. SLASH!
He learned the rhythm of his new power, the precise cost of a Shadow Step, the exact moment to land a Void Slash for maximum effect.
He was becoming brutally efficient.
He pushed through level after level of the simulation, his own level climbing steadily.
Level 2.
Level 3.
Level 4.
He finally hit a wall at the simulation for a Level 10 Hydra.
It was too fast, its nine heads attacking from all angles. HISS! SNAP!
He would dodge one biting head, only to be slammed by a tail. WHAM!
He'd sever a neck with a Void Slash, and two more would grow back in its place, hissing with renewed fury.
Its regenerative abilities were too strong.
He died a dozen virtual deaths, each one a lesson in futility.
"You have reached another Synchronization Threshold," the Warden's voice echoed, more gentle this time, almost sympathetic.
"You have mastered the theory."
"But your skills, your Void Energy, it lacks the necessary… weight."
"Simulated data can only take you so far."
"To truly grow, your Void Energy needs to taste real mana."
"It needs to devour the soul-echo of a creature slain in the real world."
"You need real cores, child."
Michael exited the simulation, his body humming with a restless, frustrated energy.
He looked at his inventory.
It was empty.
No cores.
No more serum.
He was stuck.
He had to hunt.
He had to get his hands dirty.
As if the System itself was listening to his thoughts, a new notification pinged silently on his HUD. PING.
The border glowed with a faint, urgent red.
It was the same one he'd seen before, but now, it felt less like a threat and more like an invitation.
[URGENT QUEST: LOW-RANK GATE MANIFESTED]
[THREAT LEVEL: E]
[LOCATION: BROOKLYN NAVY YARD, ABANDONED WAREHOUSE 7.]
[TIME UNTIL COLLAPSE: 1:29:45]
The Alchemist wanted ten F-Rank cores.
This was his chance.
He grabbed his backpack, a new, cold determination settling in his chest.
This time, he wasn't going to just survive.
He was going to collect.