The evening air carried the metallic tang of the city's underbelly as Max slipped through the back alleys of the Awakened District. Blood from the dungeon still flecked his hoodie, dried into crusty patches that he brushed off absentmindedly. In his backpack—now heavier with the weight of dozens of yeti cores and the boss's massive one—he carried the spoils of his rampage. Each core pulsed faintly with absorbed energy, a reminder of the gore-soaked frenzy. But Max felt no elation, only a hollow satisfaction. Power grew, but so did the isolation. Alex's ghosts whispered in his mind: *Trust no one. They'll turn.*
He'd absorbed a few cores on the way out, bumping his stats incrementally—Strength to 421, Vitality to 421, and so on. Balanced, always balanced. The rest? Sell some, hoard the others. Attention was the enemy. The district buzzed with activity: street vendors hawking enchanted trinkets, guilds posting raid bounties on holographic boards, Awakened bartering in clusters. Max pulled his hood low, blending into the crowd like a shadow.
The Exchange Hall loomed ahead, a squat building of reinforced alloy, guarded by scanners that pinged for threats. Inside, the air hummed with negotiations—cores appraised, credits transferred via wristbands. Max approached a nondescript booth, dumping a handful of lesser yeti cores onto the counter. Not all, just enough to seem like a lucky novice's haul. The appraiser, a grizzled man with a scarred eye and a system interface flickering in his gaze, grunted.
"Low-grade yeti cores. Twenty of 'em. Fresh clear?" He scanned them with a handheld device, numbers scrolling. "Five hundred credits each. Total ten grand. ID?"
Max slid a fake chit—procured from a shady vendor months ago, back when Elena had insisted he prepare for awakening. Untraceable. The man nodded, credits pinging into Max's anonymous account. Ten thousand. Pocket change in this world, but enough for his needs. He pocketed the chit, turning to leave.
That's when he noticed her. A girl about his age, maybe eighteen, hovering near the adjacent booth. Newly awakened, judging by the wide-eyed stare and the faint glow of her interface as she fiddled with it nervously. She had wild curly hair tied back in a messy ponytail, freckles dusting her nose, and wore oversized overalls smeared with what looked like engine grease. A mechanic? Or just eccentric. She clutched a single core—a tiny goblin one, probably from a practice run—and kept glancing around like she expected the place to eat her alive.
Her eyes landed on Max's pile as the appraiser swept it away. Twenty cores? From a 1-star? She tilted her head, curiosity sparking. "Whoa, that's a haul," she muttered to herself, loud enough to carry. "Guy looks like he just rolled out of bed, but he's got boss-level loot? Huh."
Max stiffened but kept walking, feigning deafness. No connection. Just a random observer. But something about her stuck— the unfiltered wonder, the lack of guile. In another life, Alex might have seen potential ally material. Now? Irrelevant. He exited the hall, the door hissing shut behind him.
The credits burned a hole in his digital wallet. First stop: a bulk supply shop on the district's edge, the kind that catered to eccentrics and preppers. "Paper bags," he told the bored clerk, a bot with a holographic face. "A hundred. Plain, grocery style."
The bot blinked. "A hundred? For...?"
"Doesn't matter. Just ring 'em up." Two hundred credits later, he had a stack of bags threatening to topple. Comedic, really—the mighty administrator, hiding behind paper veils. But effective. One rip in the dungeon? Backup ready. He punched eye holes in a few experimentally, the paper crinkling under his restrained strength.
Next: storage. Elena had mentioned artifacts once—enchanted items that bent space, common among raiders for hauling loot without bulk. A nearby artifact vendor had a basic one: a silver ring etched with runes, "Pocket Dimension, Tier 1. Holds up to fifty kilos." Five thousand credits. Max bought it without haggling, slipping it on. A mental nudge, and the interface linked: **[Storage Artifact Activated. Capacity: 50kg.]**
He funneled the bags in, the stack vanishing into the ring's void. Weightless. Perfect. No more lugging disguises like a fool. The remaining credits? Stashed for emergencies. Back home, the apartment welcomed him with its familiar emptiness. Elena's message waited: *Raid delayed. Two more days. Miss you.*
*Miss you too,* he replied, the words tasting like duty. He sank into the couch, pulling up his system.
**[Skills:]**
**[Administrator Rights (Unique)]**
**[Frost Claw 0/1]**
Time to explore. Max focused, mana stirring in his veins—410 base, plus bonuses, made it feel like an ocean. He extended his hand, willing the skill. Claws of ice manifested from his fingertips, razor-sharp and glistening, extending a foot long. The air chilled around them, frost creeping across the floor. He slashed experimentally at the air; the claws whistled, leaving trails of frozen vapor.
**[Frost Claw 0.001/1]**
Proficiency ticked up minusculely. Repetition would grind it, but with AP? Tomorrow's point could convert to skill points—ultra-rare, instant max-out. Evolve it to something deadlier. But for now, test the limits. He swiped at a metal chair leg— the claws sheared through like butter, the cut edge frosting over. No effort. Gory potential flashed: rending yetis, but on bigger foes? Devastating.
Yet the power stirred unease. In the dungeon, it had been release—fury unchained. Here, alone, it amplified the void. Alex's betrayal replayed: faces of "friends" twisting in deceit. Max retracted the claws, the ice melting into harmless droplets. Trust bred weakness. This girl at the exchange? Her curiosity could turn to probing, alliances forming like webs. No. He'd stay solitary, power veiled in paper and pretense.
Midnight approached. **[AP +1. Current AP: 1]**
He converted it to stat points—1000 more, distributed evenly: 200 each. Stats hit 621 across the board. Overpowered, accelerating. But the melancholy lingered, a constant companion. Outside, the city lights flickered, lives intertwining. Max turned away, storing another bag in the ring for good measure. Tomorrow, perhaps another dungeon. Another mask. Alone, always alone.
Meanwhile, across the district, the curly-haired girl—Lila Voss—pocketed her meager credits from her single core. Newly awakened at eighteen, her system had pinged during a late-night tinkering session in her garage workshop. Stats baseline, skill a basic [Wrench Strike] from a lucky goblin drop. But that guy with the cores? Mysterious. "Gotta be a hidden pro," she mused, sketching a gadget idea on her notepad. No connection, just a spark of intrigue in her otherwise gear-filled world. Little did she know, their paths might cross again in the chaos of monoliths.