Markus finished the last of the nutrient sludge, his stomach feeling heavy with the chemical weight of it. He spent the next few minutes cursing under his breath—a rhythmic, creative string of profanities that helped him focus.
He moved to the small, cramped bathroom to tend to his wounds. The water his father had heated was lukewarm at best, but it felt like a mercy against his scorched skin. As he wiped away the dried blood and soot, he caught his reflection in a cracked, oxidized mirror.
He was handsome—there was no denying that. He had a sharp, symmetrical face with high cheekbones and a strong, defined jawline that even poverty couldn't soften. His hair was a deep, messy dark-brown, and his eyes were the color of polished mahogany, currently burning with a cold, analytical fire. But as he looked down, his scowl deepened. His body was a far cry from the athletic, gym-honed physique he'd spent years building in his previous life. He was skinny—bordering on malnourished—with ribs that were far too visible and arms that looked like they'd snap under a heavy load.
"Fk," he hissed, dabbing at a lightning burn on his shoulder. It was going to scar—a jagged, fractal pattern of white tissue. "No muscle, no magic, and I look like a stiff breeze could knock me over. Great. Just fking great."
He needed a plan. In his old life, he was a titan of industry because he understood systems, people, and leverage. He had a photographic memory and an IQ that made most PhDs look like they were playing with blocks. He knew how to fight—Krav Maga, Jiu-Jitsu—and he was a crack shot with a handgun. But here? Would a 9mm even tickle that bald guy with the wings? Against the starving desperate in this district, sure, a gun would be a godsend. But he didn't have a gun. He didn't even have a decent knife.
He went to the small closet to find something to wear. He had five identical, scratchy shirts and two pairs of worn trousers. That was it. He checked his father's side of the closet, hoping for a hidden stash of credits or perhaps a tool he could weaponize.
Nothing. Just one threadbare work uniform and a pair of boots so worn the soles were almost gone.
"Gods, or whatever the hell is running this show!" he snarled at the ceiling. "Where's the cheat? Where's the 'System'? You put a genius in a hole and don't even give him a shovel? Ugh!"
He threw on a clean shirt, ignoring the sting of the fabric against his burns. He couldn't sit in this tomb of a room and wait for his father to come home from another soul-crushing shift. He needed to see the world for himself. He needed to find the "leverage."
He stepped out of the apartment and into the hallway, which smelled of ozone and rotting trash. He made his way down to the street level, entering the heart of the lower district.
The "Great Sacred Holy Faction of Benevolence" had a strange definition of the word. The streets were a labyrinth of rusted metal and flickering neon, where the rain-slicked pavement reflected the glow of massive holographic advertisements for "Mana-Infused Luxury" that no one here could ever afford. People huddled in doorways, their eyes hollow, watching him with a mixture of suspicion and apathy.
"Benevolent my ass," he muttered, tucking his hands into his pockets.
---
The air in the lower district was thick, a suffocating cocktail of industrial exhaust and the metallic tang of low-grade mana. Markus moved through the shadows like a ghost, his eyes sharp, dissecting the misery around him. He saw teenagers his own age huddled in circles, passing around glowing "iron cigars"—cheap, mana-infused nicotine sticks that hissed with a sickly green vapor. He saw the hollow-eyed women standing under the flickering neon of the red-light stalls, their skin sallow under the artificial glare.
Did this world even have schools? he wondered. He hadn't seen a single book or a tablet since he'd arrived.
He approached one of the women. She was painfully thin, her collarbones jutting out like knives, and she leaned against a rusted support beam while puffing on a metallic tube that sparked every time she inhaled. Her hair was a matted shock of synthetic blue, and her eyes were rimmed with exhaustion.
"Hello, boy," she rasped, blowing a cloud of acrid smoke into the damp air. "You look like you've had a rough night. Need some company to forget about it?"
"How much?" Markus asked, his voice flat.
"One bitshard," she said, striking a practiced, weary pose that did nothing to hide her trembling hands. "One hour. You get the full tour."
Bitshards. Markus processed the name instantly. Like Bitcoin? A digital fraction? If one bitshard was the price of an hour of a human being's life, it had to be the lowest denomination. A satoshi in a world of digital cruelty.
"Hey! You ignoring me?" she snapped, her eyes narrowing as Markus remained silent. "Are you mesmerized? Fine, fine... you're a handsome kid, I might give you a discount."
"Ignore her, handsome," another woman chimed in, stepping out from a nearby doorway. She was wearing a shimmer-lace top that was more holes than fabric. "Come with me instead. I've got a heater in my room."
Markus felt a wave of cold revulsion. God, this is pathetic. His mind drifted for a split second to Bella—his girlfriend from the old life. She was brilliant, elegant, and possessed a natural grace that these women had long ago traded for survival. I miss you, Bella. You were a real woman. These poor souls are just... biological debris trying not to drown.
He turned on his heel and walked away without a word.
"Hey, handsome! Where are you going?!" one shouted.
"I had him first! You scared him off with your ugly ass face!" the first woman shrieked at her rival.
"My face?! You bitch!"
Markus quickened his pace as the sounds of a hair-pulling screech-fest faded behind him. He didn't need sex; he needed data. He spent the next hour drifting through the district, lingering near groups of laborers, eavesdropping on their complaints, and occasionally feigning confusion to ask "stupid" questions.
By the time the moon—a jagged, mana-scarred rock—rose higher in the sky, he had mapped out the reality of his new existence.
The currency was the Flux-Core. Having just one was the dream of every Tier 5; it was enough to live comfortably for decades, even without contribution points or an Awakening. Below that were the Bitshards, the scraps the poor fought over.
Education was even more efficient and terrifying than he'd imagined. It was called "Sim-Learn." For a price, you could enter a simulation pod for three months. Inside, your brain was fed years of data, and you emerged with the knowledge of an engineer, a linguist, or a technician. But it was only knowledge. Fighting and magic—the true paths to power—depended entirely on the Awakening. It was about the synergy between your soul and the elements. You couldn't download a soul.
Then there were the Factions.
The Benevolent Faction was a gilded cage—the best place for a Tier 5 because you at least had a roof and "food," even if you lived like a serf in the Industrial Revolution. Then there were the Outlaws, a chaotic wasteland ruled by a "sick bastard" whose name made the locals visibly flinch. Finally, there was the Empire, a brutal meritocracy where the unawakened were literally worked to death as slaves within five years.
"Thank you for the information," Markus told a beggar sitting on a pile of damp cardboard.
"Hey, lad... just give me something," the beggar wheezed, extending a hand that was missing two fingers. "I'm starving. Please."
Markus looked at the man's sunken eyes. "I don't have anything. Go work."
"Work?!" the man laughed, a wet, hacking sound. "If I go to those refinery hellholes, I'll be dead by twenty-five. I'm twenty-two now, lad! I still want to live. Begging is better than breathing in those crystals."
Markus frowned. "What kind of work is it exactly?"
The beggar rubbed his thumb and forefinger together, the universal sign for payment. Markus let out a sharp sigh and walked away, cursing the man's weakness in his mind.
Begging is better? Pathetic.
But then, he stopped. He remembered the old man at the police precinct—the one who had given him the water. That man had been a Tier 5, a servant, but he had been smiling. And that water... it was better than anything a billionaire could buy in his old world.
Was that old man 'making' the water? Markus wondered. Was that his job and his power?
He looked at his own hands. The Awakening ceremony was his only way out. If he was going to get a "cheat" or a "system," that was when it would happen. He needed to better his chances. He needed to be ready. Because if he didn't awaken, he was just another body destined for the refinery or the cardboard box.
"Just you wait," he whispered to the neon sky. Then he frowned and thought, Was that beggar 22?!? He looked like he was 60+ years... Wait, those women... what age?!?! Fuck no... this is bullshit! This needs to fucking change!