The deluge continued its assault on the Wasteland, a relentless, drumming tattoo against the tavern's windowpanes that would have frayed the nerves of a lesser man. To Michael, however, the noise was a mere backdrop, a percussive rhythm to the symphony of discovery unfolding within him. Seated cross-legged on the floor of his office, the sputtering kerosene lamp casting long, leaping shadows, he was a world away from the storm.
His first foray into the cultivation of the so-called 'Foundational Combat Aura' was proving to be anything but foundational. It was, in a word, peculiar. The initial process felt as John had described: a faint, almost imperceptible drawing-in of the ambient Aetherium, a subtle energy that gathered like dew in the crucible of his lower abdomen, feeding the nascent seed John had painstakingly planted. This part, he assumed, was standard.
The deviation was as dramatic as it was silent. At irregular intervals, a thread of pure, vibrant green light, finer than a strand of silk, would detach itself from the whirling emerald portal anchored in his mind's eye. It would spiral down through the intangible pathways of his being, a silent comet streaking toward the golden glow of his Aura seed. The effect was instantaneous and profound. Where the gradual absorption of Aetherium resulted in a slow, almost grudging growth, the touch of the green energy caused the seed to flare, its size and intensity increasing in a palpable surge. It was like trying to fill a bathtub with an eyedropper, only to have someone occasionally tip in a bucket. This green energy, he realized with a thrill that was part awe and part trepidation, was a fuel of an entirely different, higher order.
And the sensation… it was addicting. The process of cultivation was not one of strain, but of profound, enveloping warmth. It was a feeling of being immersed in a cloud of liquid comfort, every cell in his body humming with a quiet, euphoric vitality. Compared to this deep, pervasive bliss, the fleeting pleasures of the flesh felt crude and insignificant. He could have happily remained in that state indefinitely, a hermit in the temple of his own body.
It was the body itself that eventually rebelled. A gnawing, cavernous hunger, so sharp and sudden it felt like a physical blow, ripped him from his trance. He blinked, the dark office swimming back into focus. A glance at his phone revealed the time: 4:17 AM. The settlement was deep in the grip of sleep. Gritting his teeth against the hollow ache in his stomach, he forwent the idea of rousing a servant. Instead, he scavenged the remainder of a cardboard box of instant noodles, crunching the dry, brittle blocks of uncooked pasta one after another. The bland, starchy mouthfuls did little to quell the ravenous void. In a moment of desperate inspiration, his memory flickered to the spoils of Andrew's hoard. He stumbled to the heavy iron strongbox, fumbling with the lock until it swung open. There, nestled amongst tarnished bottle caps and dubious-looking scrolls, were three cans. Their metal exteriors were blotched with rust, their labels faded to ghosts of text and imagery. But one image remained clear: a slice of sunny, golden fruit floating in syrup. Yellow Peach Preserve.
As the first, tentative rays of dawn finally pierced the oppressive cloud cover, signaling the end of the long night's rain, Michael opened his eyes. He had not slept a wink, yet he felt invigorated, crackling with a nervous energy that was the complete opposite of fatigue. The transformation was unsettling. He was, for all intents and purposes, a First Rank warrior now, a fact that felt both absurd and immensely satisfying.
His first concern, however, was for his domain. He ventured out into the sodden world, his boots sinking into the mud-churned streets of Cinder Town. The air smelled of wet dust, ozone, and the faint, metallic tang of radiation. To his immense relief, the damage was minimal. The concept of property loss was almost laughable here; the town's inhabitants, possessing little more than their lives, had proven as resilient as the hardy cockroaches that scuttled in the shadows. They had spent the night perched on heirlooms of rubble, keeping their feet dry, emerging now only slightly more haggard than usual.
The only casualty was the well. Old Gimpy, hobbling along beside him, confirmed it with a dip of a measuring device. The filtered rainwater had raised the radiation count of the groundwater by a few points. "Still cleaner than most puddles," the old man muttered with a shrug that spoke volumes about the Wasteland's standards of purity.
Then, Gimpy's face split into a gap-toothed grin. "But look, my Lord! The water level! The rain has fed the aquifer! Our yield will increase by a third for the next ten days, at least!"
Michael could only stare, the bizarre economics of this place once again confounding him. Poison from the sky was a potential boon underground.
Returning to the tavern, the predatory hunger returned with a vengeance. He found Faye already stirring and commanded a breakfast fit for a king, or at least a man whose metabolism had been set on fire. A vast pot of rice, a stir-fry of leathery lizard jerky, shredded Spicy Strips, and the precious, flavor-laden powder from two packets of instant noodles. The foxkin had a nascent talent, transforming the dismal ingredients into something that smelled genuinely enticing. As the aroma filled the room, Michael's thoughts turned to John. The Minotaur had sacrificed a great deal for his lord's advancement.
"Faye, my dear," he said, his voice softer. "From now on, John's rations are to match my own. Take half of this for him. I'll deliver it myself."
It was not mere sentimentality that prompted this act. It was strategy, layered with a flicker of genuine gratitude. And he had a secret weapon. He remembered the rusty cans. One of them now felt heavy in his hand, a tangible piece of magic from another world.
As a child, plagued by fevers and sniffles, his mother's ultimate cure had always been a glass jar of yellow peaches in syrup. He'd long since rationalized the placebo effect, but the emotional truth remained: the sweet, cold fruit had felt like a healing balm. It was a memory he now clung to as he pushed open the door to John's room on the second floor.
The Minotaur was a pitiable sight, sprawled on a filthy pallet, his formidable frame seemingly deflated. The garish board shorts and tight tank top now looked like a sad costume. He groaned piteously as Michael entered.
"My Lord," he wheezed, his voice a thread. "This weakness... it claws at my bones. Perhaps... perhaps the deer-hybrid girl, Nina? Her hands are gentle. She might... help me eat?" His single eye held a hopeful, pathetic gleam. Michael recalled the lingering looks John often sent toward the young woman with the delicate antler nubs. The audacity of the invalid, still thinking with his hormones, almost made him laugh.
Instead, Michael said nothing. He approached the bed, the can of peaches in hand. With a firm, metallic psshht, he pulled back the ring-pull tab—a sound that had never before been heard in Cinder Town. The scent that wafted out was an atomic blast of sugar and nostalgia, a fragrance so alien and potent it seemed to cleanse the room's foul air. He tipped the can to John's lips.
The effect was instantaneous. The Minotaur's eyes, previously glazed with weakness, flew wide open. The pupils dilated. A tremor ran through his massive body. Then, with a surge of energy that seemed to bypass his depleted Aura entirely, he bolted upright, snatching the can from Michael's hand with a strength that belied his recent state.
"No!" John rasped, clutching the can to his chest like a holy relic. "No need to trouble Nina. I feel... a sudden vigor. I can manage. Yes, I can manage on my own."
Michael hid a smile and turned to leave. As he closed the door behind him, he heard a low, fervent mutter from within, followed by the distinct, greedy sound of slurping.
"...lucky she didn't come... would have wanted to share..."