Panic became a system.
At first, people ran. Then they collided. Then they broke into small clusters, as if instinct itself was rewriting rules.
Kael didn't run.
He couldn't. One part of his mind tried to explain. Another part refused, because explanation would make it real.
Beside him stood a young woman in a dark shawl, staring into the air as though reading a book no one else could see. She turned sharply to him, voice steady in a way that made his skin prickle.
"You see it too?"
"See what?" he managed.
She pointed at his chest.
Kael looked down—
And the blood in his veins went cold.
Near his shoulder, close enough to feel like an insult, floated a thin line:
Kael — Level: 0 — Status: Stable (Anxious)
He stepped back as if struck.
"I… I don't accept this," he muttered.
"Neither do I," she said. "My name is Lyra… and this isn't any magic I know."
Then the air changed again.
Not like wind, but like a page turning. A quick sting ran through Kael's fingertips. A chill slid along his jawbone. And above the pier, not attached to any object at all, a new line appeared:
Discovery: Touching an object enables reading.
Instructions.
From whom—and for what?
A broad-shouldered dockworker pushed forward, arms waving, shouting, "This is madness! Nothing's going to—"
He didn't finish.
Something black rose from the sea.
Not a fish. Not a whale. Not any harbor legend. A wet shard of shadow with too many limbs moving slowly, its surface writhing with faint symbols like scars made of writing.
It hauled itself onto the pier and bent toward the man.
And as it opened something that might have been a mouth, a line appeared above it:
Data Extractor (Rank: Low) — Hungry
People screamed.
Kael didn't think. He grabbed a metal hook lying nearby—and felt a brief heat flash through his forearm.
Above the hook:
Iron Hook — Damage: 2–4
Lyra snapped, "Even tools have… numbers!"
"Run!" Kael shouted.
But he didn't run away.
He ran toward a small storage shed at the dock's edge—because one thought cut through the noise: A roof. A door. Something between me and that.
As he ran, the meaning returned inside his head, as calm as a promise and twice as dangerous:
Survival grants experience.