Morning in Sector 8 did not bring sunlight. It brought a gray, sickly haze that filtered through the grime-encrusted window, illuminating the dust motes dancing in the stale air.
Jacob woke up with a gasp, his body instinctively curling into a defensive ball. For a split second, the Sovereign expected an ambush—a assassin from the Void Sect slipping a dagger between his ribs.
Then, the smell of mildew and old carpet hit him. The memories of the boy, Jacob Vance, settled back into place like a heavy, wet coat.
"Right," he rasped, his throat feeling like he had swallowed sandpaper. "The trash vessel."
He sat up, his joints popping audibly. The apartment was silent.
On the scarred wooden table in the kitchenette, a scrap of paper sat under a slightly rusted key.
"Took an extra shift at the processing plant. Left 50 credits for food. Don't skip meals. Love, Mom."
Jacob picked up the note. His thumb brushed the handwriting. It was rushed, shaky—written by a woman whose hands probably trembled from exhaustion. Beside the note sat a small pile of coins and a digital credit chip that looked like it had been through a washing machine.
"Fifty credits," Jacob muttered, accessing the boy's memories to gauge the value. "Enough for three nutrient bars or one bag of synth-rice. Poverty is a prison more effective than any dungeon."
He set the note down with a surprising amount of care. His eyes, however, hardened into cold, red-flecked flint.
He needed power. Immediately.
He moved to the center of the small living room, pushing the coffee table aside. He sat cross-legged on the threadbare rug, closing his eyes.
"The body is weak," he analyzed aloud, his voice dropping to a low murmur. "But the soul is Divine. If I can just jumpstart the engine..."
He shifted his breathing pattern. In, hold for seven counts. Out, release for four.
He attempted to execute the Imperial Dragon Breath—a basic cultivation technique he had taught his foot soldiers three millennia ago. It was designed to pull ambient mana from the air and gently cycle it through the lungs.
He visualized the mana particles in the room—tiny, glowing specks of blue light. He commanded them to enter his nose.
CRACK.
Pain, sharp and blinding, exploded in his chest.
"Gah!"
Jacob doubled over, coughing violently. He hacked up a glob of phlegm speckled with black blood. His chest heaved, and his vision swam.
"Useless," he hissed, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "The meridians are calcified. They are filled with the sludge of this polluted world. Trying to breathe mana through them is like pouring molten lead into a paper cup."
He slumped back, panting. The standard path was closed. He couldn't cultivate like a hero. The System had labeled him F-Rank for a reason; physiologically, this body was a dead end.
But Asura, the Blood Sovereign, had never followed the standard path.
"If the front door is locked," a cruel smile tugged at the corner of his lips, "I will simply tear down the wall."
Scritch. Scratch.
The sound stopped him.
It was coming from behind the peeling wallpaper near the floorboards. A sharp, rhythmic scratching sound, followed by a faint, electric buzzing noise.
Zzzzt... click... scritch.
Jacob froze. He regulated his heartbeat, slowing it down until he was almost statuesque. His hearing, enhanced by the sheer force of his focused will, zoomed in on the noise.
Rodents?
No. The memories of the original Jacob supplied the answer.
Mana Rats.
In this age of Dungeons, even the pests had mutated. These weren't ordinary rats. They were scavengers that chewed through electrical wiring to drink the current, and sometimes, if they were desperate, chewed through sleeping infants to drink their blood. They were small monsters. Level 1 trash mobs.
To a normal human, they were a nuisance that required an exterminator. To the F-Rank Jacob, a bite could be infectious and fatal.
To the Sovereign?
Jacob's stomach growled. A loud, predatory rumble.
He looked at the wall with an expression of terrifying hunger.
"Breakfast," he whispered.
He didn't have the strength to smash the wall. He didn't have a weapon to stab the creature. He had Strength 3 and Agility 4. If he missed, the rat could rip his throat out.
He needed a trap.
Jacob stood up, moving with the eerie silence of a predator. He went to the kitchen. He opened the fridge—mostly empty, save for the remaining eggs and a jar of questionable mayo.
He took an egg. He cracked it, separating the yolk into a small saucer. The smell of raw protein wafted up.
Then, he opened the "junk drawer"—every house had one. He found a rusted fork and a coil of spare copper wire.
He walked to the electrical outlet nearest the scratching sound.
"Physics," Jacob muttered, his fingers working quickly despite their weakness. "The universal language of pain."
He stripped the ends of the copper wire with his teeth, tasting the bitter plastic coating. He wrapped one end around the handle of the metal fork. He plugged the other end of the wire—not into the socket yet—but laid it ready.
He placed the saucer of egg yolk on the floor, directly in front of a small, gnawed hole in the skirting board.
Then, he sat five feet away, perfectly still.
He waited.
Five minutes passed. Then ten.
The scratching stopped. A nose twitched at the hole.
Slowly, the creature emerged.
It was hideous. It was the size of a small cat, its fur matted and greasy. Patches of its skin were hairless, revealing gray, scaly hide. But the most disturbing part was its teeth—they were metallic, coated in a natural iron secretion, sparking faintly with static electricity. Its eyes were glowing beads of neon blue.
[Monster Identified: Mana Rat (Lvl 1)]
The System prompt floated in Jacob's vision. He ignored it.
The rat sniffed the air. The scent of the raw egg was irresistible. It chittered, a sound like grinding metal, and crept toward the saucer.
It ignored the boy sitting on the rug. To the rat, the boy smelled weak. Harmless. Prey that hadn't died yet.
The rat stepped onto the carpet. It lowered its head to the yolk.
Now.
Jacob didn't lunge at the rat. He lunged at the wall socket.
With a burst of speed that exhausted his Stamina bar instantly, he jammed the bare wires into the outlet while simultaneously kicking the metal fork across the floor.
The fork skittered over the carpet and touched the rat's wet flank.
ZZZAAAAP!
A surge of domestic voltage arced through the makeshift circuit.
The Mana Rat shrieked—a high-pitched electronic squeal. Its body seized up, muscles locking in a spasm of paralysis. Smoke curled from its fur.
It wasn't dead, but it was stunned.
That was all Jacob needed.
He didn't recoil from the smell of burning hair. He threw himself forward, landing on top of the twitching creature.
His hands—weak, human hands—clamped around the rat's throat, pinning it to the floor. The rat thrashed, its metallic teeth snapping inches from his face, sparks flying. It clawed at his arms, drawing blood.
[Warning: Health - 95%]
Jacob ignored the pain. He ignored the blood trickling down his forearm.
He didn't reach for a knife. He didn't try to snap its neck.
He opened his mouth, his jaw unhinging slightly more than should be anatomically possible, and clamped his teeth down on the rat's exposed, pulsing neck vein.
Crunch.
He bit through the tough, scaly hide.
He didn't swallow the blood. He inhaled it.
This wasn't biological feeding. This was the [Blood-Devouring Asura Art]—the forbidden technique that had caused the Nine Sects to hunt him down. He used his own mouth as a vacuum, sucking not just the blood, but the Mana stored within the creature's core.
The rat convulsed wildly, then went rigid.
A shockwave of energy hit Jacob's tongue. It tasted metallic, sour, and electric. It tasted like filth.
But to his starving meridians, it was ambrosia.
He drank. He drained the creature until it was nothing but a dry husk of fur and bone in his grip.
He shoved the carcass away and collapsed onto his back, gasping.
His body felt like it was on fire.
"Gnnnnh!"
He arched his back, his fingers digging into the carpet. The impure, wild mana of the monster was rampaging through his F-Rank system. It was tearing through the blockages in his veins like a battering ram.
Black, tar-like sweat began to ooze from his pores—the impurities of his body being forcibly expelled by the influx of power.
[Alert!]
[Foreign Energy Source Detected.]
[System Error: Absorption method unrecognized.]
[Calculating...]
The blue screens flickered glitchily in his vision. The System didn't understand what had just happened. Players were supposed to gain XP, not eat the monster's essence directly.
[Combat Resolution: Victory.]
[Experience Gained: 50]
[Level Up!]
[You are now Level 2.]
[All Stats +1]
Jacob lay on the floor, his chest heaving. The pain slowly subsided, replaced by a thrumming warmth in his belly. The "hunger" was still there, but the desperate, starving edge was gone.
He held up his hand. The scratches from the rat were already closing, knitting together at a visible speed.
He sat up, wiping the blue monster blood from his mouth with the back of his hand. His skin was pale, but his eyes... his eyes were glowing with a vibrant, terrified luminosity.
"Status," he croaked.
[Name: Jacob Vance]
[Class: Civilian (F-Rank)]
[Level: 2]
[Strength: 4]
[Agility: 5]
[Stamina: 3]
[Mana: 5/15]
The numbers had moved. A tiny, insignificant amount. But they had moved.
Jacob looked at the dried husk of the rat on the floor.
"One point of Strength for a rat," he whispered, a dark, terrifying chuckle bubbling up in his throat.
He stood up. He felt lighter. The constant ache in his joints was gone.
He looked at the wall where the rat had come from. He could hear more of them. Deep in the infrastructure of the building. Scuttling. Chewing.
"The System says I am a Civilian," Jacob said to the empty room, licking the last drop of blue blood from his lip. "The System says I need a Class to learn skills."
He walked to the window, looking out at the sprawling, dungeon-infested city. Millions of monsters. Millions of batteries waiting to be drained.
"The System is wrong."
He clenched his fist, and for a brief second, a faint shroud of red mist coated his knuckles.
"I don't need a Class. I am the Predator."