The journey toward the amber glow on the horizon took Ronan two days of grueling, stop-and-go travel. Without a map of the "Dead Zones," he was forced to navigate by instinct and the scattered warnings left behind in the ruins. He avoided the open boulevards where the violet fog was thinnest, preferring the claustrophobic alleys and the hushed interiors of collapsed buildings.
By the second night, "The Hunger" had set in.
It wasn't a normal craving for food. It was a grinding, metallic ache that started in his teeth and radiated down into his bones. His body, powered by the Obsidian Heart, was demanding more than the dry protein blocks he had scavenged from Captain Harek. It wanted minerals. It wanted Aether. It wanted to be fed.
As he reached the outskirts of Vesper, the ruins began to change. The skeletal skyscrapers gave way to a vast, sprawling shantytown that clung to the exterior of the city's massive stone curtain walls like barnacles on a ship's hull.
This was the "Fringe"—the home of the Dross.
Ronan stood on a ridge of rusted scrap metal, looking down at the settlement. It was a place of soot, steam, and desperation. Hundreds of makeshift huts built from corrugated iron and salvaged plastic stretched as far as he could see. Massive pipes, thick as redwood trees, protruded from the city walls above, venting plumes of hot, grey steam and a thick, black liquid that flowed into open trenches.
[ENVIRONMENTAL ANALYSIS...]
[MIASMA CONCENTRATION: 12% (FILTERED)]
[SCENT PROFILE: COAL-SMOKE, SULFUR, HUMAN WASTE]
The air here was breathable, but it was foul. The "Pure Aether" was kept inside the walls; the people out here lived on the exhaust.
Ronan pulled his hood lower, shielding his eyes as he descended into the shantytown. He needed to blend in, but even among the desperate, he felt like an outsider. The people here were gaunt, their skin stained with soot, their eyes dull and hollow. Many of them had "False Descents"—crude, steam-powered pistons bolted directly into their limbs to replace lost strength or missing parts.
As he walked down a narrow "street" lined with vendors selling roasted vermin and recycled water, Ronan kept his head down. He watched the way the people interacted. There was no laughter here, only the constant, rhythmic hiss-clank of the steam-rigs and the low murmur of trade.
He stopped at a stall where an old man with a copper-plated prosthetic jaw was sorting through a pile of blackened rocks.
"You," the old man croaked, his mechanical jaw clicking with every syllable. "You look like you've come from the deep fog. You have the smell of the ruins on you."
Ronan paused, his hand moving instinctively to the knife at his belt. "I'm just a traveler."
The old man laughed—a dry, rattling sound. "Travelers don't last long out there without a Rank. You a Spark? Or just another Dross hoping for a miracle?"
"I'm looking for work," Ronan lied, his voice gravelly from disuse. "And information."
The old man squinted at Ronan, his single organic eye scanning the grey cloak. "Work is for the strong. Information is for those who can pay. You have any Silt? Or maybe a spare filter?"
Ronan reached into his pouch and pulled out one of the protein blocks. He broke off a piece and set it on the table. The old man's eyes widened. Food—real, processed rations—was a luxury here.
"Tell me about the city," Ronan said. "How does one get inside?"
The old man snatched the ration and tucked it into a pocket of his grease-stained vest. "Inside? You don't 'get' inside Vesper, boy. You are invited, or you are born there. Or, if you're lucky, you're a Vein-Seeker. The Houses always have room for a Level 2 who can pull a lever without screaming."
"And the others? The ones who aren't Level 2?"
"They stay out here," the old man gestured to the sprawling slum. "They work the scrubbers. They clean the pipes. They die when the 'Great Waning' comes. Unless..." He leaned in, the smell of burnt oil thick on his breath. "Unless you have a Mark."
"A Mark?"
"The House Marks. If you can prove you belong to a Lineage, they'll let you through the Purity Gate. But look at you. You're wearing a dead man's cloak and you're hiding your face. You don't have a Mark. You have a secret."
Ronan felt a chill. The old man was sharper than he looked.
"What happens at the Purity Gate?" Ronan asked, ignoring the comment.
"The Priests scan your Core. They check your Aetheric resonance. If you're Level 1, they check your lungs for Blight. If you're clean, they give you a shackle and send you to the Lower Tiers to work. If you're 'Vexed'..." The old man made a slicing motion across his throat.
Ronan looked up at the massive stone wall. He could see the gate now—a colossal archway of reinforced iron, guarded by men in shimmering bone-plate armor. They carried steam-pressured bolters, their eyes glowing with the steady, amber light of Level 3 Marrow-Binders.
He realized he couldn't pass a scan. Not yet. His "Violet Gaze" was a death sentence.
"There are other ways," the old man whispered, noticing Ronan's hesitation. "Shadow operations. The 'Void-Pedlars' have tunnels. They bring in the 'unclean' goods for the High Houses. But they don't take protein blocks for payment. They take blood. Or parts."
Ronan looked at the old man's mechanical jaw. "I'll keep my blood for now."
He turned away and continued walking, his mind processing the new information.
Level 1s are laborers.
Level 2s are valued.
The City is a fortress of 'Clean' Aether.
The Purity Gate is a filter for the 'Vexed'.
He needed to find these Void-Pedlars. He needed a way to bypass the scan, or a way to mask his signature entirely.
As he reached the edge of the shantytown, near the base of the Great Wall, he saw a group of people gathered around a large, steaming vat. A man with a pneumatic piston-arm was pouring a thick, glowing violet liquid into smaller canisters.
"Dross-Silt," a woman standing near Ronan whispered. She was huddled under a threadbare blanket, her eyes fixed on the vat with a terrifying longing. "The only thing that keeps the Hunger away."
Ronan watched as the people lined up to receive a small portion of the sludge. They drank it greedily. As they did, their skin would briefly flush, and a faint, sickly purple light would flicker in their veins before fading back to grey.
"It's raw Miasma," Ronan realized. "They're drinking the waste."
It was a slow suicide. The Silt gave them the strength to work another day, but it was rotting them from the inside out. They were "inviting the Blight in" just to stay alive.
Ronan looked at his own hand. He didn't need the Silt. His body was already vibrating with the energy of the atmosphere. He was a Perfect Chimera, a being that could process what these people couldn't.
He stayed in the shadows of the Fringe for the rest of the day, observing. He saw the "Steam-Vanguards"—Level 4 warriors—descend from the walls in iron-shod elevators to collect the refined canisters of Silt. They moved with a terrifying, mechanical precision, their armor hissing with every step. To the people of the Fringe, they were gods. To Ronan, they were the first real threat he had seen since the Gore-Hulk.
As night fell and the amber dome of the city began to glow with a protective light, Ronan found a small, abandoned crawlspace beneath a pile of discarded boiler plates.
He sat in the dark, the sounds of the shantytown muffled by the iron. He pulled out the soldier's datapad. The screen flickered, the battery nearly gone. He looked at the entries for Level 1 and Level 2 again.
Level 2 (Vein-Seeker): Requirement: Injection of Refined Miasma-Silt.
He looked at the small vial he had taken from the soldier's belt. It wasn't empty; there was a tiny residue of a dark, viscous liquid at the bottom.
If he wanted to survive the city, he couldn't stay a "Spark." He needed to be a "Vein-Seeker." He needed to look like a man who had earned his place in the hierarchy.
But to do that, he would have to perform his first "Shadow Ritual." He would have to take the very poison he had just seen the Dross drinking and use it to force his body to the next level.
"The Toll of the Soul," Ronan whispered, recalling the phrase from the manual. "Invite the Blight in, then slam the door shut."
He gripped the vial. He was a historian. He was a scholar. But in this world of soot and steam, he was becoming something else. He was becoming a predator who understood the price of the hunt.
[LEVEL 1 PROGRESS: 95%]
[REQUIREMENTS FOR ASCENSION DETECTED]