The Grade E Bio-Steroid isn't a magic potion. It doesn't repair tissues with the System's blue light; it tears them, ignites them, and forces them to reassemble under unbearable chemical pressure.
I was in the darkness of the warehouse, my body racked by involuntary tremors. Every time my heart beat, I heard the sound of blood pressing against the arterial walls, a flow too dense, too fast.
«Febrile state analysis: 39.8°C. Heart rate: 142 bpm at rest. Protein synthesis accelerated by 400%».
My brain worked at maximum capacity to isolate the pain signals. To me, suffering wasn't a cry of the soul, but a sensory data overload I simply had to filter. If I wanted to climb the abyss without a Class, I had to transform my body into a biological anomaly the System couldn't ignore, but only fear.
Flesh and Lead
Weeks passed. My diet consisted of synthetic protein bars and marrow filtered from the bones of scrap Beasts I managed to recover from the Enforcers' warehouses.
I trained with pieces of railroad track and lead crates salvaged from the drainage levels. I wasn't seeking the grace of an E-Rank warrior; I was seeking molecular density. Every pull-up, every lift was a calculation of material strength.
[SYSTEM NOTIFICATION] > Status: Extreme physical exertion detected.
Result: No strength increase detected in the Class register.
Note: Your muscles are just inert mass. Without the System's mana, you are just a heavier corpse to move.
I smiled, spitting blood and lead dust on the floor. The System was arrogant. It thought the only valid strength was that mediated by its runes. But physics doesn't need permission. An eighty-kilo mass launched at ten meters per second produces the same kinetic energy, whether blessed by the System or fueled by a Zero's hate.
The Weight of the Mud Crown
I stepped out of the warehouse for the first time after the "treatment." My body had changed: I was thinner, but the muscles looked like steel cords pulled tight under skin as pale as parchment.
As I crossed the Block 17 market, the noise stopped. The NILs and Dregs moved aside, whispering my name.
«It's him... the Rubble Hero.» «Look at his eyes... it looks like he saw the Abyss and ate it.»
A group of NILs approached. They were armed with pipes and rusted knives. At the center was a boy slightly younger than me, his eyes swollen with a hope my brain immediately classified as "dangerous."
«Zero», he said with a trembling voice. «We're organizing. We want to attack the Enforcer warehouse in the East Wing. We need a leader. We need you.»
I analyzed the group in 0.4 seconds.
Subjects: 12 NILs.
Equipment: Non-existent.
Success probability: 0.003%.
Logical function of the group: Meat shields. Distraction for the automatic turrets.
I was about to refuse. My mind told me that associating with failures would only increase my risk profile. But then, my brain processed another variable. To climb upward, I would need resources I couldn't steal alone. I needed a human shield to move behind.
«Leader?» I repeated, my voice made hoarse by chemical scars on my vocal cords.
I looked at the crowd. I saw Elias among them, his arm stump crudely bandaged. He looked at me as if I were the Messiah of the Fable. They called me a hero. Fine. I'd wear that mask until it became too tight.
«All right», I said, and I saw hope flare in their eyes like a fire in a mine. «But don't follow me. Follow logic. The attack will begin when the acid rain reaches its peak corrosion. Prepare to die for my calculation.»
The First Variable
That night, back in the shadows, I opened my notebook. The thousand days had become nine hundred.
THE HERO IS A TACTICAL ASSET. IF THE CROWD WANTS A SYMBOL, I'LL GIVE THEM A MARTYR. BUT IT WON'T BE ME.
I felt a shiver run down my spine. It wasn't cold. It was the neural cables I'd inserted into my muscle tissue beginning to interface with my central nervous system.
My brain was no longer just calculating reality; it was starting to command it. If the System didn't want to give me a Skill, I would write the source code of my power in my own blood.