Trion stared at the golden Interference panel floating before his eyes.
The old entry had vanished. In its place:
Fused Core: Makrot (Rank 1)
Skill: Partial Body Enhancement
A faint, satisfied huff escaped him.
Better. So much better.
Starmok had given him nothing no combat skill, no edge, just the slow grind of eating garbage to stay alive.
Makrot at least offered something real: Partial Body Enhancement.
Strength in bursts, speed in flickers, durability where it mattered most.
Enough to actually fight back instead of scrabbling like a cornered rat.
He could finally try to kill something without it feeling like suicide.
Trion pushed himself to his feet. His old clothes hung off him in bloody rags shirt shredded at the ribs, pants torn at the knees, everything stiff with drying blood and alley grime.
No way he could step back into the Origin Realm looking like this.
The Realm didn't care about appearances, but the things inside it did.
Predators smelled weakness. And he wasn't going in alone anymore.
He glanced across the street.
The Core Trade Mall loomed opposite the alley mouth same as every other one in the city.
A squat, fortified building of reinforced concrete and flickering holo-signs promising "Fair Rates – Instant Exchange – No Questions."
Guards in matte-black armor stood at the entrance, rifles slung casually, eyes scanning the crowd like machines.
Trion crossed the road in three limping minutes.
The guards didn't stop him. Didn't even glance twice at the bloodstains or the torn fabric.
In this world, broken kids walking in to sell cores were just Tuesday.
Inside, the air smelled of ozone, metal, and cheap incense meant to cover the faint rot of beast parts in storage.
Counters lined the walls, each manned by bored clerks. Trion walked straight to the nearest one.
Behind the glass sat a middle-aged man in a crisp gray uniform hair slicked back, small gold pin on his collar that probably meant "manager."
His eyes flicked up, took in Trion's state in one practiced sweep, and his mouth twitched into the fake customer-service smile.
Another broke kid selling cores to eat, the manager thought. At least he's got something worth more than scraps.
"Welcome to Core Traders," the man said smoothly. "What would you like to sell today?"
Trion didn't bother with pleasantries. He reached into his inventory, willed the two Makrot cores into existence, and set them gently on the counter. Dull red orbs the size of large marbles, pulsing faintly with inner light.
The manager's eyebrows lifted a fraction.
He leaned forward, inspecting them without touching. "Good condition. Not perfect some surface cracks from rough handling but viable. Better than the last girl who came through."
His gaze drifted over Trion again: fresh bloodstains, maybe one or two hours old, but no open wounds.
No limp anymore.
No pallor of someone who'd just burned cores to force-heal. Rich family kid?? Nah… impossible. Self-fusion healing at Rank 1 would've killed him. Unless… someone patched him up.
Trion met the calculating stare without flinching. "Give me clothes," he said flatly. "Better ones. I'm going back in."
The manager blinked. Going back in? Without a Coin? Does he have one stashed? Whatever. He shrugged internally and nodded. "One moment."
He scooped the cores into a small glass containment box special alloy, etched with stabilizing runes and disappeared into the back room.
Returned less than a minute later with a folded bundle: dark leather-like jacket (synthetic beast hide, tough but flexible), a plain black shirt, and dark cargo pants. Not high-end, but leagues above the rags Trion had been wearing.
He jerked his thumb toward the changing booth in the corner. "Go on."
Trion didn't argue. He stepped inside the narrow stall, pulled the curtain, and stripped.
The moment the new clothes touched his skin, he noticed it the difference.
His body felt… denser. Muscles tauter under the fabric. Joints smoother.
Even his breathing came easier, deeper. The Makrot fusion had settled in deeper than he'd realized.
At least I feel strong compared to before, he thought, rolling his shoulders.
The jacket fit a little loose across the chest, pants a touch baggy at the waist, but who gave a damn? In a world where beasts ate the unprepared, fashion was the least of anyone's worries.
He stepped back out.
The manager had already set a small ration pack on the counter sealed nutrient bars, a liter of purified water, enough for maybe a week if he rationed.
"Anything else?" the man asked. "Or should I just hand you the change in credits?"
Trion hesitated. "Still got some left?"
The manager checked a small holo-pad. "A bit. Not much."
"Can…" Trion's voice dropped. "Can I get a weapon?"
The manager tilted his head, sizing him up again. Kid's got guts. Or he's desperate.
"With what's left? No chance at anything new. But…" He reached under the counter and pulled out a long, wrapped bundle. Unrolled it.
A spear simple, brutal. Shaft of dark composite, tip fashioned from a single curved Makrot skull plate, edges honed to razor sharpness.
Used, obviously scratches along the haft, faint staining on the bone but solid. Better than bare hands.
"Last one we've got in this condition," the manager said. "Take it or leave it."
Trion reached out, fingers closing around the haft. The weight felt right. Balanced. Familiar in a way that made his pulse quicken.
"Okay," he said quietly. "Give me that."
The manager slid the spear across the counter along with the rations.
Trion tucked the food into the jacket's inner pockets, slung the spear over his shoulder with the leather strap that came attached.
No more words.
He turned and walked out of the mall clean clothes, full stomach for a week, a weapon that could actually kill something.