Waking up was less like rising from sleep and more like trying to start a frozen engine.
It was an hour before dawn. The tent was silent, save for the rhythmic snoring of Jace and the other Heavy Lifters. I lay perfectly still on my cot, staring up at nothing, quite literally.
I tried to bend my knee.
It wouldn't move.
My Alloy Flesh-that dense, unnatural fusion of mana and meat-had cooled down overnight. Without the constant internal friction of movement, the 'living metal' of my muscles had locked up. I felt like a statue cast in lead.
Great, I thought. I'm a rusted golem.
I focused on my chest. My old Red Core was a cold, inert rock. I couldn't use it to generate heat. I had to do this the hard way.
I clenched my abdominal muscles. I ground the fibers against each other, forcing a microscopic vibration deep in my gut.
Grind. Heat. Grind. Heat.
A spark of warmth bloomed in my stomach. I pushed it outward, willing the heat into my hips, then my thighs. It took five minutes of agonizing flexing just to get my legs to swing over the side of the cot.
Jace opened one eye, watching me twitch and shudder on the edge of the bed.
"You move like an old man, runt," he mumbled, scratching the side of his earless head.
"I'm just appreciating the morning air," I lied, my teeth chattering as the heat finally reached my extremities. Steam began to rise faintly from my shoulders as the alloy softened.
I stood up. My boots hit the dirt with a heavy thud.
"Breakfast," I said. "Before I eat my own boots."
The gruel in the mess hall was watery and lukewarm. I ate three bowls, stealing two from the same pair of green recruits who were still too terrified to eat. The food hit my stomach and vanished instantly, burned up by the furnace of my metabolism.
It wasn't enough. It was never enough.
I walked out of the mess hall still hungry, the hollow ache in my gut a constant reminder that my power came with a maintenance cost I couldn't afford.
"Work detail!" the Quartermaster shouted. "We need mules for the Elite Training Grounds. Move it!"
I grabbed a crate of heavy stone targets-granite slabs meant to test the impact of spells-and fell in line. The crate weighed three hundred pounds. To the other Lifters, it was a two-man job. I carried it on one shoulder, my dense bones absorbing the load like it was a feather pillow.
We marched away from the stench of Logistics and toward the center of the camp.
The atmosphere changed. The lazy aura of the supply depot faded, replaced by something sharper. Cleaner.
The Elite Training Grounds.
This was where the Officers trained. Where the special cases were honed.
To my 'sight', the area was blinding. The air was thick with the residue of high-level spells. I saw soldiers sparring in the outer rings-their Rank 2 auras glowing the steady, chainmail-tight consistency of Iron Bone.
But past them, in the center ring, were the Cadets.
These weren't grunts. These were the sons and daughters of the Region's elite. Their gear didn't look like mass-produced iron; it glowed with the complex, woven intricacies of artificing.
And standing in the dead center of the ring was a small sun.
He couldn't have been more than thirteen. He stood tall, holding a practice sword that hummed with a dangerous frequency.
His aura was magnificent.
A pristine, vibrant Orange Core spun in his chest. It wasn't messy or jagged like the Bandit Mage's had been. It was a perfect sphere of chemical heat. Extending from it, his meridians shone like highways of pure light, circulating power with effortless grace.
Rank 2 Magic Swordsman.
But it was his Element that caught my eye.
The mana around him didn't flow like water or drift like wind. It jagged. It spike. It moved in frantic, blinding jumps.
Lightning.
"Who's the Golden Boy?" I asked the Lifter beside me, shifting my crate.
"That?" the man whispered, keeping his head down. That's Valerian. Son of some Commander. He's here for 'experience'."
Valerian lunged.
He moved fast. To a normal eye, he was a blur. To me, I saw the telegraph. I saw the lightning mana flood his legs a split second before he moved.
He struck a stone dummy.
CRACK-BOOM.
Lightning exploded from his blade. The stone dummy shattered, sending dust flying.
The sycophants watching-a group of lessers-clapped politely.
I didn't clap. I frowned.
Waste, I thought.
My 'Understanding' dissected his move. He was fast, yes. Powerful, yes. But he leaked mana like a sieve. It's like he used 100 units of energy to do 50 units of damage. He was relying on the sheer volume of his Orange Core to muscle through the inefficiency.
He was a rich kid throwing gold coins at a problem until it went away.
I kept walking, my path taking me along the edge of the ring.
Valerian reset his stance. He raised his sword again, aiming for another target. He gathered a massive charge of lightning.
"Thunder Arc!" he shouted.
He swung.
He missed.
He over-rotated. The arc of lightning mana detached from his blade, missing the dummy entirely. It flew wild.
It flew straight at me.
"Look out!" someone screamed.
A normal recruit would have dropped the crate. A normal recruit would have dived into the mud and prayed.
I didn't drop the crate. If I dropped and broke it, I don't get paid. I don't get paid either way.
I stopped walking. I pivoted my hips, presenting my left shoulder to the incoming bolt.
Ground it, I thought.
I didn't use magic. I used physics. I maximized the density of my Alloy Flesh at the point of impact.
ZZZT-POP.
The lightning bolt hit my shoulder.
It should have cooked me. It should have stopped my heart.
Instead, it hit my dense, mana-saturated flesh and... vanished. My body acted as a perfect grounding. The electricity washed over my skin, found the path of least resistance through my heavy bones, and discharged harmlessly through my boots into the mud.
My shoulder smoked a little. That was it.
I didn't drop the crate. I didn't fall. I just stood there, looking at the wisp of smoke rising from my leather tunic.
Silence descended on the training ring.
Valerian lowered his sword. He stared at me. His aura spiked with confusion, then irritation.
He walked over to the fence line. Up close, his aura was suffocating-a storm of arrogance and ozone.
"You," Valerian said. His voice was high, imperious. "Mule."
I turned my head slowly. "Yes, Cadet?"
"You didn't flinch," he accused. He looked at the scorch mark on my shoulder, then at my face. He didn't see a person. He saw a sturdy piece of furniture.
"I'm holding supplies," I said, my voice flat. "Flinching is expensive."
Valerian stared at me for a second longer. Then, he laughed.
It wasn't a friendly laugh. It was the laugh of a child who had found a particularly interesting bug.
"Sturdy," Valerian said, turning back to his sycophants. "See? Good peasant stock. Thick headed and thick skinned. Perfect for catching arrows."
He waved a hand at me, dismissing my existence. "Carry on, Mule. Try not to trip."
He turned his back on me and resumed his stance.
I stood there for a heartbeat.
I wasn't angry that he almost killed me. Sh*t happens.
I was angry because he didn't care.
He had a gift that I would have killed for-perfect meridians, an Element, a Core-and he treated it like a toy. He treated me like a prop in his hero story.
You're shiny, Valerian, I thought, the resentment burning in my gut hotter than the hunger. But you're hollow. One day, someone is going to crack you open and find nothing inside.
I grit my teeth and kept walking.
That evening, the camp was buzzing.
Rumor had it that General Aurus was returning from the Summit tomorrow. The logistics sector was in a frenzy of preparation. The Officer's Mess was being scrubbed, polished, and prepped for a "Victory Feast."
I was on the last run of the day. My back ached. My stomach was a knot of pain. I was running on empty.
I dropped a crate of linens at the back entrance of the Mess Tent.
"One more load!" a Corporal shouted. "The win shipment! Get it inside before the dew sets!"
I walked over to the final wagon.
A Quartermaster was prying the lid off a reinforced crate to check the contents.
I stopped.
The smell hit me first.
I twasn't the smell of food. Deeper. It cut through the stench of the camp like a blade.
It glowed with a deep, rich Purple luminescence. It vibrated with the spiritual signature of age, complexity, and fermentation. It was mana-rich, potent and beautiful.
Vintage Wine.
My breath hitched. The hunger in my stomach vanished, replaced instantly by a thirst that clawed at my throat.
I remembered the alley. I remembered Astra. I remembered the warmth that made the world tolerable.
I looked at my hands. They were caked in mud. I looked at the tent where Valerian and the other officers were laughing, eating meat I would never taste, drinking wine that cost more than my life.
Why do they get the warmth? I thought. I'm the one carrying the weight.
"Hey! Brick!" the Corporal shouted. "Grab that crate! Move!"
I walked forward.
I lifted the crate. The purple glow of the bottles was inches from my chest. I could feel the hum of the alcohol calling to me.
Just one, the voice in my head whispered. Just a sip, To warm the Alloy. To stop the pain.
I carried the crate toward the tent.
But as I walked, I made a decision.
Tonight, the Mule was getting paid.