Pain.
It wasn't a physical pain, like a cut or a bruise. It was deeper. It felt like someone was trying to rewrite the neural pathways of his brain with a rusty needle.
Noah stumbled into his safehouse—a cramped, windowless basement apartment in the slums of Sector 9. He barely made it to the bathroom before his knees gave out. He gripped the porcelain sink, his knuckles turning white.
Drip. Drip.
Thick, dark blood dripped from his nose, staining the white ceramic.
[System Warning] [Mental Load: 89%] [Critical Level Reached. Assimilation of Concept "Heat" caused neural overheating.]
"Shut up," Noah hissed at the blue text floating in his vision.
Stealing logic wasn't free. The human mind was designed to understand the world, not to contain the raw, abstract laws that governed it. Taking Magma Core's "Heat" was like trying to stuff a nuclear reactor inside a AA battery.
He splashed freezing cold water on his face. The water sizzled slightly as it touched his skin. His body temperature was still fluctuating wildly as the System tried to convert the stolen concept into permanent stats.
[ assimilation Complete. ] [Strength +2] [Agility +1] [Constitution +3] [New Passive Skill Unlocked: Minor Thermal Resistance]
Noah exhaled a long, shaky breath as the headache finally receded to a dull throb. He looked in the mirror. His eyes, usually a calm grey, were fading back from that electric blue. He looked tired. Pale.
But stronger.
He walked into the main room and collapsed onto his ragged sofa. He flicked on the holographic TV with a thought.
The news was chaotic.
"—reports of a mysterious entity in Sector 7. The Villain known as Magma Core has been taken into custody, but he is in a catatonic state. He keeps screaming that 'the fire is gone'."
The screen shifted to a news anchor with perfectly coiffed hair.
"Who is this new vigilante? The Hero Association has issued no statement. Witnesses claim he didn't use any known Elemental Arts. He simply walked through the fire. Is he a new S-Rank hero working undercover? Or something else?"
Noah watched impassively. He didn't care about fame. Fame was a trap. It was what Atlas fed on.
Speaking of the devil.
The channel switched to a live press conference. Atlas stood at a podium made of white marble, flashes of cameras exploding around him like a galaxy of stars. He looked concerned, benevolent.
"Citizens," Atlas said, his voice projecting calm authority. "We are aware of the incident in Sector 7. While we appreciate the defeat of a villain, we cannot condone unregistered vigilante justice. The law is the structure of our society. Whoever this... individual is, I ask them to come forward. Join us. Let us guide you."
Noah scoffed. "Guide me? You'd dissect me."
He knew Atlas better than anyone. They had grown up in the same hellhole of an orphanage. Atlas—then called Arthur—had always been charming, always eager to please the adults. He had awakened a glorious, shining S-Rank ability: "Light Manipulation."
Noah had awakened nothing. Or so everyone thought.
While Arthur ascended to become a god, Noah had been thrown out into the streets, surviving on scraps, until the day his System finally initialized.
Ding.
A notification sound from his System pulled him out of his memories.
[Daily Quest Refresh] [Quest: The Logic of Currency] [Objective: Obtain 10,000 Credits to upgrade System Storage.] [Current Funds: 240 Credits] [Time Limit: 24 Hours] [Failure Penalty: Mental Load Reset to 50% (Excruciating Pain)]
Noah rubbed his temples. "Money. It always comes back to money."
The System needed resources to expand his "mind palace"—the storage space where he kept stolen concepts. Without an upgrade, stealing another major concept like "Heat" could fry his brain permanently.
He needed cash. Fast. And he couldn't exactly work a 9-to-5 job.
Noah stood up, grabbing his black coat. The dampness from the rain had dried, but it still smelled of ozone and sulfur.
There was only one place to make that kind of money in a single night without leaving a paper trail.
The Underground Exchange.
An hour later, Noah was walking through the neon-drenched market of the Undercity. Here, the laws of the Hero Association didn't apply. Illegal cybernetics, black market monster parts, and forbidden drugs were sold openly on street corners.
The air smelled of fried synthetic meat and engine grease.
Noah pulled his hood low. He wasn't here to shop. He was here to sell.
He stopped in front of a shop with a flickering sign: "Old Man Vulture's Pawn & Parts."
The door chimed as he entered. The shop was cluttered with junk—rusty swords, broken mana cores, and strange, glowing artifacts. Behind the counter sat a man who looked more machine than human. His left eye was a red camera lens, and his arm was a bulky mechanical prosthetic.
"We're closed," the old man grunted, not looking up from a circuit board he was soldering.
"I'm not buying," Noah said, his voice flat. "I'm selling information."
Old Man Vulture paused. His mechanical eye whirred as it focused on Noah. "Info is cheap, kid. Unless it's about a Rift opening or a Hero's scandal."
"It's about the incident in Sector 7," Noah said.
The old man put down his soldering iron. The atmosphere in the room shifted. "Everyone knows about that. Some ghost neutralized Magma Core."
"I know how he did it," Noah lied smoothly. Technically, he knew exactly how. "And I have a sample of the residue energy left behind."
This was a gamble. Noah raised his hand. He concentrated, pulling a tiny fragment of the "Heat" concept he had assimilated. It wasn't the full logic, just a residue—a small, floating ember of pure, concentrated caloric energy. It hovered over his finger, not burning him, but distorting the air around it.
It was a physical manifestation of a Concept. To a researcher or a weapons manufacturer, this was priceless. It was "Pure Mana" in a form they had never seen.
Vulture's mechanical eye widened. "That... that's not fire magic. That's raw energy density. Where did you get that?"
"15,000 Credits," Noah stated.
Vulture's greed was palpable. He licked his lips. "10,000."
"15,000. Or I walk."
The old man stared at the ember. Then, a nasty grin spread across his face. He pressed a button under the counter.
Click-Clack.
From the shadows of the shop, three large automated security droids stepped out. They were Grade-C combat models, armed with stun batons and net launchers.
"How about I take it for free?" Vulture sneered. "And maybe I turn you into the Association for a reward too? You look suspicious, kid."
Noah didn't flinch. He didn't even look at the droids. He just sighed, looking disappointed.
"I checked the logic of this establishment before I entered," Noah said softly.
"What are you babbling about?"
"The security system," Noah explained, turning his gaze to the droids. "It runs on a wireless signal from your console. A signal is just a transmission of data. A sequence of 1s and 0s."
[Target Identified: Wireless Signal Protocol] [Concept: Connection] [Theft Probability: 100%]
"Get him!" Vulture yelled.
The droids lunged.
Noah clenched his left fist. "Disconnect."
Instantly, the droids collapsed. They didn't spark, they didn't explode. They simply fell like puppets whose strings had been cut. The "Connection" between the console and the droids had been stolen.
Vulture froze, his hand hovering over a panic button. He looked at his dead droids, then at the young man who hadn't moved an inch.
Noah stepped forward, the red ember still dancing on his fingertip. The blue light in his eyes flared up again, casting long, terrifying shadows in the cluttered shop.
"Now," Noah said, leaning over the counter. "The price has gone up. 20,000 Credits. And you're going to tell me everything you know about the 'Black Steel' shipment coming in tonight."
Vulture trembled. He realized too late that he hadn't trapped a rat.
He had locked himself in a cage with a monster.