Location:Sector 8 Industrial Zone – "Goliath Slime Processing Plant"Time: 10:00 AM
The air inside the processing plant didn't just smell bad; it tasted like battery acid.
Huge, rusted vats the size of houses lined the factory floor, churning with a glowing, viscous green liquid—monster ichor harvested from the lower-level dungeons. It was the fuel that powered the city's heaters, cars, and even the streetlights.
Elena Vance wiped a mixture of sweat and grime from her forehead with the back of her rubber glove. Her breathing was ragged.
"Station 4! Why has the scrubbing stopped?"
The voice cracked like a whip across the noisy factory floor.
Elena flinched. She hurriedly dipped her heavy industrial brush back into the bucket of solvent and resumed scrubbing the intake valve of Vat 42.
A man walked onto the catwalk above her. This was Foreman Grist. He was a bulky man with a cybernetic left eye that whirred audibly when he focused. He was a retired E-Rank Hunter who had taken a knee arrow to the knee—or so he claimed. In reality, he was just a bully who enjoyed lording his minor authority over the unawakened workers.
"I'm working, sir," Elena called up, her voice strained. The fumes were making her dizzy today. "The valve was clogged with bone fragments. It takes time to dissolve them."
Grist leaned over the railing, spitting a glob of chewing tobacco onto the floor near her boots.
"Time is money, Elena. And you need money, don't you?" He grinned, revealing yellowed teeth. " especially now that your boy came back as a Dud."
The other workers nearby kept their heads down, scrubbing harder. In Sector 8, you didn't defend your neighbors. You just prayed the predator didn't look at you next.
Elena's grip on the brush tightened until her knuckles turned white. "Jacob is not a Dud. He's alive. That's enough."
"Alive and useless," Grist laughed. "F-Rank Civilian. That means he can't hunt. Can't join a Guild. Can't even get a license to carry a mana-dagger. He's just another mouth to feed."
He walked down the metal stairs, the heavy thud of his boots echoing on the grating. He stopped right behind her. Elena could smell the stale alcohol on his breath despite the chemical fumes.
"I saw the payroll request, Elena," he lowered his voice to a greasy whisper. "You asked for an advance. Again."
Elena stopped scrubbing. She turned slowly. "Rent is due. And Jacob needs supplements if he's going to recover his strength. Please, Grist. I've never missed a shift in ten years."
Grist smirked, tapping his chin with a tablet. "The company isn't a charity. But... I could approve the advance. Maybe even a bonus."
He leaned closer, invading her personal space. "If you take the graveyard shift. Alone. In my office."
The implication hung in the air, thick and suffocating.
Elena felt bile rise in her throat. She looked at this man—this petty tyrant who had probably never killed anything stronger than a Goblin—and she felt a surge of rage.
But then, she thought of Jacob. She thought of his pale face this morning. The way his ribs showed through his shirt. The F-Rank diagnosis that was effectively a death sentence in this economy.
She swallowed her pride. She swallowed her rage.
"I..." Elena's voice trembled. "I'll take the graveyard shift cleaning the vents, sir. Just the cleaning."
Grist's face soured. The rejection annoyed him. "Cleaning vents pays half rate. Suit yourself, widow. But don't come crying to me when you and your useless son are living in a cardboard box."
He stormed off, kicking a bucket over as he went.
Elena watched him go. She didn't cry. She couldn't afford the dehydration. She just picked up the bucket, dipped her brush, and went back to scrubbing the monster slime, whispering a silent prayer that Jacob would never have to see this side of the world.
Location:Vance Apartment – Sector 8
Time:10:15 AM
Jacob—or rather, the entity inhabiting him—sneezed.
"Someone is talking about me," he muttered, rubbing his nose. "Probably cursing my name. Good."
He was currently standing in front of the cracked mirror in the bathroom, inspecting his handywork.
The Mana Rat was gone. He hadn't just drained it; he had disposed of the husk by crushing the brittle bones into powder and flushing them down the toilet. No evidence.
He looked at his reflection. The transformation was subtle, but it was there. Yesterday, Jacob looked like a stiff breeze would kill him. Today, there was a faint color in his cheeks. The dark circles under his eyes had lightened by a shade. His muscles, though still thin, felt tighter, coiled like reliable springs rather than loose rubber bands.
[Status Update]
[Mana: 6/15]
"Regeneration is slow," Jacob critiqued. "The ambient mana in the slums is pathetic. It's like trying to breathe underwater with a straw."
He walked back into the living room. He needed resources. He needed a hunting ground.
He picked up the cheap, cracked smartphone that belonged to the original Jacob. He navigated to the "Hunter Association - Public Forum."
It was a cesspool of information.
Thread: "Looking for party members for Blue Slime Dungeon (E-Rank)! Healer needed!"
Thread: "Selling Wolf Fangs - 50 credits each - DM me."
Thread: "WARNING: Stray Hell-Dogs spotted near the Perimeter Wall of Sector 8."
Jacob's finger paused on the last thread.
Stray Hell-Dogs.
Level 3 Monsters.
Usually, they roamed in packs of three.
"Hell-Dogs," Jacob mused, tapping the screen. "Fire affinity. Their cores contain volatile heat mana. If I consume a Fire Core..."
He held up his hand. He imagined wreathed in flames, not the clumsy magic of this era, but the True Purgatory Fire of his past life.
"It might burn this F-Rank body to ash," he admitted. "Or it might forge me into iron."
He grabbed a dark hoodie from the pile of laundry on the floor. He pulled it on, flipping the hood up to obscure his face.
He didn't have a weapon. He didn't have armor. He had a fork, a coil of wire, and the mind of a tactical genius who had slaughtered pantheons.
"Time to go shopping," he whispered.
Location: Sector 8 - The Gray Zone (Market District)
Time: 11:00 AM
The Gray Zone was the border between the residential slums and the "Wildlands" outside the city walls. It was a bustling, chaotic marketplace where the law was merely a suggestion.
Neon signs in pink and electric blue flickered overhead, advertising "Monster Parts," "Cheap Potions (50% Lethality Rate)," and "Instant Loans."
Jacob walked through the crowd, his hands in his pockets. He walked with a specific rhythm—matching the flow of the crowd so perfectly that people subconsciously moved out of his way without noticing him. It was a stealth technique: The Shadow Walk.
He wasn't here to buy. He was here to listen.
He stopped near a street stall selling grilled skewers of dubious meat. A group of three young men stood there, loud and boisterous. They wore leather armor with the emblem of a low-tier guild: The Iron Tusks.
"I'm telling you, man," the tallest one said, waving a half-eaten skewer. "The perimeter patrol is lazy today. We saw a Lame Goblin near the drainage pipe. Easy kill."
"Did you bag it?" the second one asked.
"Nah, it ran into the condemned construction site. Too dangerous. The structure is unstable."
Jacob's ears twitched under his hood. A condemned construction site. A Lame Goblin. A secluded location.
It was perfect.
He turned to leave, intending to head toward the construction site—but fate, it seemed, had a sense of humor.
"Hey! You!"
A heavy hand clamped onto Jacob's shoulder.
Jacob stopped. He didn't flinch. He slowly turned his head.
It was the tall guild member. Up close, he smelled of cheap cologne and arrogance. He was probably Level 5 or 6. To a normal F-Rank, he was a god. To Asura, he was an insect.
"You bumped into me," the thug lied. He hadn't. "You made me drop my skewer."
The skewer was still in his hand.
Jacob looked at the skewer, then up at the man's face. The thug's friends circled around, grinning. This was a classic shakedown. They picked a lone, weak-looking kid in a hoodie to bully for pocket change.
"I didn't bump into you," Jacob said. His voice was calm. Monotone.
"Are you calling me a liar?" The thug puffed out his chest, stepping closer. "Check your pockets, boys. Let's see what the little rat has to pay for my 'ruined' lunch."
One of the sidekicks reached for Jacob's pocket.
Kill him? The thought flashed through Jacob's mind instantly.
No. Too many witnesses. The System police would be alerted. Elena would be implicated.
Jacob sighed. "I have no money. But..."
He lowered his head, feigning submission.
"But what?" The thug sneered.
"But I saw where the Goblin went," Jacob whispered, loud enough only for them to hear.
The thugs froze.
"The Lame Goblin?" The leader narrowed his eyes. "You saw it?"
"Yes," Jacob lied smoothly. "I saw it limp into the basement of the construction site. It was carrying something. Something shiny. Maybe a core fragment?"
Greed instantly replaced aggression in their eyes. A Goblin carrying a core fragment was worth 500 credits. That was a week of drinking money.
"If you're lying, kid, I'll break your legs," the leader growled.
"I'm not lying," Jacob said, looking up. His hood shadowed his eyes, hiding the red glint of amusement. "I can take you there. But you have to let me go after."
The leader laughed, slapping Jacob on the back hard enough to bruise. "Deal! You're our guide, little rat. Lead the way."
The three thugs surrounded him, marching him toward the condemned construction site. They thought they were escorting a victim to a quiet place to rob him after he showed them the goblin.
They had no idea.
Jacob walked with his head down, suppressing the urge to laugh maniacally.
He needed real food. Rats were an appetizer. Goblins were a main course.
But these three... with their meager mana pools and their arrogance?
Dessert.
He wouldn't kill them—not yet. That would be messy. But the [Blood-Devouring Asura Art] didn't need to kill to be effective. A touch. A graze. A little drain here and there.
They were walking him into the darkness of the construction site. They thought they were the wolves.
Jacob smiled under his hood, his teeth looking sharper in the shadows.
"Thank you for the meal."