Cian didn't go back to his shanty in the slums.
Going home was a death sentence. Kael and his "vanguard" team would eventually realize that leaving a witness alive—even a Null—was a loose thread that could unravel their reputation. If they reported the Ravager as a "heroic kill" but the Carrier wasn't there to verify the story, questions would be asked.
Instead, Cian melted into the "Lower Veins," a network of abandoned sewers and industrial tunnels that bypassed the city's main checkpoints.
His body felt like a coiled spring. The 25 points in Constitution hadn't just healed his ribs; it had heightened his metabolism. He was starving. Every cell in his body screamed for fuel to stabilize the sudden influx of raw power.
He stopped at a stagnant drainage pipe and pulled out a small, waterproof satchel he had hidden weeks ago. Inside was his "Ascension Kit": a few strips of dried jerked meat, a whetstone, and a manual for internal gear maintenance.
He ate the meat in three savage bites, but it was like throwing a pebble into a canyon.
"The System... it's a parasite," Cian whispered, looking at his trembling hands. "It gave me the strength of a beast, but it didn't give me the energy to maintain it."
[Notice: The 'Harvest' requires high-protein consumption to integrate physical stats.]
[Current Integration: 78%]
He needed a kill. Not a Grade-3—he wasn't suicidal enough to hunt another one while his body was still adjusting—but something significant.
Cian looked at his Composite Sword. He sat on a rusted crate and began to disassemble the hilt. His fingers moved with a dexterity that shocked him. The 22 points in Agility weren't just about running fast; it was fine motor control. He could feel the microscopic burs on the gears. He used his whetstone to shave them down until the mechanism clicked with the precision of a master-crafted watch.
Clack. The blade extended. Clack. It retracted.
"Now," Cian muttered, his eyes glowing with a faint, predatory red hue in the dark. "Let's see what 'Hardened Carapace' actually does."
He didn't head for the Grey Pits again. He went deeper, into the Festering Commons, a Level 1-5 dungeon zone where "Shadow-Rats"—the size of wolves—roamed. Usually, a Null would be shredded here in seconds.
He didn't have to wait long.
Three pairs of glowing yellow eyes emerged from the darkness. The Shadow-Rats were lean, skeletal things with teeth like serrated daggers. They moved with a jerky, unnatural speed.
One lunged.
In the past, Cian would have barely seen the blur. Now, the world seemed to move in slow motion. He saw the way the rat's muscles bunched before the leap. He saw the flecks of foam on its muzzle.
He didn't dodge. He raised his left forearm.
The rat's teeth slammed into his skin. Crrrunch.
The sound wasn't of flesh tearing, but of bone-dry wood hitting stone. The Hardened Carapace skill shimmered under his skin, a dull grey light absorbing the impact. The teeth didn't even break the surface.
The rat's eyes widened in what looked like animal confusion.
"My turn," Cian said.
He didn't use the sword's extension. He kept it in its short-sword form, the heavy "Cleaver" mode. He swung horizontally. The weight of the blade, backed by 18 points of Strength, caught the rat mid-air.
The beast didn't just die; it was pulped. It hit the wall with a wet thud, its ribcage shattered instantly.
[Target Slain: Shadow-Rat (Grade-0)]
[Harvesting 50% of Target's Raw Stats...]
[Strength: +0.5 | Agility: +0.8]
"Small," Cian noted, a frown deepening on his face. "But if I kill a hundred..."
The other two rats hissed and turned to flee. They were scavengers; they knew when a predator had entered their territory.
"Oh no," Cian growled. He pressed the trigger on his hilt.
The Composite Sword hissed. The segments detached, the carbon wire whistling through the air. The whip-blade lashed out like a striking cobra, the serrated edge wrapping around the throat of the second rat and snapping its neck before it could take three steps.
The third rat squealed as Cian leaped. He landed on its back, the sheer force of his increased weight (thanks to the Constitution boost) pinning it to the ground. He didn't even use the blade. He punched it.
His fist went through the creature's skull.
[Strength: +0.5 | Agility: +0.8]
[Luck Roll: Failed. No Skill Looted.]
Cian stood in the middle of the corpses, breathing heavily. The hunger was starting to recede, replaced by a cold, calculating satisfaction. He looked at his hands, now stained with the foul, yellowish blood of the rats.
He felt... different. Not just stronger, but lesser. As if every time he took a stat from a monster, he was losing a piece of the "weak human" he used to be.
"If I keep doing this," he wondered, "will Seraphina even see a human when she looks at me? Or will her crystal finally turn red?"
He shook the thought away. Morality was for people with full bellies and golden systems.
He began to harvest the meat from the rats—vile as it was, it was "System-affected" protein. As he worked, he heard a sound from the tunnel above.
Heavy boots. Not the light, graceful steps of Seraphina, but the clumsy, arrogant stomp of armored guards.
"I'm telling you, I locked the gate!" a familiar, whiny voice echoed down the shaft. It was Kael. "The Null is dead. We just need to find the rucksack. The Guild needs that inventory logged or they'll fine us for the loss."
"And the Ravager?" another voice asked. "You're sure it's dead?"
"I heard it scream its last breath," Kael lied easily. "I probably wounded it enough before we retreated. I'll take the credit, and you'll get a cut of the bonus."
Cian stopped carving the meat. He looked up at the ceiling, his eyes narrowing. The Composite Sword clicked back into its retracted, unassuming form.
He wasn't ready to face a whole party of Blessed. Not yet. But Kael? Kael was a Warrior with a Strength stat of maybe 20 and an Agility of 12.
Cian looked at his own Agility: 23.6.
"You want your rucksack, Kael?" Cian whispered to the shadows. "Come and get it."
He didn't run. He climbed the wall, using his new Strength to dig his fingers into the cracks in the masonry, perched like a gargoyle in the darkness of the ceiling, waiting for the man who had traded his life for a clean exit.