Marco had seen thousands of survivors.
Men who breathed poison and turned their lungs into filters.
Women whose bones crystallized into weapons.
Children whose eyes burned with unnatural light.
Every single one of them carried a mark.
A scar.
A distortion.
A permanent reminder that they had survived the Ink by letting it rewrite them.
Everyone except the boy.
Five years.
Five and a half, to be precise.
And still… nothing.
No glowing veins.
No warped organs.
No twisted limbs.
No mutated senses.
The boy called One looked exactly the same as any ordinary human—just a little stronger, a little faster, a little harder to break. His body showed only what any survivor would show: muscle hardened by constant labor, skin toughened by corrosive air, bones reinforced by endless resistance to environmental distortion.
But no signature.
No visible pollution.
Marco noticed it. Of course he did. He noticed everything mechanical, biological, and structural. He noticed inconsistencies the way others noticed danger.
But he didn't care.
In this world, existence itself was the anomaly. Investigating small mysteries was a luxury for people who had time. Marco didn't have time. None of them did. Surviving the next day mattered more than understanding the previous one.
Marco's group consisted of five.
Not a family.
Not a team.
Just a cluster of outcasts orbiting the same moving fortress.
Marco — The Mechanic
The center of everything. His heart had been replaced during the pollution—half flesh, half machinery, constantly ticking and humming beneath his chest. He could construct anything mechanical, instinctively, without blueprints, without tools, without limits. Machines obeyed him like limbs.
Steven — The Channeler
A tall man with black veins permanently visible beneath translucent skin. He channeled dark energy through his body, converting it into overwhelming strength, speed, and durability. No known upper limit. Only one rule: the more power he drew, the closer he came to burning himself from the inside.
Veronica — The Healer
Her body was thin, almost fragile, but her ability was terrifying. She could break down any form of matter—solid, liquid, organic, inorganic—and convert it into healing energy. Flesh, metal, bone, stone… all were ingredients to her.
Brant — The Meat Shield
A massive dark-skinned man with a twisted scar running from his spine down to his tailbone, where the Ink had rewritten something fundamental. He channeled blood energy—his own or anyone else's—into weapons, armor, or raw physical enhancement. As long as blood existed, he could fight.
One — The Errand Boy
The boy who had no mark.
Not because he was weak.
Because he was an ARMAMENT—pure, concentrated Inkforce given life through a series of impossible coincidences. The strongest ARMAMENT in existence. The ONE.
He did not feel much. Only subtle emotions—curiosity, fleeting calm, a hint of attention. Enough to observe. Enough to obey. Enough to survive.
He harvested mutated fruits.
Collected monster corpses.
Cleaned mechanical parts.
Repaired damaged systems.
He did everything.
And yet, he had no outward sign of the corruption that had rewritten everyone else. His body resisted, absorbed, and silently grew stronger—Ink itself subtly responding to his presence.
Five and a half years after the pollution.
The boy stood inside Marco's workshop, covered in grime and oil, tightening the final bolts on a two-meter-tall exoskeleton suit.
The machine was ugly.
Rough metal plates.
Exposed pistons.
A mounted shoulder cannon.
Oversized gun-arms welded on without proper calibration.
It looked like something built by a genius who didn't care about aesthetics—only function.
One's hands moved with unnatural precision as he adjusted the joints. Every screw, nut, and hydraulic connection clicked perfectly into place under his fingers. The smell of scorched oil mixed with Ink particles in the air, clinging to his skin. The suit's weight pressed down on him, but he felt nothing, as if his muscles had learned to carry far heavier burdens through repetition alone.
His face was calm. Serious. Emotionless in a way that wasn't cold, just… absent.
Then—
BANG.
The entire structure shook violently.
Not a small tremor.
Not environmental distortion.
Impact.
The workshop lights flickered. Metal groaned. The mechanical house's defense systems whirred to life as seismic sensors triggered across the frame.
One looked up instantly. Another impact.
BANG. BANG.
Something was slamming into the transport vehicle. Hard.
One dropped his tools and ran.
Outside, the world was black and broken as always.
But now, something else stood in front of it.
A monster.
It had once been human. Now bloated, grotesque, distorted beyond recognition. Arms as large as sandbags, veins pulsing like cables, fingers fused into blunt, crushing masses. Its raw strength was enough to crush metal.
Marco's voice cut through the chaos, cold and absolute:
"Brant. Deal with it."
The air shifted. One felt it, faintly—Ink responding to the strongest ARMAMENT alive.
Brant stepped forward. His blood armor formed instantly, jagged blades sprouting along his arms. The scar along his spine glowed faintly as his blood channeled into raw power. Already, One's presence subtly enhanced him—strength slightly increased, reflexes sharper, strikes more precise. Brant had no idea why he felt stronger, but the effect was real.
Then he did something horrifying.
Brant ripped his own arm from its socket, the pain making his muscles scream. Blood gushed, but he did not falter. Instead, he controlled it—blood flowing outward like living steel, twisting into a massive crimson weapon around his body. Layered plates formed over his chest, jagged blades along his forearms, each pulse of pain driving the blood harder, faster, stronger.
The monster charged. Brant met it head-on. Bones shattered. Ribs collapsed. Blood sprayed. Brant caught its massive arm mid-swing, crushed it, then drove his blood blade straight through the monster's neck.
Decapitation. Instant. Brutal. Efficient.
The creature convulsed once. And went still.
Silence returned. Only the sound of blood dripping onto corrupted ground remained.
One stood at a distance, watching.
He felt nothing. No fear. No excitement. No disgust.
Just observation.
Then something subtle happened. The air around him trembled. The Ink in the atmosphere shifted. It recoiled slightly, as if aware of him. Not violently. Not visibly. But enough that reality itself hesitated.
One's mind noted the sensation. The small, inexplicable anomaly.
Marco didn't notice. Brant didn't care. Steven and Veronica were already moving on.
But the universe did.
One stepped closer to the fallen monster. Its body offered nothing to harvest. Yet as his fingers brushed the corrupted flesh, a faint vibration ran through his body—a pulse, subtle but undeniable. The strongest ARMAMENT alive… awakening quietly.
Before he could investigate further, Marco's voice rang out:
"Get back inside. Now."
One obeyed. The pulse persisted. Quiet, subtle… alive.
And for the first time since the Inkfall, something unmarked had made corruption itself flinch.