The silence of death loomed over the eastern wing of the Raven family palace, broken only by the faint hum of the suspended ether lanterns. In the center of the luxurious chamber, Count Valerian lay sprawled on a bed of "Spider-Phantom" silk, but his face had turned a pallid gray, and his veins protruded like calcified threads of rust.
Behind the curtains, the palace physicians—those who wore silk and held diplomas from the Archipelago's high academies—whispered in terror. They had failed. The "Rust Phantom" afflicting the Count was no ordinary ailment; it was a "base" infection from the depths of the mines, a filth rejected by noble healing phantoms as beneath their touch. In that moment of despair, the Guard Commander, "Baron of the Scar," had no choice but to summon the "Slave Physician" whose rumors had spread through the mine cells.
Ether stood before Valerian's body. He did not bow out of respect; his hunch was the result of his current body's fractured vertebrae. Beneath his tired eyelids, his eyes analyzed the scene not as a magical miracle, but as a "biological system failure."
"What a pathetic display of luxury," Ether thought with scientific detachment. Being a former Earth biologist in his first life, and then a Rank 7 Sovereign who lived 500 years in Izguldur before regressing, granted him a "microscopic" vision of the universe. "These fools think the rust kills the flesh, but in truth, it 'encrypts' the ether channels and freezes their fluidity."
In the world of Izguldur, power was built upon three rigid pillars, which Ether reviewed as he prepared his crude tools:
1. Cultivation: The ability to siphon raw ether from the atmosphere and store it in the "Soul Sea"—the bio-fuel of existence.
2. Phantoms: The "Translators." In this world, manual combat techniques do not exist; humans are merely batteries, and phantoms are the "software" that converts energy into fire, frost, or devastation.
3. Talent: The "Hardware Quality." From Rank (S) to (E). Talent dictates the width of ether channels and energy consumption efficiency.
"My current body possesses Rank (E) Talent—the worst kind of 'human waste.' My channels are so narrow that 90% of ether is lost as trapped heat, causing nerve damage," Ether mused as he touched Valerian's cold wrist. "Meanwhile, this corrupt noble possesses Rank (B) Talent. His energy pipes are wide, smooth, and allow ether to pass with 70% efficiency. In my past life, I treated Talent as secondary after reaching Rank 7, because the 'Creation Pit' allows you to re-forge your own matter. But now? Talent is the cage preventing me from reaching Level 12… Immortality."
"Slave!" the Guard Commander barked, snapping Ether's train of thought. "If you do not extract this rust from the Count now, I will decorate this hallway with your intestines. We brought you because you are 'filthy' enough to understand the filth of the mines. Do not waste our time."
Ether said nothing. Instead, he produced a long needle of cheap steel and dipped it into a chemical solution he had synthesized from wild herbs and raw "Rust Phantom" particles. As a biologist, he knew that phantoms were not entirely magical beings, but "energetic parasites" following complex biological laws.
The process began—what Ether secretly called (Talent Leaching).
Ether drove the needle into the "Convergence Point" at the base of Valerian's spine. It was no random movement; it targeted the "Etheric Stem Cells" that determined the rank of Talent. In that moment, Ether did something no one in the Archipelago's history had dared: he used his own body as a "Filter."
He began siphoning the rust energy from Valerian through the needle, but he did not discard it. He channeled it through his own cracked fingers. As the rust passed through, Ether used his Sovereign knowledge to "peel" the inner lining of Valerian's Rank (B) energy channels—those vital tissues that allowed ether to flow with such supernatural grace.
"Science dictates that matter is not destroyed, only transformed," Ether whispered internally as he felt the agony of his weak pathways tearing. "I am not stealing energy; I am stealing 'Biological Design.' I am uprooting the (B) quality from his body and grafting it as a 'stent' into my own Rank (E) frame."
The process was brutal in every sense of the word. Valerian, though comatose, began to arch like a severed worm under the effect of neurogenic shock. His energy pathways were being plundered, his hereditary efficiency siphoned with surgical coldness. As for Ether, sweat poured from his brow, and his bloodshot eyes gleamed with a manic light. The "Solitary Beast" was feasting on the superiority of others.
To the physicians standing afar, it appeared as if the slave was "absorbing the curse" to protect the Count. They saw "sacrifice," while Ether practiced "pillage" beyond compare.
"In my past life, this technique was taught as 'first aid' for wounded Sovereigns," Ether remembered bitterly. "But in this primitive age, where people worship Talent as an unchangeable fate, I am shattering the foundation of their social order."
When dawn broke, Ether withdrew the needle. Valerian's body suddenly relaxed, and natural color returned to his skin, but his aura of power had significantly dimmed. His life was saved, but his "ceiling" was shattered. His talent had plummeted from Rank (B) to a low Rank (C). Valerian would never reach the high realms he dreamed of; he had become "energetically impotent" without ever knowing why.
As for Ether, he staggered back, leaning his body against the cold wall. Deep within, he felt a strange heat coursing through his pathways. His narrow, decaying channels were no longer what they were. They had been forced to expand by 15%. His ether consumption efficiency had risen, and his "garbage" Rank (E) Talent had begun to touch the boundaries of Rank (D).
This was the first "Surgical Upgrade" he had performed since his regression.
Ether looked at his hands, which no longer trembled with the same weakness. "Level 12… the immortality no one has ever touched…" he thought, wiping the blood from his scalpel. "If the price is dismantling this world piece by piece, and grafting the talents of 'gods' into my mortal frame, I will do so with pleasure. I am no hero; I am a biologist seeking the final formula of existence."
Ether walked out of the room, leaving behind a broken noble and stunned physicians. He did not ask for a reward, nor did he wait for thanks. The treasures he had stolen from within Valerian's body were more precious than all the gold in the palace. The "Solitary Beast" had begun to devour his destiny, and the journey of 500 years of expertise was beginning to manifest in a new, dark reality