Universe Creation System: I Devour. I Build. I Rule!

Back inside Taryn's Goods, she didn't speak. Not until the door shut behind them and the forge's heat gave way to the familiar herbal musk of the shop.

Then, she shoved the bag into his hands. "Open it."

Kael loosened the drawstring and peered inside. Not bills. Coins.

One gleamed brighter than the rest—silver-blue, polished to a mirror sheen, etched with intricate sigils that shimmered faintly even in the shop's dim light. He frowned. "What is this?"

Lira took a breath. "That," she said, "is a Mithril Mark. One of the High Marks."

Kael looked up, uncomprehending. "High Mark?"

"They're the official reserve currency of Dravara," she explained, voice quiet but urgent. "The Dravaran Mark—the money everyone uses outside of Brinewatch—is backed by these. Most people never see one. Merchants, nobles, major guilds—they deal in High Marks. Not slum rats."

Kael's stomach twisted. "How much is it worth?"

"At least ten thousand regular marks. Maybe more depending on the quality of the mint and enchantments." She gave him a tight look. "It's worth more than every shack in Brinewatch combined."

Kael's fingers tightened around the bag.

"Floodmarks are useless outside Brinewatch," Lira continued. "You trade that coin for paper, and the gangs will smell it on you. One sniff and you'll have every street boss from Smoke Alley to Shark's Teeth demanding a cut. Even if you survive that, someone will rob you behind their backs. Someone always does."

"So what do I do with it?" Kael asked, the coin heavier in his hand now. "Just sit on it?"

"No," Lira said. "You hide it. You hold onto it until you're ready to get out of here. Use it to rent a real place inside the walls—in the real Ashport. Somewhere with gates and guards. You know, real law and order. Somewhere the gangs can't follow. That coin's your exit."

Kael stared at it, heart pounding. Ten thousand marks. It didn't feel real.

"And Garrick," Lira added, eyes narrowing, "he's no slum blacksmith."

"I figured," Kael muttered. "Felt… wrong. Strong."

"He had mithril and orichalcum scraps lying around like trash. That stuff alone proves he's powerful. High-ranking smiths don't live in Brinewatch, Kael. They work in Tier Two or Three districts, at least. Not slum alleys."

Kael's eyes dropped back to the coin, watching it catch the light like starlight on water.

"So why is he here?"

Lira crossed her arms. "Either he's hiding… or he's watching something. Or someone. But whatever it is, he doesn't want to be noticed."

"Then giving me this—" Kael raised the bag—"was a mistake."

"Maybe. Or maybe it was a test. Or a message. I don't know. Just make sure you go back tomorrow, and foster a good relationship with him. You never know what a big actor like that can do for your future. And think bigger. You're not just cleaning up slop anymore—you're handling legendary-grade waste. That means higher pay, higher risk, and higher visibility."

Kael nodded slowly, the Mithril Mark still in his hand. "I'm ready." He stood, the burn of rare metals still curling in his gut. His talent hummed, eager again. More than ever, it felt like a living thing.

"Hide the coin," Lira added softly. "And don't tell anyone. Not even your family."

Kael nodded slowly. "Got it."

He bade farewell and stepped out into the sun, its heat breaking through the coastal haze. Brinewatch was the same—dusty, cramped, forgotten. But Kael soon wouldn't be.

****

Kael stepped out of Taryn's Goods, the heat of the Mithril Mark and fresh floodmarks burning in his pocket like they were forged in Garrick's furnace. His E-rank Advanced Digestion talent growled in his gut, always hungry, always needing—but something else churned beneath that need now. Something Lira had sparked in him. Something Garrick had triggered.

He started down Brinewatch's market strip, boots scuffing over scorched volcanic soil, when a flicker of movement drew his eye.

His hand.

He stopped. The palm that Garrick's jagged steel had split an hour ago—clean through the callus, deep enough to draw blood—was smooth. Whole. No scab. No pain. Not even a scar. Just a pale shadow where the flesh had torn.

Kael's heart skipped. He turned it over slowly, thumb tracing where the wound should be. No soreness. No ache. Just… healthy skin. The talent tester's voice from a week ago rang in his ears:

Advanced Digestion, E-rank. Limited to physical matter. Can't process energy. Can't regenerate.

But it had. He remembered the first flicker back in the alley when the psyche-heads tried to rob him. That kinetic force—they hit him, and it disappeared. That wasn't E-rank behavior. And now this? A warmth. A shift. When he ate Garrick's scraps… something changed.

Metabolic Conversion. D-rank. That talent could do those things. Consume more than food. Convert power into strength. Heal. Reinforce the body. Had his talent evolved?

Kael ducked off the strip, into an alley still dripping with last night's storm, thick with fish guts and fermenting ashfruit. The stench was sharp, but his mind barely registered it. He crouched behind a collapsed crate wall, breath quick, and reached into the inside pocket of his shirt.

Two things came out: a twisted nail of rust-streaked steel, and a thin splinter of metal that shimmered faintly even in shadow. Orichalcum. He'd swiped them from Garrick's scrap pile, almost by instinct.

"Gotta know," he muttered, throat dry. He popped the nail into his mouth. Bitter. Cold. Sharp enough to draw blood. The moment it touched his tongue, his talent surged. Not the usual low thrum—but something hotter, deeper. The metal dissolved with a snap of energy, like biting into lightning. Kael gasped, muscles tightening as something inside him shifted—arms heavier, but in a good way. Solid. His skin tingled.

Then the orichalcum shard. Pain lanced through his jaw. His body resisted—just for a moment—but his gut pulled it down like it was meat and ashfruit. A burning warmth rippled down his spine, into his bones. His heart pounded, steady and loud, like it was hammering steel onto an anvil. Kael exhaled, blinking.

His hands were shaking—but not from fear. "...What the hell," he whispered. He flexed his fingers. Stronger. His grip felt tighter. His breathing clearer. Even his vision, somehow, had sharpened at the edges. Not just digestion. Transformation.

He leaned back against the wall, staring up at the sliver of morning sky. The tester had said talent evolution was rare. Needed pressure. Needed risk. But he'd done it without knowing. D-rank, maybe.

And if that was true? He could be more than a trash eater. He could fight. Hunt beasts. Survive outside the walls. Win.

Kael clutched the last of the floodmarks in his pocket and thought of Sera's soft cheeks, Elira's steady hands. Ten thousand marks in coin. Five hundred more in bills. A talent that was no longer worthless. He needed to know for sure.

The Talent Registrar was an hour's walk, longer with the wait. If he went now, he'd miss his rounds. That would hinder his burgeoning reputation. He couldn't do that to himself, especially not after Lira selflessly helped him so much.

He glanced down at his hand again. It looked almost… new.

Tomorrow. He'd hit the registrar first thing. But today? He'd test himself the hard way.

Kael rose, the alley's stink forgotten. The strip buzzed ahead, another job waiting behind another door. Dusk was still hours off, and Brinewatch's waste wasn't going to eat itself.

He strode forward, hunger gnawing, power blooming.

And this time, he wasn't just devouring rot—he was growing stronger with every bite.

****

Kael slipped down a narrow gap between two rust-streaked buildings, the air thick with forge smoke and the bite of iron filings. A few minutes ago, he'd devoured a cart of rotting fruit and fish for a grocer who tipped him three extra drips just for being fast. On any other day, that would've been enough.

Today, it wasn't.

His palm still tingled from the orichalcum scrap he'd eaten that morning. His limbs felt heavier, tighter. Not just fed—different. Stronger.

He needed answers.

The Crusty Kraken's warped door creaked open, coughing up stale ale, salt, and sweat. Gaslight flickered from cracked lamps above, their glow powered by the faint hum of a generator tucked in back. Bork, the tavern's one-eyed owner, barely looked up from wiping out a mug.

"Trash?" he grunted.

"Same deal," Kael replied, voice rough from Brinewatch's gutters. He moved to the refuse pile near the tavern's back wall—sour ashfruit rinds, broken bottles, spoiled meat bones—and got to work. The fish stank, the glass crunched between his teeth, but his talent tore through it all, warmth blooming low in his gut.

Still, his eyes kept drifting to the generator room.

"Mind if I check your rig?" he asked, nodding toward the back. "Won't touch nothin'."

Bork shrugged. "Ain't my blood if it shocks you dead."

Kael slipped behind the curtain. The air inside buzzed—thick with fuel fumes, rust, and the static sizzle of live wires. The generator sat like a beast chained to the wall, its pipes shivering with power. Sparks danced across open contacts. Kael stepped closer, heart thumping.

Electricity's not food, he thought. But neither was glass. Or orichalcum. Or punches from a psyche-head.

He reached toward an exposed coil, hand trembling slightly. The moment his fingers brushed the arc of energy, his talent surged.

It hit like lightning.

No burn. No pain. Just raw current threading through him—sharp, vivid, exhilarating. His muscles flexed involuntarily. His pulse kicked into overdrive. Then, slowly, the energy sank into him, devoured like meat, until the humming in his veins dimmed.

He pulled away. Still breathing. Still standing. "Holy hell," he whispered, eyes wide. The hunger in his gut had quieted again.

But he wasn't done.

Kael scanned a workbench. He grabbed a rusty knife, tested its edge, then sliced a shallow cut into his palm. Blood welled, dark and sticky. He hissed. Then, without hesitation, he grabbed a bent nail off the floor and bit down. Metal and rust and grime.

His talent surged.

The bitter tang of iron vanished down his throat, and the pain in his hand dulled. Seconds passed. The bleeding slowed. Then stopped. The flesh knit itself closed, a pale scar the only trace.

Kael blinked. "It's healing me," he breathed.

He kept going—chewed through a splintered plank, then a handful of gravel, then a volcanic stone chipped from Brinewatch's fractured roads. Each substance changed something. The wood made his skin feel rougher, thicker. The gravel sharpened his senses. The stone left a strange density in his legs, like anchors in his bones.

Finally, he spotted a cracked battery tucked behind a fuel canister. It gave off a faint buzz of static. Kael held it in both hands, closed his eyes, and focused.

His gut pulsed. The battery dimmed.

The spark went out.

He'd eaten the charge.

He staggered slightly, leaning against the wall, the world seeming clearer, crisper. Not just trash. Not just fuel. His body was absorbing the properties of what it consumed.

The words from the tester echoed in his head: Push it to its limits. That's how talents evolve.

Was he already past E-rank? Was this what a D-rank felt like?

He didn't know. But he could feel it—his path widening. And it wasn't just hunger driving him anymore.

He stepped out into the dusk with the hum of the generator still ringing in his ears and a pocket full of drips. Stronger. Smarter. Stranger.

And ready for more.