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

Kael staggered into the gray light of dawn, the door of the Sludge House thudding shut behind him like the lid of a coffin. The sour tang of sea brine clung to his throat, mingling with the stink of fish rot and rusted metal that filled the Saltpier's waking air.

His heart still thudded from what he'd just survived—Weeza's blade melting in his mouth, a bullet's impact swallowed whole by the furnace in his gut. He could still taste the acrid edge of molten steel.

That wasn't digestion anymore. It was something more. Metabolic Conversion. D-rank, maybe higher. But it wasn't just the Talent Registrar's verdict he cared about. It was the two faces waiting for him back home—Elira and Sera, caught in the shadow of the Drowned Court.

He pushed forward through the slum's narrow alleys, boots sinking into wet volcanic grit, the scent of sewage and smog rolling through the air. Generators buzzed like hornets, rooftops rattled with wind, and above it all, life went on. Kids splashed in rain-puddles, laughing in bare feet, dodging between rusted-out rigs and crumbling brick walls.

Kael didn't look at them. He didn't slow. He had somewhere to be.

When he reached the shack, the battered tin door creaked as he opened it—and warmth rushed out to meet him. Boiled ashfruit sweetened the air. The stove's soft hiss filled the silence between heartbeats.

Elira stood by the pot, hair pulled back, eyes locking onto his the moment he stepped through. No cough. No wince. Just alert. Waiting.

Sera looked up from the table, her sketch forgotten as she bolted toward him.

"Kael!" she cried, arms wrapping tight around his waist. "You came back!"

He ruffled her hair with one tired hand. "Told ya I would, didn't I?"

Elira crossed the room faster than she had in days, hands trembling as they found his shoulders. Her touch was feather-light, but her grip fierce.

"Everything alright?" she asked, voice low, tight.

Kael nodded, "Sorted. They won't bother us no more."

Elira closed her eyes for half a second. "Thank Elandor."

Kael reached down and took the leather pouch from Sera's hands—the one heavy with emergency savings.

"Don't need this now," he said, tucking it into his waistband's hidden pocket. "We're safe."

Sera didn't look convinced. "You smell like blood."

Kael managed a grin. "Well… I didn't say it was easy."

He sat at the table, the wood warm under his hands. Steam curled from three bowls of mashed ashfruit, sweet and sour, a rare treat in a place where real meals felt like fiction. The stove hissed. Rain pattered faintly outside. For a moment, everything was still.

They ate in silence, Elira's brow slowly easing, Sera's chatter picking back up, the tension fading with each bite. Kael's stomach still roared, his hunger unsated—but their laughter dulled its edge. He could eat pain. He couldn't eat peace.

Eventually, he stood, wiping his mouth on a frayed sleeve.

"Gotta go," he said. "Need to hit the Talent Registrar."

Elira's expression sharpened. "So soon?"

He nodded. "Don't have time to wait. Registrar gives me proof, real classification. With that? Might draw contracts. Maybe even sponsors."

Her eyes softened—but the worry didn't fade.

Sera stood too, arms spread. "Come back fast, yeah?"

Kael crouched and hugged her tight. "Always."

He touched Elira's hand once—brief but firm. No more words were needed. She nodded, her trust a weight he carried like armor.

He stepped outside again, the door creaking closed behind him. Fog coiled around his boots, the early light brushing the world in gray and gold.

He hesitated at the corner. Garrick's forge lay north. The Registrar sat east.

Garrick meant the possibility of more mithril scraps, High Marks and Fuel to grow his talent. But Garrick also meant expectations—and Kael couldn't afford distractions. Not now. Not before he knew what he really was.

His hand drifted to his waistband, where the pouch rested. Then he turned east.

Toward the truth.

***

The sun beat down on Brinewatch like a punishment.

Heat shimmered off rooftops and gutters, turning the slum's muddy alleys into steaming veins of filth. Kael trudged through the mire, each step sinking into brine-soaked grit that sucked at his boots like it didn't want to let him go.

Salt. Rot. The distant stink of fish oil and burning trash.The wind carried the thin buzz of mana-skiffs from the inner city, high above where the real people lived. Where the towers shimmered clean and bright under the sun.

None of that gleaming mana-tech ever reached here.Out in Brinewatch, past the volcano's cracked bones, the world was rust, desperation, and heat thick enough to chew.

Kael wiped sweat from his brow and pushed on.

It took over an hour before the Talent Registrar came into view.

The building stood like a monolith on the outskirts of Ashport's second tier, its obsidian stone etched with glowing blue runes, mana conduits coiling across its surface like veins, pulsing with quiet power. It didn't belong here. It belonged in the capital—anywhere but the edge of hell.

Kael fell into line behind a giant of a man complaining about his F-rank strength talent and a nervous girl clutching a stained healer's pouch, her eyes darting like prey. The line crawled. Sweat pooled. Time slipped.

An hour later, he registered his name and received a numbered chit. He made his way into the waiting hall, the same as last time—vast and loud, buzzing with the tension of dozens of would-be climbers trying not to look scared.

The crowd was a patchwork of districts and dreams. Some wore rags and bandages, others slick tunics and crystal-thread jackets that marked them as children of influence. And all of them waited under the same flickering mana light.

Kael took a seat on a metal bench beneath a humming wall conduit. His hands itched. His stomach turned over. Retest day.

What if the Registrar said it was still E-rank? What if yesterday—the bullet, the blade, the heat in his gut—was just his body bluffing?

He closed his eyes for a moment. Elira. Sera. The gang's threats. His promises. He needed this to be real. Needed it to be D-rank. Or more.

A ripple cut through the crowd. Heads turned as the central hologram flared to life, its pale blue glow illuminating the whole room in a cold wash.

"Yesterday," the voice boomed, sleek and mechanical, "Ashport registered its first A-rank awakener in thirty-three days. Talent: Mental Dominion. Supreme control over psychic interactions within her domain."

The screen shifted, showing a girl with ice-pale eyes, her hair swept back in a perfect braid, her expression carved from ambition. Even through projection, she radiated power.

Gasps and whispers broke through the room like rain on tin.

"A-rank? That's what, like… one in a hundred thousand?"

"Mental Dominion? That's mind control, right? You wouldn't even know she got you."

"She could make you eat your own heart and say thanks."

Kael leaned against the pillar behind him, mouth dry. His thoughts spun.A-rank. That was a different universe.

He imagined it—Devouring Might, or some upgraded evolution of his own. Swallowing weapons. Digesting spells. Letting molten metal and lightning pass through him like water.

Untouchable. Unkillable.

He saw himself walking through the gates of Ashport's inner sanctum, not as a trash-eater or slum rat—but as a ranked awakener, with gold seals on his jacket and city officials begging for his time.

A faint smile twitched on his lips. Yeah. That'd be somethin'.

The hologram sparked again, shifting images.

"This tide's Ascension Games begin soon—hosted in Ashport for the first time ever."

That quieted the crowd. Even Kael lifted his head.

"Seven days. City-wide. Combat and craft. A-rank and below. Ascension Day will crown the champions. All cities will watch."

Kael had heard rumors—orbits ago, when he was still a kid huddled under a leaking roof. A world-stage tournament, held every four-orbit tide, in honor of Elandor's Ascension. Glory and prizes. Recognition from monarchs and patrons. A way out.

"Why not let the S-ranks in?" a child nearby muttered."They'd level the city," someone else replied.

Laughter followed, but Kael didn't join in. He couldn't afford distractions. Games didn't mean food on the table. Didn't mean medicine for Elira. Unless you won.

The images shifted again—fighters clashing, alchemists distilling gold-bloom elixirs, enormous arenas rising in Ashport's core. Tens of thousands were expected to attend.

Kael tore his eyes away.

Three hours crawled past. The crowd ebbed and flowed. The mana conduits pulsed like veins in a dying god.

Then the hologram flashed once more—names scrolling across the display in crisp, glowing script.

KAEL VOREN — WINDOW 9

He froze. The name burned in his vision.

His palms were slick. His throat was sand-dry.

He stood, straightened his shirt, and walked toward the window, each step louder than the last.

Whatever came next—he'd face it.