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

Five Celestrial Orbits Earlier...

Cycle 04, Rotation 24, Orbit 3448 A.E.

United Federation of Dravara

Coastal City-State of Ashport

Exterior District SW-91, Brinewatch

Dawn bled gray through the slats of the shanty walls, soft lines of light cutting across the dirt floor like scars. The air inside was thick with salt, mold, and the ever-present scent of decay. Kael stirred beneath a frayed blanket, the straw mattress beneath him uneven and laced with the sting of poking ends. He didn't need a clock to know it was nearly seven—he'd memorized the way light hit the floorboards this time of morning—but already, sweat clung to his skin like a second shirt.

The shack groaned around him, a skeleton of driftwood, rusted nails, and scavenged tin sheets barely holding together. Each gust from the sea rattled the warped frame, a reminder that even the house was trying to fall apart. A rust-streaked stove sat cold and silent in the corner, ringed by the ghosts of a dozen half-meals. A cracked table leaned on a crate, missing a leg, much like the rest of the neighborhood—crippled, but standing out of sheer stubbornness.

Kael pushed himself upright with a grunt, every joint in his wiry frame flaring in protest. He rubbed his shoulder absently as he looked across the room.

His mother lay under a patchwork blanket barely thick enough to be called such. Elira Voren's breath came shallow, each inhale a wheeze, each exhale slower than the last. Her skin was pale, her once-rich hair dulled by years of illness. Beside her, curled like a sleeping cat, was his sister. Sera's limbs were too thin, her knees jutting through threadbare pajamas, but she slept peacefully—one small mercy the world still allowed.

Kael rose slowly, barefoot on the packed earth, and moved to the cold stove. There was no firewood left. No kindling. No food to warm even if there was.

Just another morning in Brinewatch.

He was already thinking about Saltpier—maybe Torv had something for him today. Gutting fish, unloading cargo, hauling rotted nets. Anything. If luck played kind, maybe he'd come home with a coin or two. Maybe a fish tail, if Torv felt generous.

Behind him, fabric rustled.

"Kael…" Elira's voice was rough, paper-dry, but warm. Still warm. "Already up?"

He turned, forced a smile. "Can't sleep when the tide's coming in. You should rest."

She tried to sit up and failed the first time, her body curling around the effort. "Not today. Tomorrow's your awakening. I want to see you off."

From the corner, Sera stirred. She blinked at him with sleepy eyes, then lit up like a lantern. "It's tomorrow already? Kael, you'll get a talent, right? A strong one?"

He crouched beside her, brushing her tangled hair. "That's the plan. Something strong enough to chase the rats out of here."

She giggled and hugged his arm, bony and light as a feather. "Like fire? Or lightning? Or one of those floating powers?"

He chuckled, though it caught in his throat. "Anything's better than nothing."

But even as he said it, the doubt was there—quiet and sharp. What if it was nothing? Not every kid got something useful. Some talents were weak. Some were… meaningless. And those kids stayed in Brinewatch. Forever.

Elira's hand touched his wrist. Her grip was weak, but steady. "You've already got strength, Kael. Talent or not. You've kept us alive."

"Yeah!" Sera piped up, grinning through hollow cheeks. "You're already better than anyone in this dumb place. But I still hope you get something shiny!"

The word twisted like a knife. Shiny. He'd seen "shiny" in the distance, where real buildings stood tall and mana-lamps gleamed like captured stars. Places he'd never touch. Not from here. Not without a miracle.

"Shiny's for show," he said, standing. "I just want something that works."

Elira smiled faintly. "Then that's what you'll get. You always find a way."

He grabbed the cracked bucket by the door and slung it over his shoulder. "I'm heading to Saltpier. I'll try to bring back something for dinner."

Sera jumped from the bed and wrapped her arms around his waist. "Bring back fish!" she whispered fiercely. "And come back safe."

"Always," he said, kissing the top of her head. He met his mother's eyes one last time—still proud, still believing—and stepped out.

The door creaked open to the morning.

Brinewatch sprawled before him, a maze of rusted tin and sagging rooftops, alleys that reeked of waste and wet salt. The sea growled in the distance, and the sky above was already turning white with heat.

Tomorrow, he'd awaken.Tomorrow, the world might change.And if it didn't—He'd change it himself.

****

The door of the shack groaned behind him as Kael stepped out into the thick morning air, already heavy with salt and the stink of brine. The breeze carried a damp chill, but it clung to his skin like sweat. Somewhere in the distance, gulls shrieked overhead, circling above the surf like scavengers waiting for something to die.

He took a deep breath, regretted it, and started walking.

Brinewatch greeted him like it always did—with rot and rust, and streets so narrow and warped they felt like veins winding through a corpse. The ground squelched underfoot, black volcanic soil slick from last night's drizzle. Shanties pressed close on either side, their tin roofs bowed and weeping. Grime streaked the walls, mold crept like ivy, and every alley whispered with the quiet hunger of people trying not to starve.

Children scampered barefoot through the muck, laughing in brief spurts before vanishing behind a sagging wall or under a tarp. Their joy was brittle—too light to last long here.

Kael kept his head down and his eyes forward. He passed a man curled against a wall, face hollow, limbs shaking in the early heat. Another leaned on a crutch, glaring at nothing. Brinewatch didn't kill quickly. It starved you slow.

The closer he drew to the Saltpier, the more the smells changed. The rot of garbage gave way to the sharper stench of blood and brine. Fish guts. Sweat. Iron. Desperation.

Saltpier was Brinewatch's heart, if a dying body could be said to have one. Docks stretched like a cracked spine out into the sea, crooked and barnacle-bitten. Warehouses loomed along the coast—some government-marked, most gang-owned—and the whole place thrummed with noise. Boats creaked in their moorings, workers shouted over each other, and somewhere deeper in the maze of sheds and stalls, a gang enforcer barked orders too loud for a conversation but too far for a fight.

Kael threaded through the crowd, careful not to bump shoulders or make eye contact. His boots slipped once on a slick plank, and he caught himself against a crate stacked high with dead fish. They stared up at him, glassy-eyed and silver-scaled, fresh from the deep and already starting to rot.

He scanned the docks. Torv would be here somewhere—he always was.

Near the end of the pier, Kael spotted him: thick-necked, wide-chested, arms like beams of dockwood, bellowing at a hauler who'd dared to stop mid-shift. Torv's face looked carved from gristle, his sunburnt skin leathered and lined.

Kael waited until the yelling ended, then stepped up.

"Torv," he said, steady despite the knot in his gut. "Need work. Anything. Just need enough for fish and firewood."

Torv turned, eyes like storm glass as they swept over Kael—his patched pants, his thin shoulders, the grim set of his jaw. For a moment, nothing. Then a grunt.

"Lucky you. One of mine busted his foot, another's gone off to get drunk or die—I stopped caring which." He scratched at his stubble. "Crates need moving from the docks to the cold shed. You know the drill. Do it fast, don't break anything, and I'll toss you some drip1."

Kael nodded, already moving. "Thank you, sir."

He didn't wait for more. Just headed for the boats and the crates waiting like burdens in the sun.

The first one was heavy—gutted fish packed tight in ice and wrapped in netting. The chill bit into his arms as he hefted it, wet wood digging into raw palms. He staggered under the weight, found his rhythm, and pushed forward.

Each step was a vow.

For Mom.

For Sera.

For tomorrow.

Eight Hours Later

Kael's back screamed with every lift. His shoulders burned. His palms bled.

The crates didn't stop, and neither did he. He moved like a machine—load, walk, drop, repeat—until the world blurred into motion and pain. Sweat slicked his face and stung his eyes. His breath rasped with each haul, chest tight beneath the weight of salt, fish, and exhaustion.

Around him, the Saltpier pulsed on—creaking boats, curses shouted across planks, the clatter of bikes on shore paths, and always, always the quiet presence of armed eyes watching from the shadows.

Brinewatch's rulers didn't wear uniforms. They wore scars and smirks and pistols on their hips.

A shadow blocked the sun. Kael looked up.

"That's enough," Torv said, his voice like gravel ground in seawater. "No more work for the unawakened today."

Kael straightened, rubbing his raw palms on his trousers. "I can keep going."

"You can. But it won't matter." Torv pulled a roll of waterproof bills from his belt. "Rules are rules. Eight drips. That's it. Come back after your awakening. If the gods smile on you and you pull something useful, I'll have more for you. Maybe even a proper shift."

Kael took the roll. Eight drips. Just enough to keep his family alive another day.

"Thanks," he said quietly.

Torv grunted, already turning to scream at another slacker.

Kael pocketed the bills and turned—only to hear his name rise over the din.

"Kael!"

Malik jogged up, bright and reckless as ever, a bruise blooming across his cheekbone. At seventeen, he stood a head taller, all gangly limbs and wild orange curls that refused to obey gravity. His smile was crooked, his energy contagious.

"You should've told me you were coming today," he said, falling into step. "What'd the old bastard say?"

Kael shrugged. "No more work till after I awaken. Might get something steady—if I pull a decent talent."

Malik scoffed. "He's full of gillrot. I'll slip your name under the table, get you more shifts."

"Nah," Kael said, shaking his head. "Not worth the trouble."

Malik grinned and gestured at his bruised face, as he'd noticed Kael staring, but too polite to say anything. "This? A girl from The Weave didn't appreciate my charm. Took a swing. Missed my heart, hit my cheek."

Kael raised an eyebrow. "Right. Sounds like you."

"Always," Malik said, laughing. Then he grew quieter, more sincere. "Tomorrow's the day. You'll get something good, Kael. I feel it."

Kael didn't answer right away. "Can't be worse than Pussy Hands1."

"Oi, low blow," Malik said, wiggling his fingers in mock agony. His talent—low-ranked and laughable—still hadn't earned him much more than cracked jokes and minor kitchen work.

"Malik!" Torv's voice cracked across the dock like a whip.

"Duty calls," Malik said, patting Kael on the shoulder. "See you tomorrow, little bro."

Kael watched him jog off, then turned away, boots thudding on the soaked wood as he headed for the pier's edge. The noise of the Saltpier faded behind him—fishermen shouting, gulls screaming, waves gnawing at the wood.

He stopped at a battered fish stall, its tarp roof fluttering in the sea breeze. Two silver fish, fresh-caught and lifeless, lay on a slick bed of seaweed.

"How much?" Kael asked, eyes fixed on the two fish splayed out across the warped plank counter. Their silver scales glistened in the salt-heavy air, but their eyes were cloudy, and their gills had started to dull.

The fishmonger didn't hesitate. "Four drips. Fresh caught."

Kael raised an eyebrow, unimpressed. "Fresh caught this morning, or yesterday's haul with seawater poured over it?"

The woman's mouth tightened, but she didn't answer.

He leaned forward slightly, tapping the edge of the counter. "Gills are dark. Flesh is already soft near the belly. That one's been sitting in sun longer than you want me to know. I'll give you two drips."

She scoffed. "These'll sell for three easy."

"Then sell 'em," Kael said, turning on his heel. "You'll still be sittin' on 'em when I come back with one drip and a better offer down the pier."

He took a step before she cursed under her breath and called out, "Fine! Two. But don't expect a deal next time."

Kael turned back, dropping the drips into her palm without a word. She wrapped the fish in seaweed and coarse cloth, slapping the bundle down with a grunt. He took it, the cool weight settling in his arms.

"Next time," he said, "try leading with the real price. Saves you breath."

And with that, he stepped away, his boots squelching on the damp planks, fish in hand and floodmarks still rustling in his pocket.

He turned toward a pile of broken crates behind the warehouse, wood warped and dark with salt. No one cared if he took it. The gang didn't waste energy policing scraps.

Kael gathered what he could—splintered planks, half-rotted slats—and bundled them tight. They'd smoke, but they'd burn. Enough for a fire. Enough for a meal.

The wind shifted, and Kael paused, staring back at the pier, the water stretching beyond it into gray-blue infinity.

Tomorrow, he'd awaken.

Tomorrow, the world would decide what he was worth.

And if it didn't?

He'd decide for himself.