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

C04-R27-3448 A.E.

Ashport – Brinewatch District

Kael woke to pain.

Not the kind that screamed, but the kind that gnawed. Deep, dull, constant—his stomach folding in on itself as if trying to devour his own spine. E-rank Advanced Digestion. The name sounded like a joke now. All it did was make hunger a second heartbeat. A curse masquerading as a gift.

But today, it would earn him floodmarks.

Lira's words from the night before still clung to him like embers:

We pay someone to get rid of bad food. Your talent could do it better.

It had kept him awake through the night—imagining a life beyond the rot of Brinewatch. A way out for his mother. A bed for Sera. A future.

He hugged them both before dawn—Elira still asleep in her cot, Sera groggy but smiling as he whispered he'd bring back food by midday. Then he stepped into the gray morning mist, heading towards Taryn's Goods, his boots patched and blistered, purpose stiffening his spine.

****

Inside the shop, the air carried the scent of dried herbs and wax. Lira looked up from a ledger, her auburn braid neatly tied, silver eyes bright with the sharp intelligence of her Inner Ashport upbringing. At fifteen, she carried the poise of her family's lost wealth, her mother's death and her father's subsequent fall into alcoholism a quiet weight behind her steady gaze.

"Kael," she said, setting the ledger down with a soft thud, her voice clear and composed. "You're here early. Is everything all right?"

"Nothing," he said, leaning against the counter's edge. It was cool under his palms. A different quality of wood. Heavy. The kind of thing poor kids didn't get to touch often. "I've been thinking. You said your shop pays to haul away spoiled stock. I can eat that now. Moldy food. Rotten fruit. Bad meat. No mess, no transport."

Lira's brows lifted, a warm smile spreading across her face. "That's a smart idea, Kael," she said, her words precise but natural.

"I want Taryn's Goods to be my first customer."

She nodded once, slow and approving. "We have spoiled goods in the back—moldy bread, overripe fruit, fish gone bad. If you can handle it, my father will pay you. How does six floodmarks sound?"

"Deal."

He followed her to the backroom, where a pile of waste waited, its stench sharp—moldy bread crusted green, starfruit blackened and oozing, fish heads with clouded eyes. Kael's talent roared, seizing the scent like a predator in heat. His stomach cramped, saliva flooding his mouth. He dropped to his knees and dug in, shoving handfuls into his mouth. The bread was slimy, the fruit sour, the fish rancid, but his stomach churned through it all, dissolving it into nothing. The ache in his bones eased slightly, his talent humming like a live wire. When he finished, the pile was gone, the floor clean.

When he turned, Lira was still staring.

"I'll be honest," she said, crossing her arms. "I thought you were exaggerating. My father's going to love this. You might've just saved us three deliveries."

Kael wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. The taste still clung to his tongue—salt, rot, bitterness—but he didn't mind. "I'm gonna cold knock. Shop to shop. Turn this into a real business."

Lira's eyes dropped to his shirt—sweat-stained, stretched at the collar. Then to his boots. "Not like that, you're not."

Kael blinked. "Huh?"

Lira's face sharpened, "You're awakened now, starting a business. You need to look the part, even in Brinewatch. Clean yourself up, put on a fresh shirt. People will trust you more if you show you take this seriously."

Kael paused, her words hitting like a splash of cold water. She was right—shopkeepers would judge him on sight, talent or not. "You're right," he nodded, conviction settling in. "I'll clean up first."

Lira stepped forward, placing six crisp floodmarks into his hand. "You're not just Kael, the gutter pup from Brinewatch anymore," she said, her voice softer now. "Act like it."

His fingers closed around the bills. The hunger wasn't gone—but something had changed. His path had weight. His name had direction.

"Thanks, Lira," he said.

"Don't thank me yet," she replied, smiling faintly. "Just make sure they remember you."

****

Kael stepped out into the morning fog with six floodmarks in his pocket and the taste of spoiled fish still clinging to his teeth.

The sun hadn't broken through Brinewatch's gray veil, but the streets had begun to stir—runners hauling crates, mothers sweeping stoops, and the clatter of carts on uneven stone. He moved through it like a man reborn, but still wearing a dead man's skin.

Mud streaked his boots. His shirt clung to his back with last night's sweat. And though the hunger had dulled, the look in people's eyes hadn't. They still saw a slum rat.

He turned off the main road toward the East Ravine Hot Springs.

It wasn't much—just a series of sulfur pools fed by heated veins beneath the cliffs—but it only cost a half-floodmark to soak, and it was worth every drip. He slipped into a side alley between two prayer-houses and emerged at a squat, moss-covered building where steam curled from stone chimneys.

Inside, the old caretaker gave him a once-over and grunted. No names. Just a towel and a key to a private stall.

Kael undressed in silence, peeling off layers that clung like old skin. His reflection in the water was a stranger—sharp jaw, hungry eyes, ribs pressed like bones through parchment. He stepped in.

The heat hit him like a fist.

It scalded the grime from his pores, unraveled the tension in his shoulders, and for the first time in days, he breathed without pain. His talent stirred inside him, digesting the last remnants of rot, humming low and quiet like a beast finally fed.

He scrubbed until his skin burned, until the water turned gray, until the mirror showed someone new—not a rat pup from Brinewatch, not the son of a terminally ill woman, but a man with dignity and respect and an identity of his own.

Clothes came next.

There were no boutiques in Brinewatch. But near the North Gate, in a strip of narrow shops where the street kids called out prices like barkers, he found what he needed: secondhand threads from the Outer Districts. Some barely used. Some obviously looted.

He chose carefully—a faded dark tunic with reinforced seams, clean trousers with only one patch at the knee, and a pair of scuffed leather boots that actually fit. Everything cost four floodmarks, and the shopkeeper even threw in a belt for free when Kael helped him lift a box.

Back in the alley behind the shop, Kael changed.

The clothes were nothing special. But when he tightened the belt, he felt it—the shift. The illusion. The mask. He looked like someone who had work. Someone who deserved to be listened to.

He walked with straighter shoulders. His eyes didn't dart. His feet didn't shuffle. Now, it was time to sell...but first, he had to bring some food home to Elira and Sera.

Before hitting the market to find new customers, Kael swung by a roadside stall and bought a bundle of smoked fish and a sack of rootbread for four drips. He jogged the last stretch home, boots pounding the cracked stone, the food tucked tight under his arm.

Inside the shack, Elira lay half-asleep, her breath thin, while Sera sat cross-legged beside her, trying to mend a torn sleeve. Both looked up as he entered.

"I told you I'd be back with more," Kael said, setting the food on the table.

Sera's face lit up. Elira managed a faint smile.

He didn't stay long—just enough to see them eat. Then he stepped back out into Brinewatch's heat, the ache in his stomach dulled, the fire in his chest burning brighter.

****

Kael worked his way through Brinewatch's market row, each stall a new wall to push against. Fishmongers, brewers, picklers, tanners—he approached them all.

"Got a talent," he said, voice steady despite the sweat on his palms. "E-rank Advanced Digestion. I eat spoiled stock—food, organic waste. No hauling. No cleanup. Cheap."

Most waved him off before he'd finished. A few scoffed. One woman laughed. But some looked twice—eyes lingering not on the words, but on the clean shirt, the straight posture, the spark of intent that clung to him like steam.

By midday, Kael stopped outside Harrow's Bakery, a squat brick shop near the edge of the row. The scent of burnt crust clung to the walls. Out back, behind stacks of flour crates and sacks chewed open by rats, an old man scowled at the world. His apron was dusted white. His eyes were crusted red.

"What do you want?" the man grunted, not looking up from a torn sack of rye.

Kael swallowed the dryness in his throat. "Waste disposal," he said. "Organic only. I eat it. Spoiled food, rotten ingredients. Gone in seconds."

Harrow raised an eyebrow. "You want me to pay you to eat my trash?"

Kael nodded once. "Quick. Clean. No rats. No flies."

The baker snorted. "Prove it, slum rat."

Kael spotted a forgotten loaf nearby, mottled green and sagging at the edges. He grabbed it, locked eyes with Harrow, and shoved it into his mouth. The taste was foul—wet rot and sour dust—but the talent surged to life. Warmth flooded his chest, the bread dissolving in moments, vanishing without a trace.

Harrow blinked.

"Well damn," he muttered, pulling a crumpled bill from his apron pocket. "Five drips if you get rid of that bin." He jabbed a thumb toward a wooden crate half-sunk in shadow, reeking of spoiled dough and yeast run wild.

Kael didn't hesitate. He knelt beside it and got to work—handful after handful of gray, bubbling mass crammed between his teeth. The stench made his eyes water. But the talent drank it down. His hunger roared, then quieted, lulled by the volume. When he stood, the bin was clean. Not a smear left.

Harrow grunted and tossed him the bills. "Not bad. Come back tomorrow. Might have more."

Kael caught the money, the edges soft from flour and sweat. Five drips. Not much. But the weight of it was heavier than coin.

It was proof. Proof he could sell the thing that cursed him. Proof there was a way forward.

He wiped his mouth, squared his shoulders, and turned back toward the street.