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

It was midday now, and sweat clung to his back as he made his way through Brinewatch's crooked lanes. The salt-stained air was thick with heat and the briny bite of the nearby docks. His boots scraped over broken cobblestone, each step carrying the lingering scent of sour dough and rotted grain from Harrow's bakery. He'd knocked on doors all morning—fishmongers, taverns, herb stalls—pitching his talent like a beggar with a half-promise. Most turned him away. But Harrow had paid. That meant someone had said yes. And if one would, others could too.

He pushed open the door to Taryn's Goods. The scent of dried herbs and lamp wax greeted him like an old friend. Lira looked up from her ledger, her silver eyes warm beneath the amber glow of the electric-lamp. Her braid hung loose today, curled at the tips from the humid air.

"You look better," she said, setting the ledger aside. "Clean, focused. How'd it go?"

Kael leaned against the counter, the wood worn smooth under his palms. "One client. Old Man Harrow. Bakery on the east end. Moldy dough, spoiled flour—gone. He paid me five drips."

Lira smiled. Not the usual polite kind, but something proud and quiet. "That's a solid start. You're learning already. Your presentation matters—people notice clean clothes. And your pitch?"

Kael scratched the back of his neck, grinning. "Kinda rough. I just said I eat trash and leave no mess. Most people looked at me like I was insane."

"Confidence helps," Lira said, stepping closer. "But more than that—clarity. You're not selling a talent. You're selling a solution. Save them time, save them money. That's what they care about."

Kael nodded slowly. "So don't just say what I do—say why it helps them."

"Exactly. And don't take the first no. Ask questions. What do they need? What's their biggest waste problem? Then show them you're the fix."

She studied him a moment, then gestured to the back. "Come with me. I want to test something."

He followed her into the backroom. A pile of junk waited—rusted nails, broken tools, cracked handles, warped tin—all the unsellable detritus of the shop's forgotten corners.

"You said it doesn't have to be food," she said. "Let's see what else your talent can handle."

Kael didn't hesitate. He grabbed a fistful of nails. Cold metal scraped his teeth, sharp and bitter. But the hunger stirred—and devoured. The nails dissolved down his throat, turned to warmth and nothingness. He moved on—splintered wood, metal sheets, even a chunk of rubber. The talent tore through it all.

When he looked up, Lira was staring, eyes wide.

"You're not just a trash-eater," she said quietly. "You're a walking incinerator. You could handle cleanup—junk, scrap, demolition sites, even beast rampages."

Kael blinked. "I never thought of that."

"You should," she said. "Think how often Brinewatch gets hit by beasts. Every time, there's rubble and waste left behind—wood, bone, blood-soaked stone. Normally, it takes crews weeks and a fortune to haul that out, if they haul it out at all. You don't need carts. You don't need fuel. You leave nothing behind."

Kael took that in slowly. His hunger still growled, but something else stirred beneath it. Possibility.

Lira stepped forward and pressed four floodmarks into his hand. "For the junk," she said with a crooked smile. "Your second paying job."

Kael looked at the money, then at her. "Thanks."

She shrugged. "Don't thank me. Just keep pushing. You've got something real, Kael. Use it."

He nodded, her words echoing in his chest as he stepped back into the street—Brinewatch's grime clinging to his boots, but purpose burning in his blood.

****

Kael trudged through Brinewatch's market strip, his boots grinding over loose volcanic grit. The clean gray shirt clung to his back, damp with sweat, and the black pants itched at the knees, but he looked the part now—presentable, if not polished. The air was thick with heat and salt, layered with the sour musk of ashfruit and the sharper tang of blood from the butcher's stalls. His pockets held eleven drips, but it was Lira's voice that rang loudest in his ears.

Don't take the first no. Show them you're the solution.

He went back to the doors that had slammed in his face earlier that day—fishmongers, taverns, smokehouses, apothecaries. Shops with rot in the back and no time to haul it.

"Got a talent," Kael said, again and again, rough-edged and steady. "E-rank. Advanced Digestion. I eat bad stock—food, trash, anything organic or not. No mess, no hauling. You save time and drips."

Most frowned. A few laughed. But Kael stood his ground, teeth clenched behind the hunger growling in his gut.

"Don't pay me," he said. "Just let me show you. One minute."

The first crack came at a butcher's stall, the owner watching as Kael dropped to a knee and shoved his hands into a wooden crate of spoiled meat. The stench coiled in the air—sweet, cloying rot—but Kael devoured it bone and all. His talent flared, heat surging through his limbs, and when he stood, the crate was empty.

The butcher gave a low grunt and handed over five drips.

From there, the tide turned.

A tavern let him in to clear out moldy bread and shattered glass. He ate both, crunching down on slivers that would've shredded a normal man's throat. The onlookers gagged. The tavern keeper grinned. Another five drips.

By the end of the loop, Kael had hit twenty-four doors. Six said yes.

Six floodmark bundles folded into his palm, soft and real. Some owners wanted regular pickup. Others just wanted the rot gone now. Kael didn't care. His gut still howled, but his pockets were heavier, and the path ahead felt less like a dream and more like a plan.

He wouldn't just survive Brinewatch's decay, he'd turned it into a business.

****

By sunset, Kael leaned against a crumbling wall in a narrow alley, the sky overhead bruised violet and shot through with streaks of ash-colored cloud. He counted his earnings beneath the dim flicker of a dying oil-lamp—forty-one drips. Four flows, plus a crumpled extra bill. More than he'd ever held in his life, aside from the one time he'd sold his Throne Wars II account to buy his mother's medicine. His hands shook as he folded the bills. Not from fear. From disbelief.

Fish. Maybe a tincture for Elira's cough. A warm blanket for Sera—one without holes, for once. His stomach growled, still restless despite everything he'd devoured that day, but Kael smiled. Real, unguarded. For a moment, the weight in his chest lightened.

Then he heard them.

Boots on gravel. Breaths too sharp, too quiet. Three shapes peeled from the shadows at the alley's mouth—slim, hunched, twitchy. Psyche heads, eyes glassy from dust. Their coats hung loose off their bones, patchwork and grime-stiff. One held a mana-knife, its flickering blue edge trembling in his grip.

"Evenin', kid," said the one in front, grin full of gaps. A faint flicker of an F-rank strength talent crawled down his arms, popping his knuckles. "We saw you makin' rounds. Good hustle. Now hand it over."

Kael's pulse thumped, but his feet held. "No."

The man's grin vanished as a fist flew at Kael's jaw, too fast to dodge, but as the fist reached him the impact fizzled, the kinetic force vanishing as Kael's talent surged, a warm pulse in his gut swallowing the energy.

Another psyche head moved in with a broken pipe, swinging low. Kael flinched—but again, nothing. The metal should've split his ribs. It softly fizzled out, the kinetic energy melting into silence. Like it had been eaten.

The men stumbled back, blinking. Eyes wide. Hands shaking. "What the—?"

Kael stood frozen, heart pounding in his throat. That wasn't Advanced Digestion, was it? Advanced Digestion wasn't supposed to be able to absorb energy. Only D-rank talents like Metabolic Conversion did that. He didn't understand.

But the psyche heads didn't wait to figure it out. Fear overtook whatever bravado they'd scraped together. They turned and ran, boots slapping hard against stone, curses trailing behind them like smoke.

Kael stood alone in the alley, chest heaving, hands clenched. The drips were still in his pocket, the street still lit by flickering blue and yellow. He didn't know how he'd done it, but he knew what it meant—he wasn't just a walking trash bin anymore. Now he could protect himself.

As dusk swallowed the slums, Kael walked home.

Ashport's Brinewatch district throbbed with the rhythm of night. Dockworkers limped past, crusted with salt and silence. Vendors shouted over sagging crates of leftovers. Children ducked through doorways and alleys, chasing food or fights or nowhere in particular.

This was his world—choked by smog, soaked in failure. But tonight, something had shifted.

Kael clutched the drips like a lifeline. He was still hungry. Still poor. But now he had a way out. And he wasn't helpless anymore!