The Common Quarters was a single, large, poorly-ventilated shed reeking of unwashed bodies, stale food, and the heavy metallic tang of low-grade fumes. It was a holding pen for the expendables of the Outpost Village—the Tier Zero refugees, the injured, the unskilled.
Mute didn't bother speaking; he simply shoved me past the doorway and disappeared, leaving me exposed.
The room was dimly lit by a few flickering lamps. About thirty people occupied the space, most lying on thin, filthy straw mats scattered on the concrete floor. They ignored Mute, but they did not ignore me. Every eye in the barracks, dull with exhaustion and resentment, followed my movement.
The hostility was palpable. I was the newest mouth to feed, a fresh liability.
I found an empty spot near the back wall, away from the doorway, and immediately settled down. The Mental Fortress kept my outward composure calm, but internally, I was running an analysis.
I closed my eyes, not to sleep, but to focus on the Aether-Flow. It rushed constantly through my body, a silent river of energy. I directed a small portion into the newly acquired Gate Warden's Brace. The F-Rank skill was laughably basic—a subtle tensioning of the muscles—but the immediate boost in firmness felt like a miraculous gift to my gaunt frame.
I focused on the sensation, practicing the activation and deactivation. My mastery level in Runner's Break and Kick Spring were still only 10%. I needed to train them, but without moving.
"Don't worry, kid. They just hate new faces," a low voice muttered.
I opened my eyes. A man sitting nearby—maybe forty, with a sunken face, a badly scarred left hand, and wearing clothes just as ragged as mine—offered a fleeting, weary smile. His gaze was surprisingly sharp, almost kind.
"I'm Lorn," I said quietly.
"Rath," he replied. "Everyone here is Tier Zero. Or crippled. Or too old for the big jobs. You'll be on the scavenging shift tomorrow. They don't waste the fresh ones."
He saw the confusion on my face and sighed. "You really are an amnesiac, huh? Vorg isn't a friendly place. The cities are locked down, the villages barely hold. You need to know the basic truth to survive."
Rath pointed to his badly mangled left hand, which ended just below the wrist. "That? That's what happens when you run out of Aether-Flow during a scrap with a Shambler. Your Tier is everything here."
"What Tier am I?" I asked, already knowing the answer.
"Zero," Rath stated flatly. "Unranked. You're barely breathing. That woman, Eiara? She's probably E-Rank. High enough to survive on patrols, low enough to get sent on a failed Aetherite mission." He leaned in closer. "The Tiers measure your ability to channel Aether-Flow and survive the Void. F-Rank is basic survival. A-Rank is rare. Above that... that's for the myths and the Citadel Lords."
I realized this was the information I desperately needed—the principles of this world's power system.
"How... how do I get stronger?"
Rath actually chuckled, a dry, wheezing sound. "By not dying. By getting your hands on Aetherite or synthesized Aether-Flow dust to catalyze your Core. And by practicing your skills. See this?"
Rath subtly held up his right index finger. A faint, greenish glow—a sickly contrast to the healthy blue of the village barrier—appeared around the tip.
"This is my only skill: F-Rank Spark," Rath whispered. "It takes a tiny bit of Aether-Flow, focuses it, and can stun a low-grade Wraith for a second. That's my whole life's work." He deactivated the skill, the faint glow vanishing. "Every time I use it, I try to hold it a little longer, focus it a little tighter. That's skill mastery."
My internal system flared silently in response to the observation:
[SKILL ACQUIRED: F-RANK SPARK (F-RANK)]
Source: Observed controlled, focused Aether-Flow manifestation from Rath.
Description: A basic offensive skill channeling Aether-Flow into a minor electrical discharge.
Mastery Level: 10%
I forced myself to remain still, my face passive. I had just copied a skill—an offensive skill—simply by watching a man demonstrate it in the dim light. The efficiency of the Omni-Mimicry was terrifying, even to me.
Rath didn't notice the cosmic theft. He only saw a scared kid.
"Your body is like a conduit," Rath continued, settling back onto his mat. "Your Aether Core is the battery. Your Tier is how much the battery can hold, and your skills are the applications. If your core breaks, the Void takes your soul. Simple."
He paused, offering a final, grave warning. "You don't talk about your core. You don't talk about your skills. You keep your head down, Lorn. Tomorrow, you work. Survive the work, and maybe you'll see the day after."
I closed my eyes again, the image of Rath's small, green spark burned into my mind. I was no longer just running; I was training. I channeled the Eternal Core and focused the endless Aether-Flow first into the Runner's Break, then the Kick Spring, and finally, I tried to replicate the tiny, stinging focus of the F-Rank Spark.
I had the resources of a god, the body of a beggar, and the skills of a novice. My training had begun, right here, on the lowest rung of the world.
To be continued...