The third floor smelled of grease, rotting meat, and cheap, cloying cologne.
The Food Court, once a place of noisy lunches and fast food, had been transformed into a grotesque throne room. The plastic tables and chairs had been pushed aside to form a wide perimeter. In the center, sitting on a "throne" constructed from stacked massage chairs and covered in velvet curtains looted from a cinema, sat the leader of "The Kings."
He was a man in his thirties, handsome in a slimy way, wearing a white tuxedo that was surprisingly clean amidst the filth of the apocalypse. He held a crystal glass of champagne in one hand and a polished wooden staff tipped with a glowing red gemstone in the other.
Surrounding him were ten elite guards. These weren't the desperate survivors with bats he had met at the entrance. These men and women wore riot gear—helmets, shields, and batons—likely raided from a police station. They looked disciplined. Dangerous.
Kael walked into the open space, stepping over a velvet rope meant to keep the "commoners" out. He was covered in blood, dust, and grime. He looked like a demon crawled out of a mass grave compared to the pristine leader.
"You must be the 'Bloody Hobo' my sentries reported," the leader said. His voice was amplified by magic, booming across the hall without him needing to shout. "I am King Magnus. Class: Pyromancer. Level 5."
Level 5, Kael analyzed. That's high. Most people are barely Level 2. He's been farming experience. Probably letting his minions weaken prey so he can take the last hit.
"Kael," he replied simply, his voice raspy. "Species: Problem."
Magnus laughed, a sound that lacked any warmth. "Arrogant. I like that. You killed my snipers. You broke my front door. You have potential. Kneel, kiss my ring, and I will make you a Duke in my new kingdom. You can have the pick of the women... or men. Whatever you prefer."
Kael looked at the "King." He looked past him, to the corner of the Food Court. There were about twenty survivors huddled there, guarded by two men with axes. They were thin, terrified, and some bore marks of recent beatings. Slaves.
"I don't kneel," Kael said, shifting his grip on the sledgehammer. "And I don't join groups."
"Pity," Magnus sighed, taking a sip of his champagne. "I hate wasting talent. But I hate disobedience more."
Magnus didn't shout a spell name. He simply pointed his staff at Kael. His eyes glowed with an orange light.
Ignite, Magnus thought.
A sphere of fire the size of a basketball condensed at the tip of the staff and shot forward with the sound of a roaring jet engine.
Kael's eyes widened. This wasn't a physical arrow. He couldn't block this.
He threw himself to the side, rolling on the slippery linoleum. The fireball missed him by inches, slamming into the counter of a KFC behind him.
BOOM.
The explosion sent shrapnel of metal and ceramic flying. The heat wave singed Kael's eyebrows and instantly dried the blood on his cheek.
"Magic..." Kael hissed, getting to his feet. "Flashy. But finite."
"Kill him!" Magnus ordered his guards with a wave of his hand.
The ten elites charged. They were coordinated. Tanks with riot shields in front, damage dealers with spears behind. A phalanx formation.
Kael didn't retreat. He checked his internal reservoir. 34 Biomass points available. He had been saving them for an emergency. This was it.
System, Kael projected his thought with intense focus. Dump all 34 points. 20 into [Agility]. 14 into [Strength].
[Warning: Sudden physiological alteration. Muscle density increasing beyond safe threshold. Pain imminent.]
Do it!
Mid-charge, Kael's body seized. His veins bulged like ropes beneath his grey skin. His muscles became denser, tighter, ripping his clothes further. The world slowed down even more. The charging guards looked like they were running underwater.
The pain was blinding—like boiling oil in his veins—but Kael channeled it into cold, white rage.
He blurred.
He didn't run around the shield wall; he ran up it. He stepped on the center of a riot shield, the polycarbonate cracking under his new weight. He kicked the user in the face with enough force to shatter the helmet visor, sending the man flying backward into his comrades.
Kael vaulted into the center of the formation.
It was a massacre.
With his strength now pushing into the realm of the superhuman, he punched a spearman in the chest. His fist didn't just break ribs; it caved the chest cavity in. He grabbed another guard by the neck and used him as a human flail to knock down two others.
Magnus watched in horror from his throne, his glass of champagne slipping from his fingers and shattering on the floor. His elite squad was being dismantled in seconds.
"What... what class are you?!" Magnus stammered, his composure cracking. He began to channel another spell, the red gem on his staff pulsing frantically.
Kael dropped the last guard—now just a source of Biomass—and turned to the King. Steam was rising from Kael's overheated muscles.
"I told you," Kael said, panting heavily. "I'm a Problem."
Magnus unleashed a stream of fire. Flame Jet.
Kael dodged, but this time he moved forward. He zigzagged through the tables, closing the distance.
Magnus fired again. And again. The heat was intense. Kael took a glancing hit to his left shoulder. His [Hardened Epidermis] scorched and cracked, smelling of burnt leather and cooking meat, but it held the fire from reaching the muscle. He ignored the pain. Pain was just data.
He reached the throne.
Magnus, out of mana and terrified, tried to swing his staff as a club.
Kael caught it with one hand. The wood smoked in his grip.
Snap.
He broke the staff in half effortlessly.
Kael grabbed Magnus by the throat and lifted him off the ground. The King kicked his legs uselessly, his pristine white tuxedo now stained with soot and his own urine.
"Please..." Magnus choked out, clawing at Kael's granite-like hand. "Take my Essence! I have 500 points stored! Take it all! I have items! I have maps! Just let me live!"
Kael looked at him with eyes that were entirely devoid of mercy. The violet glow in his irises pulsed in rhythm with Magnus's frantic heartbeat.
"I don't want your points, Magnus," Kael whispered, his face inches from the King's. "I want your meat."
Kael tightened his grip.
CRACK.
The sound of the larynx crushing was final. The King went limp.
Kael dropped the body. He stood alone in the center of the Food Court, surrounded by fire and death. The slaves in the corner were silent, too terrified to breathe.
But Kael didn't look at them. He looked at the corpse of the Pyromancer. He felt a hunger he had never felt before. Not for food. But for the magic that lingered in the dead man's blood.