The transition to Level 2 was not a state of grace; it was a state of consumption.
Ronan sat in the crawl-space of a hollowed-out steam-turbine, his breath coming in ragged, shallow pulls. Every cell in his body felt like an empty mouth, screaming for sustenance that water and protein could not provide. This was The Hunger—the tax the Miasma levied on those who dared to rewire their biology. To maintain his hardened skin and the thermal-receptors in his eyes, his system was demanding a massive influx of calcium, iron, and refined silicates.
"I need to move," he rasped, his voice sounding like grinding gravel.
He stood up, and the world shifted. His Thermal Vision, an involuntary reflex of his new rank, painted the darkness in shades of heat. The iron walls of the turbine were a deep, cold blue, while the steam pipes running overhead were vibrant, pulsing ribbons of orange and white. He could see the heat signatures of "Cinder-Rats" scurrying through the insulation—tiny, scurrying sparks of life.
He wrapped his cloak tight, concealing the faint, amber bioluminescence of his veins. He looked at his hands; the skin was darker now, with a texture reminiscent of polished obsidian. It felt cold to the touch, yet a furnace burned beneath it.
He emerged from his hiding spot into the "Soot-Markets," the deepest, most lawless sector of the Fringe. Here, the amber light of the city dome was blocked by the massive overhangs of the industrial waste-shutes. The air was a thick, choking soup of coal-dust and sulfur.
This was the domain of the Void-Pedlars.
The market was a labyrinth of stalls built from the bones of ancient Architect machinery. Scavengers traded "Clockwork Blight" parts—limbs that had fused machine to flesh—for canisters of recycled steam-grease and bags of "Salt-Rocks."
Ronan moved through the crowd, his hood low. His thermal vision was his greatest asset here; he could see the "Heat-Signatures" of the guards long before he stepped into their line of sight. He saw the cold, blue metal of their steam-pressured bolters and the hot, thumping hearts of the merchants.
He stopped at a stall draped in heavy, oil-stained canvas. Behind the counter sat a figure whose face was entirely obscured by a brass-rimmed respirator. The figure's hands were covered in silver-etched gloves, and a faint, lunar-blue light emanated from their collar.
[SPECIES: HUMAN (VOID-PEDLAR)]
[RANK: UNKNOWN - MASKED SIGNATURE]
"You're vibrating, Spark," the Pedlar said, their voice synthesized through the mask. "Or should I say, Vein-Seeker? Your heat signature is far too high for a dross-worm."
Ronan didn't flinch. "I need mineral salts. Refined. And I need them without a record."
The Pedlar leaned forward, the brass lenses of their mask reflecting the orange glow of a nearby furnace. "Everyone in the Fringe needs something. But the Void doesn't trade in charity. You have the look of a man who's been digging in the Old Ruins. What did you bring back?"
Ronan reached into his cloak and pulled out a small, brass-bound gear he had pulled from the laboratory's secondary cooling system. It was an Architect-era component, untainted by the "Clockwork Blight" that plagued the newer technology.
The Pedlar snatched the gear, turning it over in their gloved hands. "Clean. No Miasma-leaks. A rare find in this soot-heap."
"The salts," Ronan demanded, his teeth beginning to ache—a sign the Hunger was worsening.
The merchant reached beneath the counter and produced a small, lead-lined pouch. He opened it, revealing a collection of jagged, translucent crystals that shimmered with a dull metallic luster. "Refined Lead-Vitriol salts. High density. It'll stop the bone-shivering for a week."
Ronan reached for the bag, but the Pedlar pulled it back.
"One more thing, traveler," the merchant whispered. "A man with your... adaptability... is rare. The Void-Pedlars are looking for someone to enter the 'Steam-Guts'—the maintenance tunnels beneath the Purity Gate. A valve is stuck, and the High Houses won't send their own Marrow-Binders into the heat. They need a 'Vein-Seeker' who can handle the thermal pressure."
Ronan felt the Obsidian Heart pulse. This was the "Shadow Operation" Arthur—or rather, his own logic—had predicted. A path into the city that bypassed the scans.
"I sate the hunger first," Ronan said, his eyes locking onto the Pedlar's mask. "Then we talk about the tunnels."
The Pedlar tossed him the pouch. Ronan didn't hesitate. He poured a handful of the bitter, metallic salts into his mouth. The reaction was instantaneous. As the crystals dissolved, he felt a wave of cooling relief wash over his skeletal structure. The grinding in his teeth stopped. The violet-amber light in his veins stabilized, turning into a steady, controlled hum.
[MINERAL REQUIREMENT: MET]
[PHYSICAL STABILITY: 100%]
"The tunnels," Ronan said, his voice now smooth and dangerous. "Tell me everything."
As the Pedlar began to unroll a tattered, steam-stained map of the city's foundations, Ronan realized he was no longer just surviving the world born of Blight. He was beginning to navigate its hidden veins. He was a Level 2, a Vein-Seeker, and for the first time, he was a man with a mission.
He was going into the "Guts" of Vesper. And he wouldn't be coming out as a beggar.