Kane dragged his heavy rucksack forward.

  The wound on his right shoulder throbbed with a searing, fiery heat.

  Every step felt like his flesh was being torn apart.

  The dark green Basilisk Stone Armor rubbed together, emitting a dull, labored groan like a dying beast.

  He followed the "safe" path from his memory—a trail littered with traps and carcasses. He navigated through ruins and broken walls until, finally, the massive black silhouette of Blackrock Town loomed on the horizon.

  The town was like a steel behemoth crouching on the wasteland, its every breath reeking of the stench of rotting metal and low-grade fuel.

  Kane did not enter immediately.

  He withdrew behind the remains of a collapsed sentry post, observing the town entrance with the silent patience of an apex predator.

  The claws of Kunlun Corp were everywhere.

  The slightest bit of "special attention" directed his way could be fatal.

  An hour passed.

  Most of those entering and leaving were scavengers like him—faces covered in grime, eyes hollow, steps hurried.

  The occasional armed mercenaries only performed routine checks on a few unlucky souls; they hadn't set up a strict blockade.

  The alarms remained silent.

  Kane pulled his hood lower, exposing only a sliver of his cold, hard chin, and blended into a group of scavengers hauling rusted iron.

  He was a drop of filthy water merging into a dirtier river, leaving not a single ripple.

  He headed straight for the bulletin board in the center of town.

  The wall was plastered with bounties, recruitment posters, and trade offers, layered atop one another like the scaly skin of some monster.

  Unremarkable in the crowd, Kane’s gaze swept across the surface with precision.

  Found it.

  A brand-new bounty notice, the gear-shaped emblem of Kunlun Corp stinging the eyes even in the dim light.

  "High reward for any valid leads regarding the attack on Transport Truck K-7."

  The wording was vague. It mentioned neither the attacker’s appearance nor their abilities.

  Kane chewed on those words in his mind.

  This meant Kunlun Corp knew nothing about him.

  The massive Leviathan was currently blind, reduced to letting out impotent roars from where it stood.

  This information gap was his most precious talisman.

  The tension in Kane’s nerves loosened by a fraction of a percent. A flicker of icy calm drifted through his bottomless pupils.

  Having confirmed his safety, he ducked into a back alley smelling of urine and rot.

  This was the grey zone of Blackrock Town.

  A paradise for people like him to fence stolen goods.

  He finally stopped in front of a general store hanging a sign that read "The Rat’s Tail."

  The shopkeeper was Cyclops. Rumor had it he was a retired gladiator from the underground pits; he was notoriously shrewd, but his moral floor was a fraction higher than most.

  The interior was dimly lit. The scent of tobacco, cheap booze, and animal fur was thick enough to choke on.

  Cyclops sat behind the counter, polishing a shotgun barrel with an oily rag. His lone eye flicked toward Kane, and he jerked his chin, signaling him to put the goods on the counter.

  Kane said nothing. He dropped the heavy rucksack onto the greasy counter with a heavy thud.

  First, he pulled out the remnants of the two raiders.

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  Two broken guns, a few tubes of nutrient paste, and a small bag of heavy iron slag.

  Cyclops’s eyebrow twitched as he adjusted his monocle.

  "The guns are on the verge of exploding. 200 Kunlun Credits."

  He picked up the nutrient paste, gave it a sniff, and curled his lip.

  "Three months past the expiration date. I’ll sell it as hog wash. 50 Credits."

  He tested the slag with a magnet.

  "Purity is decent. 150 Credits."

  The prices were daylight robbery, as expected, but Kane didn’t haggle.

  Next, from the depths of his rucksack, he dragged out the hideous chainsaw arm.

  Whir—

  Cyclops’s lone eye suddenly lit up.

  He dropped the shotgun and practically lunged across the counter. He pressed the ignition button, and the low growl of the chainsaw made the dust in the shop tremble.

  The dark red debris on the serrated teeth bore witness to its recent slaughter.

  "That’s the stuff!" Unveiled greed flickered in Cyclops’s eye. "High energy consumption, but it'll slice through sheet metal like tofu!"

  He pondered for a moment before naming a price: "1,200 Kunlun Credits."

  Kane remained silent, offering only a nod.

  This caught Cyclops off guard. This helmeted fellow was far too calm to be a dirt-poor scavenger.

  Then came the main event.

  One by one, Kane laid out the materials from the Phase-Rats and the King.

  Cyclops merely glanced at the common tendons and claws, scraping them against a wooden board to test their resilience.

  "Standard goods. 800 Kunlun Credits for the lot."

  But when Kane produced the pair of massive, forearm-length incisors and those two rear leg tendons—thick as steel cables—Cyclops’s breathing hitched.

  The incisors shimmered with an eerie metallic luster, while the King’s tendons pulsed with a visible, primal explosiveness.

  Cyclops’s pupil contracted sharply; his lips went dry.

  "The... the Rat King?" His voice carried a tremor of shock.

  He picked up an incisor and tapped it lightly with a tool.

  Ding!

  The crisp, metallic ring confirmed its hardness.

  Cyclops’s gaze shifted. He re-evaluated the silent scavenger before him, his eyes now filled with a heavy sense of gravity and wariness.

  Anyone who could walk away with these trophies from a Phase-Rat King was a monster.

  "Top-shelf stuff!" Cyclops took a deep breath, his tone becoming incredibly solemn. "These incisors could be forged into elite armor-piercing spikes! The alloy plating used by mercenary groups would be nothing but paper against these!"

  "And these tendons..." He stroked the power-packed sinew, his voice dropping to a whisper. "This is the core material for crafting high-grade power-legs! This is the kind of treasure people pay for but can't find on the market!"

  He called out his final offer.

  "1,500 Credits for the teeth! For the tendons... I'll give you 3,000!"

  For a heartbeat, Kane’s breathing stalled.

  However, the moment the words "high-grade power-legs" entered his ears, an idea exploded in his mind.

  Power-legs?

  Combined with my [ Aerial Step ]...

  The decision was made in an instant.

  Sell them?

  No.

  This "treasure" was going to become a part of his own legs.

  He raised his eyes, meeting Cyclops’s burning gaze, and slowly shook his head.

  Cyclops’s lone eye widened.

  Kane didn’t bother explaining. He simply pointed at the pair of King-tier tendons and made a retrieving gesture.

  A flicker of physical pain and confusion flashed across Cyclops’s face, but he was tactful enough to push the tendons back toward Kane.

  He knew very well that a man this ruthless was not someone to offend.

  The transaction was complete.

  On his terminal, the digits [ 3,900 ] flickered coldly.

  In Blackrock Town, this amount was enough to buy a life—perhaps even more.

  Hidden in the shadows of his helmet, the corner of Kane’s mouth twitched upward for a fraction of a second before instantly smoothing out.

  Only those who have known true poverty understand the weight of money.

  This wasn't just wealth; it was the foundation for his next step in becoming stronger.

  Clutching this fortune, Kane headed straight for the most expensive, black-hearted clinic in the black market.

  The air inside was thick with a stench of blood and rot that even disinfectant couldn't mask.

  A short old man in a blood-stained white coat scanned Kane’s shoulder with his cloudy eyes and let out a sharp whistle.

  "The work of a Rat King. Beautiful lacerations—I can see the bone fragments. I like it."

  The old doctor’s voice was raspy, like a rusted saw being dragged through wood.

  He gestured for Kane to lie on a stained operating table and savagely probed the wound with a pair of tweezers.

  The agony of bone shards and armor fragments being wrenched from his flesh made Kane’s nerves pull taut like bowstrings.

  Then, the old man picked up a red-hot cauterizing iron.

  The moment the iron touched his skin, it let out a sharp sizzle.

  An explosion of the foul stench of charred protein filled the room.

  The piercing pain shot through Kane’s nervous system. His spine arched violently, and every muscle in his body tightened like reinforced steel.

  Yet he ground his teeth, letting out not a single sound from his throat. Only the veins in his temples throbbed frantically.

  The extreme pain brought him a clarity he had never experienced before.

  After treating the wound, he went to a black market blacksmith to repair his Basilisk Stone Armor.

  "It saved your life, but its spiritual essence is mostly shot," the blacksmith said without looking up, hammering away at the plates. "Strength is down to seventy percent. Next time you hit something hard, this will be your coffin lid."

  Kane paid the fee and purchased high-compression biscuits, purified water, and a brand-new tungsten steel dagger.

  The cold edge of the blade reflected his bottomless eyes beneath the helmet.

  He tossed his old dagger into a trash bin and rented a slot in the cheapest capsule hotel in Blackrock Town.

  He fell into a heavy sleep, sinking like a stone dropped into the deep sea.

  He slept for two full days.

  At dusk on the third day, Kane woke.

  Donning his repaired armor and hoisting his simple rucksack, the wound on his right shoulder had faded to a dull, hidden ache.

  He could feel the newly born power in his body stirring impatiently within his legs.

  He stepped out of the hotel, oriented himself, and walked toward the "Forbidden Zone" of Blackrock Town.

  The district where The Hunter’s Tavern was located.

  High walls cut off the noise and stench of the slums, leaving only a heavy, suffocating sense of pressure.

  The wasteland’s true elites and madmen were gathered there.

  With his rucksack on his back, Kane’s gaze pierced through the gloom, locking onto the heavy, sealed metal door ahead.

  He stepped forward.

  Toward that door.

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