The rain didn’t let up, a relentless hammering that soaked the layer of grime on Cain’s skin. He huddled against the wall, the stone’s cold seeping through his flabby flesh into his bones. His right arm still trembled, fingers—that moments ago had stretched into something akin to claws—now hung limp, swollen from the effort. Flesh Shaper, he thought, labeling the ability with the precision of a scientist cataloging a new species. Direct biological manipulation, limited by body mass and available energy. Fascinating. And exhausting. Every cell in his body screamed for nutrients, a reminder that without food, all his earthly brilliance was worthless.

  Hunger was a patient enemy, crueler than the monster in the alley. Cain closed his eyes, breathing slowly to conserve energy. Diagnosis: acute malnutrition. Symptoms: muscle weakness, dizziness, likely hypoglycemia. Treatment: immediate intake of calories and fluids. Simple in theory. In practice, he was in an unfamiliar city, without allies, without resources, and with an ability he barely understood. If entropy reigns here, this place is winning, he thought, a flash of his usual cynicism sparking through.

  He opened his eyes and studied the street. The city—if it could be called that—was a mosaic of chaos and resilience. Rough stone buildings crowded together like broken teeth, some with rotting wooden beams barely holding up the roofs. Blue-flamed torches, fueled by some unknown substance, flickered on crooked posts, casting shadows that seemed to move on their own. The wall in the distance, with its rusted spikes, suggested this city was in constant war, though against what wasn’t clear. Monsters like the one in the alley? Something worse?

  The inhabitants were no more welcoming. Men and women walked hunched, their tattered cloaks dripping water. Some had features that defied earthly biology: pointed ears, eyes with vertical pupils, even one with a scaly tail peeking from beneath their robe. Demihumans, maybe, Cain thought, vaguely recalling earthly myths. But there was no time to classify races. A group of armed figures—hunters, judging by their weapons and reinforced leather armor—patrolled the street, their gazes sweeping the crowd as if searching for prey. Cain sank deeper into the shadows. A half-dead kid wouldn’t seem like a threat, but he wasn’t eager to test their curiosity.

  Then the smell of food hit him, a thread of hope amidst the stench of dampness and blood. A few meters away, a street stall steamed under a makeshift awning. A sturdy woman, her face crisscrossed with scars like a map, grilled strips of grayish meat over coals. Beside her, baskets of knobby roots and bulbous fruits promised sustenance, though nothing looked appetizing. Cain felt his mouth go dry, hunger tightening like a claw.

  Stealing is stupid, he thought, calculating risks. Probability of getting caught: high. Consequences: possible beating, possible death. But staying still wasn’t an option. His body was already burning through its last reserves; in a few hours, he’d be too weak to move. He stood, ignoring the dizziness that clouded his vision, and limped forward, feigning more frailty than he felt. The crowd ignored him, which was exactly what he wanted.

  He reached the stall and paused, pretending interest in a pile of nearby rags. The vendor glanced at him for a second before returning to her grill, muttering something about “street rats.” Cain seized the moment: his left hand, shaky but precise, slipped toward a root the size of an apple. He tucked it under his tattered tunic, his pulse racing. Phase one complete. Now he needed to get away before—

  “You, little thief!” The woman’s voice cut through the air like a whip. Cain froze, cursing internally. He’d been too slow. The vendor grabbed him by the neck, her fingers like pincers. “You think you can steal from me and walk away?”

  “I didn’t—” Cain started, but she lifted him off the ground, her strength disproportionate to her size. Passersby watched, some with boredom, others with a spark of cruel amusement. No one was going to help.

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  Then he felt it again: the tingling in his skin, more intense this time. It wasn’t just his arm; his entire body seemed to hum, as if the flesh itself were awaiting a command. Not now, he thought, but instinct was stronger than logic. He visualized his neck, the cervical muscles, the connective tissue. Harden. The sensation was immediate: his skin tightened, forming a rough layer that resisted the pressure of her fingers. It wasn’t armor, not yet, but it was enough to make her loosen her grip, startled.

  “What are you?” she growled, releasing him. Cain hit the ground, gasping. The root rolled out of his tunic, betraying him. Before he could move, a new pair of boots appeared in front of him. Worn, mud-caked boots, but with a metallic glint at the toes that suggested danger.

  “Leave him, Mara,” said a young, almost bored voice. Cain looked up and saw a girl, no older than fifteen. Her skin was bronzed, with smudges of dirt that didn’t hide the feline features of her face: pointed ears like a lynx’s, yellow eyes with slit pupils, and a slender tail swaying behind her. A demihuman, no doubt. She wore a tattered cloak, but beneath it, curved daggers peeked from her waist. “He’s just a bag of bones. Not worth your time.”

  The vendor, Mara, spat on the ground. “If you want him, Lira, take him. But if he steals again, I’ll cut his hands off.”

  The girl—Lira—crouched in front of Cain, her gaze sizing him up like a curious object. “You talk, don’t you? Because if not, I’m not wasting my time on you.”

  Cain coughed, his throat dry but his mind sharp. “I talk,” he said, keeping his tone neutral. He didn’t trust her, didn’t trust anyone here, but this girl was an opportunity. She knew things, and he needed information more than pride. “My name’s… Cain.”

  Lira raised an eyebrow, her tail pausing for a second. “Weird name. Where’re you from, Cain? You don’t look like you’re from Iron Crest.”

  Iron Crest. So that was the name of this fortified cesspool. Cain filed the detail away, along with Lira’s accent and the way her eyes scanned the street, always alert. “Far away,” he replied, dodging the truth. “Very far.”

  She snorted, clearly unconvinced, but didn’t press. Instead, she tossed him something: a root identical to the one he’d tried to steal, but smaller and half-rotten. “Eat. If you pass out, you’re no use to me.”

  Cain caught the root, his hand trembling. He sniffed it—bitter, with a hint of mold—but his stomach gave him no choice. He bit down, ignoring the taste, and felt a spark of energy. It wasn’t much, but it was a start. As he chewed, he studied Lira. She wasn’t a altruist; no one in this world would be. She wanted something from him, though he didn’t yet know what.

  “Why help me?” he asked, his voice low but firm.

  Lira smiled, showing sharp teeth. “I’m not helping you, Cain. Let’s just say I hate seeing food go to waste. And you… you’ve got something weird. That thing you did with your skin.” She leaned closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. “That was an awakened ability, wasn’t it? Don’t lie. I felt it.”

  Cain tensed, his mind racing. Damn it. He’d been careless. If awakened abilities were rare—and something in Lira’s intensity suggested they were—he’d just painted a target on his back. But denying it was pointless; she’d seen it. “Maybe,” he said, keeping his tone vague. “I don’t know much about it.”

  Lira laughed, a dry sound that didn’t reach her eyes. “Sure, and I’m a noble elf. Look, kid, you don’t survive in Iron Crest by being stupid. You’ve got an ability, and that means you’re worth something… or you’re trouble. Depends on how you play it.”

  Before Cain could respond, a rumble shook the street. It wasn’t the rain; it was something deeper, a roar that vibrated in the bones. The crowd froze, heads turning toward the wall. The blue torches flickered, some going out. The patrolling hunters drew weapons—swords, bows, even a staff glowing with runes—and ran toward the sound.

  “What’s that?” Cain asked, though part of him already knew.

  Lira stood, her hand on a dagger. “A rift,” she said, her tone losing all trace of mockery. “Bigger than the trash you killed in the alley, I’d bet. Stay here if you want to live.”

  Cain didn’t reply. His mind was already working, dissecting the situation. A rift meant monsters, danger, but also information. If he was going to survive in ANRK, he needed to understand this world, not hide from it. He stood, wobbling but determined, and followed Lira toward the wall, ignoring the pain shooting through his legs.

  If this place wants to kill me, he thought, with a bitter smile, it’s going to have to try harder.