The rain had relented, replaced by a thick fog that crept through Ironridge’s streets like a shroud. Cain followed Lira, each step a battle against his own body. Hunger was still a knife in his gut, the moldy root she’d given him a mere palliative keeping his heart beating. His right arm, still sore from the effort in the alley, hung like dead weight, swollen fingers reminding him of his ability’s cost. Fleshshaper, he thought, the term etched in his mind with the precision of an equation. A tool, a weapon, but also a chain. Without food, without strength, it was nothing but a mirage.

  Lira walked ahead, her tattered cloak billowing with each nimble movement. Her feline ears twitched, catching sounds Cain couldn’t discern in the city’s murmur: distant footsteps, the creak of carts, a stifled scream in some alley. Her tail, thin and restless, kept an irregular rhythm, as if she too expected an attack at any moment. They hadn’t spoken much since the square, since the black-cloaked hunter reduced the Devourer to ashes and sealed the rift with an efficiency that still echoed in Cain’s mind. Real power, he thought. Not just strength, but control. That’s what I need.

  But power was far off. His body, a sack of chocolate skin and brittle bones, could barely hold him up. The battle in the square had shown him what awakened abilities could do—fire, barriers, light, plants, space—but also their limits. Every hunter had paid a price: blood, exhaustion, fear. Cain was no different. His attempt in the alley, shaping his fingers into clumsy claws, had left him trembling, on the verge of collapse. I need to understand it, he thought. Not just use it. Understand it.

  Lira turned abruptly into an alley so narrow the black stone walls seemed to close in on them. “Keep up, little one,” she said without looking back, her voice low but sharp. “I don’t want to drag you if you faint.”

  Cain grunted, more out of pride than strength. “I won’t faint.” A lie. Dizziness stalked him, a gray veil clouding his vision. But his mind stayed sharp, dissecting every detail: moss growing in the wall’s cracks, the echo of dripping water in the distance, Lira’s posture, ready to draw her daggers. She doesn’t trust me, he thought. Good. I don’t trust her either.

  The alley opened into a smaller square, hidden behind crumbling buildings that stood by sheer stubbornness. Blue-flamed torches, like those on the main street, flickered on crooked posts, but here their light was weaker, swallowed by the fog. A group of hunched figures huddled around an improvised brazier, their faces half-hidden under tattered hoods. Humans, demihumans, maybe something else; Cain couldn’t tell, but their gazes were clear: pure distrust, sharp as a blade.

  “Welcome to the Bottom,” Lira said, stopping in front of a structure that might once have been a warehouse. The door, a slab of rotten wood reinforced with rusted metal, hung on crooked hinges. “Not a palace, but they won’t slit your throat for a root here.”

  Cain raised an eyebrow, his cynicism surfacing. “How cozy.”

  She snorted, pushing the door open. The interior reeked of dampness, sweat, and something rancid Cain preferred not to identify. The floor was littered with debris and filthy blankets, and a dozen figures—children, adults, some with beastly features—scattered into the shadows, watching them. A refuge for street rats, Ironridge’s discarded. Cain filed the detail away, along with the tension in the air. No one here is a friend. Just survivors.

  Lira led him to a corner where a pile of rags served as a seat. “Sit before you fall,” she said, tossing him a fist-sized piece of stale bread. “It’s not much, but it’s better than nothing.”

  Cain caught the bread, his hand trembling. He sniffed it—dry, with a hint of mold—and bit into it without hesitation. The taste was awful, but each crumb was a spark of life. As he chewed, he studied Lira. Her yellow eyes didn’t leave him, sizing him up like an experiment. She saw my ability, he thought. She knows it’s rare. But she doesn’t know how much. And he wasn’t going to tell her. Not yet.

  “Speak,” Cain said, his voice hoarse but steady. “You said I wouldn’t die here today. But I’m not here for charity. What do you want?”

  Lira smiled, showing sharp teeth. “Straightforward. I like that.” She sat across from him, crossing her legs. Her tail curled around her, a gesture Cain read as caution. “I want to know what you are, little one. That trick with your skin in the market, and whatever you did in the alley… it’s not normal. Awakened abilities don’t just pop up like that, not in a bag of bones like you.”

  Cain kept his expression neutral, though his pulse quickened. Damn it. He’d been careless, and now he was paying the price. But lying was pointless; she’d seen too much. “I don’t know what it is,” he said, mixing truth with vagueness. “It happens when I’m… under pressure. I don’t control it.”

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

  She narrowed her eyes but didn’t press. Instead, she leaned back, resting on her hands. “Then let me give you a free lesson, Cain from ‘far away.’ Ironridge isn’t a place for the weak. Here, you either have an ability, gold, or someone watching your back. You’ve got none of those. But…” She paused, her smile sharpening. “If you can use that thing you do, you might be worth something.”

  Cain chewed another crumb, buying time. She wants to use me, he thought. Not an ally, not really. But she knows things, and I need to know. “Get to the point,” he saidmano System: said. “What is this place? What are the rifts? And what the hell does everyone want with those ‘cores’?”

  Lira laughed, a dry sound that echoed in the warehouse. A few heads turned, but no one approached. “Curious, huh? Fine, I’ll give you the basics, since a dead man’s no use to me.” She leaned forward, her voice lowering. “Ironridge is a fortress, one of the few cities that hasn’t fallen to the rifts. It’s built on blood and steel, protected by hunters and walls that barely hold. People live here because there’s nowhere else to go. Beyond the walls, the world’s a slaughterhouse: rifts everywhere, monsters that make today’s Devourer look like a pup.”

  Cain filed every word away, his photographic memory recording them like a tape. Fortress. Last bastion. Echoes of Earth’s dystopias. “And the rifts?” he asked, keeping his tone casual.

  “No one knows what they are,” Lira admitted, her tail stilling for a second. “They appear, spit out monsters, and sometimes close on their own. Sometimes they don’t. Hunters fight them because the cores—those things inside the monsters—are worth more than gold. They’re used for weapons, tools, even to awaken abilities in some.” She paused, studying him. “But not all monsters have cores System ,and not all rifts are the same. The small ones, like the one in your alley, are nuisances. The big ones… those can wipe out cities.”

  Cain nodded, his mind churning. Cores—power sources or biological material? The idea that they could awaken abilities intrigued him but also put him on edge. If cores were that valuable, someone like him—with a rare ability—was potential prey. “And the hunters?” he asked. “That guy in the black cloak. He wasn’t like the others.”

  Lira’s jaw tightened, a flicker of something—fear, respect—crossing her eyes. “That was Kael, or so they say. A lone wolf, not with any guild. No one knows his exact ability, but he can close rifts alone. That makes him dangerous. And he’s not the only one. There are whole guilds of hunters, fighting for territory, cores, power. If you’re not careful, they’ll crush you just for being in the way.”

  Hierarchies and competition, not so different from Earth, but more brutal, Cain thought. The information was useful but also a reminder: Ironridge wasn’t a place for slow learners. He needed to master Fleshshaper, and he needed it now.

  He finished the bread, feeling a spark of energy, though not enough. The shelter was quiet, save for the drip of water in a corner and the whispers of the street rats. Lira had gone silent, watching him, waiting for something. Cain decided to take a chance. If he was going to survive, he couldn’t keep reacting. He had to act.

  “I’m going to try it,” he said, his voice low but resolute. “My ability. I want to test it.”

  Lira raised an eyebrow, her tail swaying slowly. “Here? Now? You’re half-dead, little one.”

  “That’s why,” Cain replied, a touch of his usual cynicism creeping in. “If I wait till I’m strong, I’ll already be dead.”

  She didn’t laugh but nodded, a glint of curiosity in her eyes. “Go ahead, then. But if you break yourself, I’m not carrying you.”

  Cain sat up straighter, ignoring the dizziness stalking him. He closed his eyes, picturing his right arm as he had in the alley: atrophied muscles, weak tendons, fragile bones. Strength, he thought, recalling dissections from his past life. Increase muscle density. Reinforce actin and myosin filaments. He imagined the process, each cell obeying his will, like an engineer redesigning a machine.

  The tingling came first, familiar but sharper. Then the pain, a fire racing from his shoulder to his fingers. His skin tightened, muscles swelling slightly, but something was wrong. There wasn’t enough mass, enough energy. His body was empty, burning its last reserves to comply. Damn it, he thought, pushing harder. Just a bit more.

  The flesh obeyed, but not as he wanted. Muscles spasmed, twisting under his skin like snapped cables. A bone in his forearm creaked, not broken but on the edge. Cain gasped, falling forward, his vision blurring. The ability collapsed, leaving his arm trembling, weaker than before. The pain was blinding, but worse was the frustration. Idiot, he cursed himself. You knew there wasn’t enough glucose, enough ATP. You pushed a system that can’t sustain it.

  Lira watched, her expression unreadable. “That was stupid,” she said, but there was no mockery in her voice. “Interesting, but stupid.”

  Cain took a deep breath, swallowing a sarcastic retort. “I learn fast,” he muttered, though each word was a struggle. The failure wasn’t just physical; it was a lesson. Fleshshaper wasn’t magic. It was biology, and biology had rules. He needed food, rest, time to rebuild his body before trying again. But time was what he had least of in Ironridge.

  A noise cut them off: heavy footsteps at the shelter’s entrance. The door creaked, and a figure stepped in, wrapped in a sodden cloak. It wasn’t Kael, but something about their stance—the confidence, the weight of their presence—made the street rats tense. Lira stood, her hand on a dagger, and whispered, “Bad news, little one. That’s one of the Crows. If they’re here, someone called them.”

  Cain looked up, his mind racing despite the pain. Crows—a guild or a gang? He didn’t know what it meant, but instinct told him it wasn’t good. And if Lira was nervous, he should be even more so.

  “Stay still,” she said, her voice barely a murmur. “And keep that ability of yours hidden. If they see it, you won’t leave here alive.”

  Cain nodded, his cynicism giving way to a cold certainty. Ironridge didn’t just want to kill him. It wanted to devour him.