The Pit was a mausoleum for the living, a place where the air hung heavy with the stench of despair and unwashed bodies. Cain huddled in the corner where Lira had left him, the pile of rags beneath him barely a shield against the cold seeping from the stone floor. His right arm still throbbed, an echo of the failure from hours ago when he tried to shape his flesh and ended up with twisted muscles and a bone teetering on the edge of fracture. Idiot, he told himself, not for the first time. You pushed a system with no fuel. Biology doesn’t forgive. But the mistake wasn’t just physical; it was a challenge. And Cain had never been one to back down from a puzzle.

  The arrival of the Raven—as Lira called him—still lingered in the air. The hooded figure hadn’t moved from the entrance, his silhouette stark against the dim glow of blue torches. The shelter’s strays kept their heads down, their whispers muted by a fear Cain could smell, as tangible as the mold on the walls. Lira was tense, her hand still near a dagger, but she hadn’t spoken since her warning: “Keep that ability of yours hidden.” Cain didn’t need the reminder. In Iron Crest, power was currency, and he had nothing to spend.

  Hunger struck again, a dull roar that twisted his insides. Lira’s stale bread, barely a handful of crumbs, was long gone, and the moldy root from earlier was nothing but a bitter memory. Acute malnutrition, he diagnosed with clinical detachment. Caloric reserves critical. Without intake soon, metabolic collapse in 24-36 hours. His photographic memory unfurled nutrition charts, glucose calculations, diagrams of muscle catabolism. He knew exactly what he needed: proteins, carbohydrates, lipids. But in the Pit, food was a luxury, not a guarantee.

  Cain closed his eyes, not to rest—he couldn’t afford that—but to think. Flesh Shaper. The ability was a biological miracle, but also a trap. In the alley, he’d stretched his fingers into clumsy claws; in the market, he’d hardened his skin on instinct; and here, he’d tried to strengthen a muscle and nearly broke himself. It’s not magic, he thought. It’s direct cellular manipulation. Tissue reorganization, mass redistribution. But every change demanded energy, and his body, a sack of brittle skin and bones, had nothing to give.

  He opened his eyes and stared at his hand, skeletal fingers trembling under the flickering light. Anatomy, he thought, summoning images from medical texts: striated muscles, fiber bundles, capillary networks. If he could control his flesh, every cell was a tool. But the earlier failure had taught him something: he couldn’t just will strength. He needed precision. Fractals, it struck him, a flash from his past life as a mathematician. Nature used repeating patterns—tree branches, veins, nerves—to optimize resources. If he could apply that to Flesh Shaper, maybe he could do more with less. Reinforce a muscle not with brute mass, but with a more efficient structure, like a biological scaffold.

  First, the basics, he thought. No food, no shaping. He looked up, scanning the shelter. The strays moved cautiously, some sharing scraps of rancid food, others watching the Raven at the entrance. Lira was a few meters away, speaking in hushed tones with a demi-human woman with wolf-like ears, but her eyes kept flicking to Cain, as if she feared he’d vanish. Or cause trouble, he thought.

  He stood, ignoring the dizziness that clouded his vision. His legs trembled, but he forced them forward, each step a negotiation with pain. Food. The shelter wasn’t a market, but there had to be something: leftovers, barters, theft. The idea of stealing tightened his chest—not out of morality, but pragmatism. High probability of getting caught. And the consequences—beatings, possible death. But staying still was a slower death.

  He approached a group of strays near the central brazier, where the heat barely kept the cold at bay. There were three: a human man with a scar slashing across his face, a demi-human girl with scales on her arms, and a scrawny boy who couldn’t be older than ten. They shared a piece of dried meat, tearing off bits with dirty fingers. Cain stopped a few paces away, keeping his posture hunched to avoid seeming threatening.

  “I have a proposal,” he said, his voice low but clear. The words felt strange in his parched throat, but he kept his tone steady. “Information for food.”

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  The man looked up, eyes narrowed. “Information?” He spat on the ground, a gesture Cain filed as disdain. “What does a bag of bones like you know?”

  Cain smiled, cynical. “More than you think.” It was a bluff, but not entirely. His photographic memory held thousands of pages: medicine, engineering, physics. On Earth, he’d been a titan, and here, that could be useful. “I know how to heal a wound without infection. Or how to reinforce a door so it can’t be broken down.” He paused, letting the words sink in. “Give me a piece of that meat, and I’ll teach you something.”

  The demi-human girl stared, her scales glinting under the brazier’s light. “You’re lying,” she said, but there was a spark of curiosity in her eyes.

  “Test me,” Cain replied, holding her gaze. Negotiating is better than stealing, he thought. Less risk of dying, more control.

  The man grunted but cut off a piece of meat—barely a mouthful—and tossed it. Cain caught it, his fingers shaking. He smelled the meat: rancid, with a hint of salt, but edible. He bit into it, ignoring the taste, and felt a spark of energy. It wasn’t enough, but it was a start. As he chewed, he explained how to clean a wound with boiled water, a simple trick that in Iron Crest could be worth more than gold. The man listened, grudgingly, and Cain knew he’d bought himself a reprieve. For now.

  He returned to his corner, the meat settling in his stomach like a fragile promise. Lira was waiting, leaning against the wall, her tail swaying slowly. “Not bad, little one,” she said, a hint of approval in her voice. “But bargaining with rats won’t fill your belly.”

  Cain sat, exhausted. “Keeps me alive,” he muttered. “For now.”

  She snorted but didn’t argue. Instead, she tossed him something else: a bulbous fruit, the size of a walnut, with tough brown skin. “Take it and don’t ask where it came from.”

  Cain eyed it, suspicious. “Why?”

  “Because you’re pitiful,” Lira said, but her smile was too sharp to be sincere. “And because a dead man’s no use to me. Eat, then we talk.”

  Cain didn’t trust her, but hunger left him no choice. He broke the fruit, revealing bitter pulp he swallowed with effort. It was better than nothing, and each bite restored a sliver of clarity. As he ate, his mind returned to Flesh Shaper. The earlier failure had been a disaster, but also a lesson. I can’t shape without resources, he thought. But I can’t wait to be strong either. I need a plan.

  He visualized his body as a system: muscles, bones, blood. Step one: rebuild mass. Food was the first hurdle, but not the only one. He needed exercise, though his body could barely move. Controlled microtears, he thought, recalling physiology principles. Small efforts to stimulate muscle growth without breaking down. But Flesh Shaper offered more. If he could optimize his flesh—not just strengthen it, but reorganize it—he could surpass human limits.

  Fractals, he thought again. On Earth, he’d studied recursive patterns: blood vessel networks, bone structures, muscle fiber distribution. If he could apply that to his ability, he might shape more efficient tissues. Less mass, more strength. He imagined a redesigned muscle, with fibers arranged in spirals, like twisted cables, to maximize tension without adding weight. Or bones reinforced with a hexagonal matrix, like honeycombs, to resist fractures. It was theoretical, but possible. If I understand this world’s laws.

  The problem was the cost. Every change burned energy, and his body was bankrupt. Step two: energy efficiency. He could start small: harden his skin, like in the market, but with control. Or strengthen a tendon, not an entire muscle. Incremental trials, he thought. Like an experiment. Fail, learn, repeat.

  He decided to try, using the spark of energy from the fruit. He closed his eyes, focusing on his left hand, the least damaged. He visualized the subcutaneous tissue, the collagen layers beneath the skin. Harden, he commanded, but carefully, imagining a fractal network to distribute the effort. The tingling came, softer this time, and his skin tightened, forming a rough, leather-like layer. He held the change for three seconds before pain stabbed through his arm, a sharp pinch. He exhaled, letting the skin revert to normal. Not a success, but not a disaster either. Progress, he thought, though the dizziness reminded him of the cost.

  Lira watched, her tail stilling. “At it again,” she said, her tone a mix of curiosity and caution. “You’re going to break yourself, little one.”

  “Maybe,” Cain replied, with a cynical smile. “But not today.”

  Before she could respond, a scream sliced through the air. The Raven at the entrance moved, his cloak billowing as he strode toward the central brazier. The strays scattered, and Cain saw what he hadn’t noticed before: a symbol on his shoulder, a stylized bird etched in metal. The man spoke, his voice low but clear, like a blade sliding over stone.

  “I’m looking for a boy,” he said. “Dark skin, scrawny. They say he did something strange in the market. Where is he?”

  Cain froze, his pulse racing. Lira’s yellow eyes locked onto him, hard as steel. She said nothing, but her hand tightened around a dagger. And Cain knew, with cold certainty, that his time in the Pit had just run out.