Aric Blackthorn pretended to scan the glowing runes etched into the slanted obsidian platform, standing aloof in the heart of the hollow chamber. But his eyes were not decoding instructions — they were measuring cost.Two and a half devil's fruits.That was all he had left. The pulpy residue of one clung to a shattered vial in his pouch, and the other two gleamed inside smoked-glass capsules like captured suns.Each fruit was a miracle: pure vita condensed through forbidden cultivation, evolved to rupture the limits of the flesh for precisely two doses. After that, it was diminishing returns, and worse, biological rebellion.He clenched his jaw, tongue flicking over dry lips. The phantom ache in his bones had returned.The surge from his last dose had nearly shattered his collarbone from inside out. Aric had conditioned his nervous system through years of residual overload, threading each synapse with tolerance built on agony. It was the only reason he hadn’t already exploded from the