My Level Is 1, But My Damage Is Infinite

Isabela Cruz

Chapter 5: Isabela Cruz

The lobby of the Ascension Authority’s regional branch was a cathedral of glass and white marble, a stark contrast to the rust and oil-slicked puddles of the slums. Eka Pradana stood in the center of the hall, feeling like a smudge of grease on a silk sheet. He tugged at the collar of his shirt—the best one he owned, which still had a faint, stubborn stain of Shadow Hound blood near the hem.

"Name and purpose of visit?" the receptionist asked, her voice as polished and cold as the desk she sat behind.

"Eka Pradana. I’m here for the... uh, Special Potential Scholarship interview?"

The woman didn't even look up. Her fingers flicked across a holographic interface. "Room 402. Elevators are to your left. Don’t touch the glass."

"Right. Thanks for the tip," Eka muttered.

The elevator ride felt like being launched into orbit. When the doors hissed open on the fourth floor, the air smelled of ozone and expensive air fresheners. A woman was leaning against the wall directly opposite the lift, her arms crossed over a dark trenchcoat. She looked exactly like the woman he’d nearly tripped over at the transit station the night before, but her eyes were different now—sharper, like she was looking through his skin and into his marrow.

"You’re late, Eka," she said.

"The bus from the lower district broke down. Twice," Eka replied, trying to keep his voice steady. "And you are?"

"Isabela Cruz. I’ll be your auditor today." She pushed off the wall, her movements fluid and predatory. "Follow me. We don't have all day, and I’ve got a long list of reasons why you shouldn’t be getting a dime of the Authority’s money."

"Straight to the point then. I like it," Eka said, following her into a room that looked less like an office and more like a high-tech sparring gym. The walls were lined with reinforced black plating, and the floor was covered in heavy-duty impact mats.

"So, what is this? An interview or a workout?" Eka asked, glancing at the heavy weights and the mana-measuring pylons in the corner.

"Both," Isabela said, shedding her coat to reveal a form-fitting tactical suit. She tossed a tablet onto a nearby bench. "I looked at your file, Eka. Six years at Level 1. That’s not just bad luck; that’s a statistical miracle. Most people either level up or die in their first month as a porter. How have you stayed so... insignificant?"

"I’m just good at staying out of the way," Eka said, his heart hammering against his ribs. He could feel the 18 percent charge under his skin, a low-frequency hum that seemed to vibrate in sync with the room's lights.

"Is that right?" Isabela walked a slow circle around him. "The scholarship you applied for is for 'Late Bloomers.' People whose mana circuits took years to stabilize. But your records show zero mana affinity. None. You’re a flatline."

"Maybe I’m just a really late bloomer. Like, a century late."

Isabela laughed, but there was no warmth in it. "Humor. Great. Let's see if your reflexes are as quick as your mouth."

Without a word of warning, she lunged. It wasn't a punch meant to kill, but it was fast—faster than anything Garrett or Mick had ever thrown at him. Eka didn't think; he just pivoted. Her fist whistled past his ear, the sheer wind of the movement ruffling his hair.

"Whoa! What happened to the paperwork?" Eka yelled, scrambling back.

"This is the paperwork," Isabela countered, spinning into a low sweep. "The Authority doesn't give grants to people who can't defend themselves. If you're going to be a ward of the state, I need to know you won't fold the first time a D-rank monster looks at you."

"I've been a porter for six years! Folding is part of the job description!"

"Then stop folding!"

She came at him again, a blur of strikes that forced Eka into a desperate dance of dodges and blocks. He felt her knuckles graze his forearm, and the familiar spark of the 'battery' flickered in his vision.

[Damage Received: 50 Units.]

[Stored Kinetic Charge: 18.5%]

"You're fast, Eka," she said, her voice sounding oddly breathless. "Too fast for someone with Level 1 agility stats. What are you hiding?"

"Just a lot of practice running away from things!"

"Liars are usually better at it than you," she hissed. She stepped into his guard, her hand snapping out to grab his collar.

Eka tried to twist away, but she was too close. He felt the heat radiating from her body, a scent of expensive perfume and sharp adrenaline. She didn't pull back. Instead, she drove her shoulder into his chest, a mock tackle designed to pin him against the reinforced wall.

The impact was heavy. Eka’s back hit the black plating with a dull thud, but he didn't fall. Instead, he instinctively braced himself, his feet rooting into the mats. For a second, they were locked together—his hands gripping her shoulders, her weight pressed fully against him.

"You're... burning," Isabela whispered, her eyes widening as she stared up at him.

The air between them seemed to warp. The orange glow in Eka’s eyes was no longer a flicker; it was a steady, volcanic burn. The skin of his chest, where her shoulder pressed against him, felt like it was made of heated iron.

"It’s just the gym," Eka gasped, his voice dropping an octave. "It’s hot in here."

"No," she said, her hand sliding up from his collar to his neck, her thumb resting right over his carotid artery. "This isn't body heat. This is something else. You feel like a furnace."

"Maybe I have a fever," Eka joked, though his heart wasn't in it. The proximity was overwhelming. He could feel the pulse in her fingertips, the way her chest rose and fell against his.

Isabela didn't move. She seemed mesmerized by the sensation, her professional mask slipping for a fraction of a second to reveal a raw, terrifying curiosity. "Six years. Six years of people hitting you, kicking you, treating you like trash. Where did all that energy go, Eka?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Eka said, his grip on her shoulders tightening slightly. "I'm just a guy trying to get a scholarship so I don't have to carry Garrett’s bags anymore."

"Garrett is a cockroach," she spat, her face inches from his. "And you... you're a disaster waiting to happen. Do you have any idea what the Authority does to 'disasters'?"

"They give them a nice office and a charcoal suit?"

Isabela’s eyes narrowed, but she didn't pull away. If anything, she leaned in closer, her gaze dropping to his lips before snapping back to his eyes. The tension in the room was no longer just about the fight; it was an electric, suffocating pressure that made the hair on Eka’s arms stand up.

"You think you’re so clever," she whispered. "But you’re vibrating. I can feel it. The whole wall is shaking."

"That’s just my nerves," Eka lied.

"Liar."

She suddenly broke the contact, stepping back and smoothing her hair with a trembling hand. The sudden absence of her weight felt like a cold splash of water. Eka stayed leaning against the wall, his breath coming in jagged hitches.

"The interview is over," Isabela said, her voice regaining its icy professional edge, though her eyes remained dark.

"So? Did I get the money?" Eka asked, trying to shake the tremors from his hands.

Isabela picked up her tablet, her fingers tapping rapidly against the glass. "I’ll submit my report. Don't leave the city. And for heaven's sake, get some new clothes. You smell like a wet dog."

"Hey, it's 'wet Shadow Hound.' Get the brand right," Eka said, pushing off the wall.

He headed for the door, his mind racing. He had to get out of there. He had to find Uncle Jo and figure out how to hide the 'heat.' If she could feel it just by touching him, he was as good as dead.

"Eka," Isabela called out just as he reached the handle.

He stopped, but didn't turn around. "Yeah?"

"You're a very bad actor."

"I'll take lessons," he said, stepping out into the hallway.

Isabela stood in the center of the sparring room, watching the door close. She looked down at her hand—the one she had used to check his pulse. She was shaking. Not from fear, but from the sheer impossibility of what she had felt.

She looked at the tablet in her hand, which was linked to the room's hidden biometric sensors. The screen was flashing a bright, crimson warning.

"Director Hoang," she said, tapping her earpiece.

"Report, Isabela. Did the subject manifest the kinetic discharge?"

Isabela stared at the scrolling data on her screen. "No. He kept it under control. But that's not the problem."

"Then what is?"

Isabela swallowed hard, her eyes fixed on a specific line of code. "I checked his vitals during the physical stress test. I had my hand on his neck for thirty seconds while we were pinned against the wall."

"And?"

"The sensors confirm it, sir," Isabela said, her voice dropping to a whisper. "During the entire duration of the physical exertion—the jumping, the dodging, the tackle—his heart rate remained exactly zero."

There was a long silence on the other end of the line.

"Zero?" Hoang finally asked. "That's impossible. Even a high-rank Guardian has a resting heart rate."

"He wasn't resting, sir. He was fighting. But there was no pulse. No blood flow. He isn't using mana to power his body," Isabela said, a shiver running down her spine as she remembered the volcanic heat of his skin. "He’s not a human anymore. He’s a battery. And I think he’s about to redline."

"Stay on him," Hoang ordered. "If he’s not pumping blood, then he’s not bound by human biology. We need to know what happens when that battery hits a hundred percent."

"I know," Isabela said, looking at the door Eka had just walked through. "I think I’m the only one who can get close enough to find out."

She touched her neck, where the heat of his presence still seemed to linger like a brand. Level 1. The world’s punching bag. The sy

stem was a liar, she realized. Eka Pradana wasn't at the bottom of the food chain. He was the one the chain was built to restrain.