The All Consuming-Self

Chapter 1: The Pretender's Gamble (Part 1)

The stale air in the cramped, windowless room felt heavy, tasting faintly of dust and stale ramen. The cheap digital glow of Zander’s wristwatch painted the grim reality across the peeling wallpaper: 4:17 a.m. He lay sprawled on a mattress that had long ago surrendered its springs, its surface a topographical map of old ramen spills and unidentifiable stains.

One arm, heavy with exhaustion, dangled off the edge, fingertips brushing against the cool, cracked screen of a burner phone—his lifeline to the shadowy underbelly of Terra Nova. His other hand, calloused and scraped, clutched a half-empty bottle of cheap liquor, the kind that promised forgetfulness but delivered only a raw, acidic burn down his throat, tasting more like industrial solvent than solace. It cost less than a candy bar, a grim indicator of his current existence.

“C’mon…” he rasped, the word a dry, abrasive whisper that scraped against his already raw throat. Three sleepless nights had etched dark canyons under his silver-gray eyes, leaving them bloodshot and heavy-lidded. He squinted at the phone’s insistent glow, the blue light stark against the sharp angles of his face—a face he’d long since perfected for trickery, not trust. A fresh, tender cut marked his jawline, a throbbing reminder of a recent “misunderstanding” with a particularly stubborn pawnshop owner. He'd gotten what he wanted, but the collateral pain still clung to him, a dull ache just beneath the surface.

The job listing, glaringly bright, burned itself onto his retina:

[URGENT] C-Rank Escort Mission

Client: Kael Veyra (D-Rank Awakener, A-Rank Talent: Lightning Manipulation)

Objective: Dungeon Clearance (D-Rank Labyrinth, Sector Gamma-9)

Reward: 15,000 Nova Credits

Note: First-time raider. No experience needed. No questions asked.

A slow, predatory smirk stretched across Zander’s lips, pulling at the fresh wound on his jaw. It wasn't a genuine smile, but a grimace of triumph, sharp as the blade of a scavenged knife. This was perfect. A novice client, desperate enough to overlook credentials, yet wealthy enough to pay a significant sum. A D-Rank labyrinth, manageable for someone with actual skill, or someone who could fake it well enough. This was his kind of gamble.

"But damn... A-Rank talent?"

Zander’s thumb lingered over the "A-Rank Talent" notation, his nail digging crescent moons into the phone’s brittle casing. A phantom sensation, cold and sharp, crawled up his spine. He’d seen that damning scarlet 'F' on his own Awakener certificate enough times to memorize every loop of the rejection stamp—the way the ink bled at the edges, as if even bureaucracy couldn’t contain its disdain for his very existence. His gaze, heavy with a lifetime of resentment, drifted to the peeling Nova Corps recruitment poster tacked haphazardly above his bed. Its grinning Awakeners, enshrined in their holographic S-Rank glows, mocked him with their effortless power. The corner of the poster was singed where he’d once, in a fit of drunken fury and despair, thrown a lit cigarette at it, the acrid smell of burning paper a strangely satisfying counterpoint to his inner turmoil.

“Lucky little shit,” he murmured to the empty room, his voice thick with a envy he usually managed to suppress. He tilted the liquor bottle back, draining the last fiery swig. It burned going down, just like the phantom heat that sometimes crackled beneath his ribs during desperate fights – a strange, uncontrollable surge of energy that promised incredible power, yet always vanished the moment he reached for it, leaving only the sour aftertaste of 'almost,' and the bitter tang of his own F-rank reality.

His fingers, twitching with nervous energy, thumbed the fake C-Rank badge resting on his nightstand. Its jagged sun emblem felt cold and alien against his skin, a stark contrast to the genuine warmth of true Awakened power. Real Awakeners didn’t need tin and eyeliner scars to command respect. Real Awakeners didn’t have to stoop to D-Rank scraps, hoping to glean enough to survive.

But then again, real Awakeners also didn’t know what it meant to truly scrape by, didn't live on the constant edge of starvation, didn't survive on the bitter taste of stale ramen and gnawing regret. He was no hero. He was a survivor. And survival, for him, meant this.

— Two Hours Earlier —

The orphanage director’s saccharine voice, laced with a pity Zander had always despised, still echoed in his head, cold and condescending:

“Your parents died heroes, Zander. You should be proud.”

Proud? What a joke... The thought was a bitter, silent scoff. Pride was a luxury he couldn't afford. He was an orphan, sure, but the "hero" part was just a platitude. Kicked out at eighteen, not with a commendation, but with an F-Rank: Talentless stamp on the Awakener Certificate he never actually received. The certificate hadn't even been worth the paper it was printed on, as far as he was concerned.

Awakener Certificate? Yeah, right... I failed to awaken. What Awakener Certificate? The words were a silent, burning resentment, a wound that never truly healed.

He stood before the grimy, cracked bathroom mirror in his dingy apartment, his reflection a canvas for deceit. With practiced hands, he adjusted the stolen C-Rank badge pinned to his chest – a jagged sun crudely etched into fake, cheap steel, reflecting the dim light mockingly. His eyes, usually sharp and wary, softened slightly as he took in his meticulous disguise. Polished (plastic) armor gleamed dully, a toy gun was strapped convincingly to his thigh, and a carefully drawn fake scar arced above his eyebrow, a single stroke of eyeliner transforming his everyday cynicism into the hardened scowl of a veteran.

“Ladies and gents,” he whispered, deepening his his voice to a whiskey-soaked growl that barely sounded like his own, “Captain Zane Voss, Stormblade Division. Survived the Siege of Jakarta with a butterknife and a prayer.” The lie rolled off his tongue, smooth and effortless, practiced a thousand times.

The act was flawless. It had to be. His very existence depended on it.