The All Consuming-Self

Chapter 2: The Pretender's Gamble (Part 2)

— Present

The air in the abandoned subway tunnels hung heavy and stagnant, thick with the metallic tang of ozone and the damp, earthy scent of wet concrete. Every crunch of shattered glass and loose gravel beneath Zander’s boots echoed unnervingly in the oppressive silence, a stark reminder of the desolate ruins of Terra Nova.

His gaze was fixed on the shimmering blue expanse ahead – the dungeon entrance to Sector Gamma-9. It rippled like liquid mercury, a pulsing wound in the grimy subway wall, its ethereal glow confirming a D-Rank dungeon with a mana purity of roughly 40%. Though the promise of Nova Credits was a potent lure, the subtle chill emanating from the portal sent a shiver down his spine, a primal warning his body, even an F-rank one, couldn't ignore. Hastily sprayed graffiti warnings, faded and peeling on the damp concrete walls, served as grim, stark reminders:

“D-RANK MAX – NO SOLO RUNS – REPORT CORRUPTION IMMEDIATELY.”

Each word was a cold spike of anxiety, a testament to the dangers he was about to willingly step into.

His thumb, a nervous habit, worried the fake C-Rank badge pinned to his chest. The cheap plastic felt cold against his skin, a constant, tactile lie. His mind, however, was a frantic whirlwind of calculations, each number a battle fought and won – or lost. Fifteen thousand Nova Credits. The sum glowed in his thoughts like a sacred beacon.

It was enough, just enough, to smother three months’ rent in his perpetually stinking slums apartment. Enough to finally afford a decent F-Rank healing potion, something beyond the murky, questionable concoctions he usually brewed himself. Hell, it was ten times what those talentless drones in the Tower Districts earned in a month scrubbing communal toilets, just for existing.

A bitter, acidic taste rose in his throat, sharper than any cheap liquor, as he recalled last week’s hospital bill – five hundred precious credits just to stitch up a gut wound from that botched pawnshop heist. Five hundred credits for pain he’d already felt, a cruel tax on his ambition.

A rusted sign, its metal groaning faintly in the stagnant air, creaked above them: “D-Rank Dungeon Gamma-9 – Kobold/Goblin Nest – Moderate Color (Blue). Mandatory Party: 1 C-Rank + 2 D-Ranks.” Zander snorted softly, the sound thin and humorless.

The whole damn system was rigged, he thought, a familiar anger flaring in his chest. Nova Credits, flowing like grease, oiled every single cog. A token for a public bath? Fifty credits, a luxury. A real, actual meal, something with substance that banished the gnawing hunger in his belly? Two hundred. And Awakeners like Kael Veyra? They probably got bonus credits just for breathing.

"Lucky shit..." The words escaped his lips as a silent, venomous curse, directed at the universe, at the system, at anyone born with a talent above F-rank. The unfairness of it all was a constant, aching wound beneath his practiced cynicism.

He paused, adjusting the cheap plastic of his toy pistol, the cold emanations from the portal making his stolen armor clink like loose change – a sound both pathetic and defiant. Tonight’s haul, if he pulled it off, would finally elevate him from a diet of ramen and desperation to something resembling a steak. The thought, a simple, primal desire, was a powerful motivator, outweighing the chilling knowledge of the risks.

The designated meeting spot reeked of rust and decay, a fitting ambiance for his illicit dealings. Sector Gamma-9’s dungeon entrance pulsed with an eerie blue light, casting long, distorted shadows across the grimy wall of the abandoned station. Zander leaned casually against a vandalized vending machine, its glass shattered, its guts exposed. His gaze, however, was anything but casual – sharp, assessing, scanning the gloom for his ticket out of the gutter, for the marks who would fund his ascent.

After what felt like an eternity, the minutes stretching taut with anticipation and the metallic taste of anxiety on his tongue, three figures finally emerged from the deeper gloom of the tunnel.

"Bastards, what took you so long..." Zander muttered under his breath, a tight knot of impatience twisting in his chest. He hated waiting. Waiting meant more time for things to go wrong, more time for his facade to crack.

First came the client, Kael Veyra. The kid couldn’t have been older than sixteen, still carrying the soft, undefined edges of youth. He practically swam in oversized, ill-fitting armor that clanked awkwardly with each hesitant, almost clumsy step. Nervous energy radiated off him in palpable waves, manifesting as tiny, untamed sparks that flickered around his outstretched fingers, miniature bolts of lightning crackling like faulty wiring and occasionally zapping his own sleeve with soft, hissing sounds. He looked like a child playing dress-up, forced into a game far too dangerous for him.

“You… uh… the escort?” Kael stammered, his voice cracking mid-sentence like a dropped ceramic plate. He tried, and failed miserably, to project an air of confidence, his eyes wide and uncertain.

Zander snapped off a crisp salute, the motion practiced, fluid, channeling every cheesy war holo-drama he’d ever binged. His face, carefully schooled, held a steady, reassuring grin. “Captain Voss, at your service, kid. Heard you fry Voidlings for breakfast.” His voice was deep, resonant, and utterly fake.

A flush, visible even in the dim light, crept up Kael’s neck. He puffed out his chest, a flicker of genuine pride momentarily overcoming his nerves. “I-I zapped a mutated wolf last week! Solo!” he boasted, the words tumbling out too fast.

“Solo?” a voice drawled from the deeper shadows, dripping with a sarcasm that pricked at Zander's carefully constructed calm.

Two women stepped into the dim, pulsing light – D-Rank mercenaries, their movements fluid and assured, a stark contrast to Kael’s awkwardness and Zander’s forced swagger. The taller one, lean and watchful, had a well-maintained rifle slung across her back, its polished barrel glinting faintly. The shorter one, sturdier and more grounded, wore thick, sturdy gloves from which wickedly sharp, thorny vines sprouted and retracted with subtle, almost imperceptible shifts of her fingers. They exuded an aura of dangerous competence.

“Lyra,” the sniper said, her tone curt, her eyes assessing Zander with a professional coldness that missed nothing. She gestured with a brief nod towards her partner. “That’s Tessa. We handle the messy stuff. Try not to piss your pants, Captain.” Her tone was flat, unimpressed, the emphasis on his assumed rank a deliberate, dismissive jab that grated on Zander’s nerves.

Woah! That was absolutely cringe... How can beauty like them say something so embarrassing? The thought flashed through Zander’s mind, a momentary flicker of genuine surprise, a crack in his carefully built persona. It was a purely human, unfiltered reaction to their bluntness, a brief glimpse of the sardonic, almost innocent Zander beneath the hardened con artist. He quickly shoved it down, burying the thought beneath layers of practiced indifference. Hypocrisy, after all, was practically his middle name. He lived and breathed the embarrassing lie.

Instead, a wide, disarming grin, all teeth and false charm, spread across his face. “Only if you don’t hog all the fun.” His voice was smooth, confident, betraying none of his inner turmoil.

The portal hummed with contained energy, its blue light casting flickering shadows as the group finally converged. Lyra stepped forward, her movements efficient, slapping a handheld scanner against its shimmering surface.

Holographic text, stark and red, flickered in the dim light, confirming their target:

D-RANK CONFIRMED THREAT LEVEL: MODERATE CORE TYPE: KOBOLD SHAMAN (MANA PURITY: 40%)

The game was on.