The air in Sector 4 tasted like old copper and boiled water. It was a thick, humid haze that clung to the back of the throat and made every breath feel heavy.

Vane hit the ground with a heavy rolling thud. He came up in a crouch while his boots slid on the slick, moss-covered cobblestones of the lower industrial district. He did not move immediately. He stayed low, the Star-Metal spear still strapped to his back, and listened to the rhythm of the city.

It was a nightmare of verticality. Above him, massive brass gears the size of cathedral windows ground against each other with a sound like dying whales. Towers of rusted iron twisted upward into the smog, connected by swaying bridges and dripping pipes that leaked oily condensation. Steam vented from the ground in unpredictable, scalding bursts, obscuring the path every few seconds.

It was loud. It was dirty. It was dangerous. Vane took a deep breath, filling his lungs with the metallic smog.

'Home sweet home,' he thought.

He stood up slowly and adjusted the strap of the Star-Metal Spear across his back. He was in the heart of the maze—a place of blind corners and lethal chokepoints. He looked at his wristband.

Points: 50.

The counter was live. The hunt had begun. Vane moved with the rolling, silent gait he had learned in the Oakhaven gutters. He did not stomp; he placed his feet with a thief's precision, avoiding the loose metal plates that would clatter and give away his position. He was not hunting for tokens yet. He was hunting for a position that favored a spearman.

Ten minutes into the patrol, the hair on the back of his neck stood up. He did not turn around. He did not stop walking. But his grip tightened on the strap of his weapon.

[Usurper: Sensory Analysis Active]

Three signatures. They were behind him, moving clumsily across the rusted rooftops. They were trying to be quiet, but they were heavy. They wore the standard-issue Academy boots like lead weights, lacking the grace to navigate the slick iron.

'Adepts,' Vane diagnosed. 'Rank 2. Likely confident because they have the numbers.'

He turned a corner into a dead-end alleyway filled with a forest of vertical piping. He stopped. He turned around, leaning casually against a large, rusted valve wheel, and unclipped a pouch of water. He took a slow, deliberate drink. He waited.

Five seconds later, three figures dropped from the overhead pipes. They landed in a triangle formation, a textbook Academy containment maneuver.

The leader was a tall boy with the red trim of a Fire Mage on his collar. To his left was a bulky student wearing heavy gauntlets, a Kinetic Brawler. To the right was a girl holding a short bow, her eyes darting nervously. They looked at Vane. They saw the grey armor, the relaxed posture, and the lack of a noble crest.

"It is just the Rat," the Fire Mage said. He sounded relieved, his shoulders dropping an inch. "Academic Rank 42. No House affiliation."

The Brawler cracked his knuckles, the sound echoing off the narrow walls. "Fifty free points. I told you tracking him was a good idea. He doesn't even have his weapon drawn."

Vane capped his water bottle and clipped it back to his belt.

"You are making a mistake," Vane said softly.

The Fire Mage laughed. It was a sharp, barking sound. "We are three Adepts. You are one guy with a spear. Do the math, Rat. Surrender the points and we won't break your legs."

Vane looked at them. He didn't see threats. He saw mana circuits. He saw poor posture and weight distribution that was all wrong.

'Three Adepts,' Vane thought. 'No. Three victims.'

He reached over his shoulder. With a smooth, practiced motion, he unlimbered the Star-Metal Spear. The ash wood shaft settled into his palm like it had grown there. He didn't drop into a flashy high-guard. He dropped his hips, widened his stance, and initiated the Spiral Circulation.

The high-pitched Hum began to resonate through the alley, a predatory whistle as the mana vortex stripped the air from the star-metal shaft. The high-speed rotation of the Frictionless Sleeve made the air around the spear hiss.

"Math was never my strong suit," Vane said.

"Take him!" the Fire Mage shouted.

The Brawler moved first. He was fast for his size, charging down the alley while his gauntlets glowed with orange kinetic mana. He wound up for a haymaker that was designed to shatter stone.

Vane didn't dodge. He didn't Flash Step. He watched the fist come in and, at the last possible fraction of a second, he initiated the Lunar Deflection.

He brought the shaft of the spear up. The frictionless mana-sleeve caused the heavy kinetic blow to skid harmlessly off the rotating spear. Vane didn't just parry; he used the Cyclic Resonance to catch the force and funnel the titanic energy through his spine and into the ground.

The cobblestones beneath Vane's boots spiderwebbed from the transferred weight. Vane himself did not move a millimeter. The Brawler's eyes went wide as the recoil vibrated up his own arm. He felt like he had punched a mountain.

"Structure," Vane whispered.

He twisted his hips, releasing the stored momentum. He drove the butt of the spear into the Brawler's solar plexus.

THUD.

The sound was wet and heavy. The Brawler folded in half, the air leaving his lungs instantly. He collapsed to the wet stones, gasping like a landed fish.

Vane spun the spear as the Archer fired a mana-bolt. He didn't bat it away. He executed a Quicksilver Thrust. The supersonic tip of his spear intercepted the arrow in mid-air, shattering the blue mana-construct before stopping one inch from the girl's throat. The wind pressure from the strike blew her hair back.

"Yield," Vane commanded.

"I... I..." she stammered, her bow slipping from her numb fingers.

"Burn him!" the Fire Mage roared from the back. He was casting a Tier 2 Fireball, the mana gathering in his hands bright and hot.

Vane sighed. He ignored the Archer and sprinted at the Mage. As the fireball left the Mage's hands, Vane planted his spear and vaulted. He swung around the pole while his body went horizontal, the fireball passing harmlessly beneath him and scorching the alley wall.

Vane landed in front of the Mage. The boy was open and terrified. Vane didn't stab him; he reversed the spear again and swept the Mage's legs. The boy hit the ground hard. Before he could scramble away, Vane stomped on his chest, applying just enough pressure to make the ribs creak.

"End of class," Vane said.

He tapped his wristband against the terminal on the Mage's arm.

Transfer Complete. +50 Points.

He walked over to the Brawler, who was still trying to remember how to breathe. Tap.

Transfer Complete. +50 Points.

He looked at the Archer. She held out her wrist while tears formed in her eyes. Vane tapped hers.

Transfer Complete. +50 Points.

Total: 200.

The alley went quiet again. The three students lay on the ground defeated in under thirty seconds. They had expected a fight; they had walked into a thrashing.

Vane holstered his spear. He looked at the Fire Mage. "You have good mana capacity for an Adept. But your casting time is tragic. And you," he pointed at the Brawler, "punch with your hips. Otherwise, you are just throwing weight around."

He grabbed the pouch of rations from the Brawler's belt.

"Tax," Vane said.

He turned and walked out of the alley. He didn't look back. He felt the mana circulating in his own body, smooth and dense. Senna's training had given him weight. He was a Rank 3 Elite in a sea of Rank 2 Adepts.

'That was the warm-up,' Vane thought, taking a bite of a stolen nutrient bar. It tasted like sawdust and victory. He looked up toward the towering silhouettes of the upper gear-works. That was where the real predators would be. That was where the Gold Tokens were.

And that was where he was going. Vane smiled.

"Okay," he whispered. "Let's go find something that can actually hit back."

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