The University Refectory was segregated not by walls, but by invisible, razor-wire lines of social status.
The Saurians tore into raw meat in the humid zone, their scales shimmering under the mist-sprayers. The Sylphs sipped nectar on the garden terrace, bathed in the morning light of the sun-sized world. The Elites (Classes S-A) sat at the high tables near the windows, their golden cutlery clinking against porcelain.
And the Auxiliary Stream—the Seven Survivors—sat near the disposal chutes. The air here was a heavy, physical cocktail of disinfectant and regret.
Lack sat with his back to the wall. The menu was irrelevant. His focus was entirely on the retinal display of his datapad.
[System Alert: Growth Spurt Detected]
- Imagination: 480 -> 489 (+9)
- Strength: 362 -> 365 (+3)
- Agility: 315 -> 319 (+4)
"Devil," Lack whispered, tapping the screen. "Explain this."
Explain what? The Light Devil yawned, the sound echoing in Lack's hippocampus like a cat stretching on a tin roof. You're getting stronger. It's called 'growth', kid. It happens when you eat your vegetables.
"No," Lack muttered. "I gained nine points in Imagination in two days. And my Strength and Agility jumped without me doing any heavy lifting. This isn't normal biological progression. It’s... a glitch."
Maybe you're just hitting puberty again, the Devil snickered. Second puberty. It comes with extra angst and a desire to write bad poetry.
Lack’s eyes narrowed. The math was absolute. A 0.9% variance was acceptable deviation. But this? This was an external modifier. The universe was quietly rounding his numbers up. Like someone—or something—was padding his stats in preparation for a crash.
"Hey, Lack," Torin whispered, nudging him. "Don't look now, but the 'Royals' are walking in."
Lack looked up immediately.
Walking through the main doors were the Second Years. These were Lack's original batchmates—the ones who had passed the Age 19 selection while he was held back in the Reserve Class. They were now full-fledged Elites, wearing the crimson cloaks of the Sophomore Year.
At the front was Granite (Stone God Vessel), a walking boulder stuffed into a uniform. Beside him was Vex, a girl with green-tinted skin who radiated a faint, corrosive aura of vinegar (Acid God Vessel)
And behind them, floating two inches off the ground, was Lyra Starlight.
She looked tired. Her silver hair was tied back in a messy bun, and she was reading a holographic dossier while she floated, ignoring the gravity that bound everyone else to the floor.
"They look serious," Mina (Goddess of Tears) sniffled into her oatmeal. "Why are the Second Years here? Don't they have their own mess hall?"
Joint Operation. His stomach sank. "The Dungeon Dive. We aren't going alone."
As if on cue, Granite spotted them. He grinned—a grinding sound of stone on stone—and elbowed Vex. They changed course, heading straight for the "Refuse" table.
"Well, look at this," Granite boomed, slamming his heavy hand onto their table. Borg's tray jumped, sending soup splashing onto Kip.
"The leftovers are eating real food," Granite sneered. "I thought they fed you scrap metal down in the basement."
"Leave us alone, Granite," Torin squeaked, hiding behind his nutrient bar.
"We're just saying hello," Vex hissed. She leaned over, and a drop of saliva—pure acid—sizzled on the table surface, eating a small hole in the plastic. "We heard the briefing. You guys are the 'Logistics Support' for our dive today. That means you carry our bags."
She looked at Lack. "Especially you, Flashlight. I have a lot of heavy gear. Try not to drop it, or I'll melt your shoes."
Lack looked at Vex. He looked at Granite.
Conflict detected, the Devil whispered. Probability of winning a fair fight: 0%. Probability of causing a scene: 100%.
If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
"We'll do our job," Lack said calmly. "Just make sure you leave some monsters for us to carry."
"Cheeky," Granite growled. He reached out to grab Lack's collar.
Lack didn't move. He didn't flinch. He just tapped the table twice with his index finger.
It was the signal.
Under the table, Serra (God of Friction) adjusted her glasses. She focused on the floor tiles beneath Granite's left boot. [Ability: Friction Reduction - 15%]
Simultaneously, Olan (God of Sleep), who looked like he was sleeping, opened one eye. He focused on Granite's eyelids. [Ability: Micro-Sleep (0.5s)]
It happened in an instant.
Granite shifted his weight to grab Lack. His foot found zero traction on the suddenly frictionless floor. At the exact same moment, his eyes grew heavy, his brain forcing a mandatory blink.
His balance reflex failed.
CRASH.
The massive Stone User slipped backward, arms flailing. He slammed into a waiter droid carrying a stack of metal trays. The droid spun, sending lukewarm soup and synth-spaghetti flying into the air... directly onto Vex.
Vex shrieked as noodles draped over her acid-green hair.
Granite lay on the floor, blinking, confused. "What... I just... slipped?"
The cafeteria went silent. Then, the laughter started.
Lack took a sip of his water. "Careful, Granite. The floors are wet."
Lyra remained silent at the entrance, lowering her dossier. Her nebula-eyes narrowed in pure calculation. No magic had manifested. No attack had been launched. It was simply... bad luck.
Beautiful, the Devil cackled. Absolute slapstick perfection. I give it a 9/10.
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Location: Briefing Room 9 Time: Cycle 07:50
"Settle down!" Instructor Gorm barked.
The room was split. On the left sat the Elite Team (Lyra, Granite, Vex). On the right sat the Auxiliary Team (The Seven Survivors).
"At 0800, we deploy to Sector 98, Ward 9," Gorm pointed to the map. "The Fungal Rot. It is a subterranean biome filled with toxic spores, acidic slimes, and Myco-Beasts."
He looked at the Elites.
"Team Alpha (Lyra's Team). Your objective is to reach the Spore Core, neutralise the Matriarch Mushroom, and retrieve the Heart-Stalk. This is a Grade-B mission. High value."
He turned to Lack's team.
"Team Bravo (Auxiliary). Your objective is Support. You will haul the containment units. You will set up the perimeter lights. And most importantly..."
Gorm clicked the slide. An image of a massive, pulsating purple fungus appeared.
"The Matriarch emits a psychic scream that disorients high-tier vessels. But it has a hunger for... generic biomass."
Lack stiffened. Generic biomass?
"Team Bravo will deploy Bait Canisters," Gorm corrected quickly, though his eyes flickered. "And ensure the escape route is clear. Do not engage the enemy. You are not built for it."
The insult landed with physical weight. They were mules. Nothing more.
"Lyra," Gorm asked. "Any questions?"
Lyra stood up. She floated slightly, commanding the room. "The Fungal Rot interferes with elemental projection. My gravity fields will be weaker. Granite's stone skin will soften. We need to be fast."
She turned to look at Lack.
"Instructor," she said coolly. "Is it wise to bring... untrained civilians? If they panic, they will block our exit."
"They are expendable—I mean, they are trained for logistics," Gorm corrected himself.
Lack clenched his fists. She wasn't doing it to be mean. She was being logical. To her, Lack was a liability. A civilian her team would have to save.
"We won't panic," Lack spoke up. His voice was steady. "And we won't block your exit. Just make sure you don't need us to open it for you."
Granite snorted, wiping a spaghetti stain off his armour. "Big talk, Flashlight. Just try not to trip over your own shoelaces."
"Dismissed!" Gorm shouted. "Proceed to the Mach-Rail Station immediately."
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Location: The Inter-Ward Mach-Rail (Ocean Line 4) Time: Cycle 08:00
The train didn't rattle; it hummed—a low, vibrating frequency that could be felt in the teeth.
Lack sat by the window of the "Student Class" carriage. Outside, the ocean was a blur of turquoise and white foam. They were tearing across the surface of the Devarkhan Sea at eight hundred kilometres per hour, yet the water in Lack’s plastic cup barely rippled.
Lack watched the world blur. To anyone else, this speed was magic. To him, it was just efficient math.
Why travel at the speed of sound? Why not light? Lack tapped the cool glass.
"We're crossing the maritime border into Ward 9," Lack announced, checking the overhead map. "Get ready. The air filtration system is about to switch over."
"Switch over?" Mina sniffled. "To what?"
"To 'Recycled'," Lack said grimly. "Ward 9 handles the waste for the entire Sector. The air there has been breathed by a million people before it gets to you."
The train began to decelerate. The smooth hum shifted to a heavy, mechanical thrum as the Magnetic-Mana Brakes engaged.
Hiss.
The doors opened. It didn't smell like a city. It smelled like wet copper, old soup, and biological decay.
Location: Sector 98, Ward 9 – The Fungal Rot Entrance Time: Cycle 08:15
The station was a cage of rusted iron. A thick, yellowish smog hung over the district like a bruise.
"This is disgusting," Jareth’s voice rang out (he had tagged along with Team Alpha). He held a scented handkerchief to his nose. "Why do we have to do our Dungeon Dive here?"
"Because," Gorm grunted, stepping onto the platform, "Heroes don't get to choose where the monsters are."
He pointed to a massive blast door painted with hazard stripes and a Bio-Hazard Skull. The mana leaking from the cracks wasn't green. It was purple.
As the massive doors ground open, revealing the dark, dripping throat of the dungeon, Lack checked his stats one last time.
[Luck: 27]
"I have a bad feeling about this," Lack muttered. "The 'Bait' Gorm mentioned... I don't think it's in the canisters."
Smart kid, the Devil murmured. The bait is you.
"No," Lack said, stepping into the darkness. "The numbers don't add up. And I hate bad math."
The dungeon swallowed them whole. And for the first time, the darkness wasn't empty. It was hungry.
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