The chambers allotted to Astartes were a study in understated luxury—a testament to the RA's respect for its rising stars. The room sprawled across the upper floor of the lodging complex, its walls composed of polished obsidian veined with threads of luminescent crystal that pulsed with a soft, rhythmic glow. A massive window dominated one wall, offering a panoramic view of the city's glittering skyline, the distant spires of the administrative district piercing the day like silver needles.
The floor was covered in a dense, sound-absorbing carpet of deep crimson, its surface woven with subtle mana-conductive threads that helped regulate ambient energy. In the centre of the room, a circular meditation mat of woven spirit-silk lay waiting, its surface inscribed with intricate arrays designed to facilitate core absorption and focus mental clarity. The air was cool and still, carrying the faint, pleasant scent of sandalwood incense that burned in a bronze brazier in the corner.
A small adjacent chamber housed a pristine bathing area with running water infused with revitalising minerals, while a discreet communication panel on the wall allowed for secure contact with the RA staff. The room was secure, warded against scrying and intrusion—a sanctuary where a Ranker could recover and grow without fear of interruption.
Astartes stood in the centre of the meditation mat, his combat armour removed and neatly arranged on a stand near the window. He wore simple, form-fitting training attire—dark fabric that stretched across lean, corded muscle, allowing for unrestricted movement. His body bore the thin, unnoticeable marks of his recent battles: fading bruises along his ribs, fresh pink scars where claws had raked across his forearms, and a subtle tightness in his shoulder that spoke of a recently healed strain. Even the {Greater Heal} skill cannot completely heal every wound mark or scar. It would take a couple of days for complete skin restoration.
His eyes, however, burned with an intensity that transcended physical fatigue. The weight of his recent conversations with Zoom Glass—the revelations about Outlaw Rankers, the sobering tale of a fallen veteran—had only sharpened his resolve. He was not here to rest. He was here to grow.
With a thought, Astartes activated the spatial storage ring on his right hand—a simple band of dark metal that shimmered with a barely perceptible energy. The air before him rippled, and a cascade of crystalline objects materialised, floating momentarily before settling onto the meditation mat in a neat arrangement.
His breath caught as he beheld them.
Thirty low-grade attribute cores, their surfaces smooth and milky white, pulsing with a faint, gentle luminescence. Twenty middle-grade cores, larger and more vibrant, their crystalline depths swirling with visible currents of amber and gold energy. And there, at the centre of the array, a single high-grade attribute core—a masterpiece of condensed power, its surface an iridescent dance of deep violet and electric blue, radiating an aura that made the air itself hum with potential.
These were the spoils of his solitary conquest—the accumulated essence of dozens of Catacomb creatures, their very life force distilled into these precious crystals. Every scar on his body, every sleepless night, every moment of terror in the darkness of the underground had led to this singular treasure.
Astartes lowered himself onto the meditation mat, crossing his legs with practised ease. The spirit-silk beneath him seemed to respond to his presence, warming slightly as it synced with his energy signature. He closed his eyes, centring himself, feeling the subtle currents of ambient mana flowing through the chamber's warding arrays.
'This is the moment' he thought, his mind calm despite the racing of his heart. 'The moment that determines whether I survive what comes next.'
He opened his eyes and gazed upon the cores, his expression hardening with purpose.
"With this," he murmured, his voice low and steady, "my power should immediately enter into High Class E in terms of my attributes, making it less strenuous to contend against a Class E Catacomb Lord."
His fingers traced the outline of the high-grade core, feeling the thrum of power within. "My stamina should also improve greatly," he continued, "and most importantly, place me with a slim threshold of entering into Class D."
Class D.
The threshold that separated the competent from the exceptional, the local heroes from the regional powers. It was a goal that most Rankers spent years, even decades, striving toward—and here he was, on the verge of achieving it in a matter of months through sheer, relentless determination.
He allowed himself a moment of dark amusement. The irony was not lost on him: his path to power was forged in isolation, in the depths of the Catacombs where no one else dared to tread. He could only achieve such tremendous growth speed because he challenged the Catacombs alone. This meant that instead of splitting the cores among other members of a party of Rankers, he could use all of these resources by himself and even sell what he did not need.
This was an extremely beneficial spot to be in when it came to his progress. The traditional path—joining a party, sharing resources, relying on others for support—was safer, more sustainable. It allowed for mutual protection and collective strength. But it was also slower, diluted by the need to distribute gains among multiple individuals.
His path was different. His path was a razor's edge.
What many forgot was that with such high rewards came high risks. Since he dealt with all the Catacomb creatures in that Catacomb alone, his life was always in danger at every turn if he dared lose his guard or make a single error.
His mind flashed back to his most recent expedition—the desperate battle against the Class E Catacomb Lord, a hulking beast of chitin and malice that had nearly torn him apart. He remembered the searing pain of its claws, the suffocating weight of its aura, the heart-stopping moment when he realised that one wrong move would mean his death.
But he had survived. He had triumphed. And now, the spoils of that victory lay before him.
Mentally, the pressure and stress he faced in those situations was nothing no one could probably understand. The isolation, the constant vigilance, the knowledge that there was no one to save him if he failed—it was a burden that would have broken lesser souls. Yet, as he sat in the peaceful sanctum of his chambers, Astartes felt no regret. The path he had chosen was steep and treacherous, but it was "his" path.
With that conviction burning in his heart, he reached for the first low-grade core.
The low-grade core was cool to the touch, its surface smooth as polished glass. Astartes closed his fingers around it, feeling its latent energy pulse against his palm like a second heartbeat. He brought it to his chest, pressing it against his sternum, and began the absorption process.
The technique was instinctive for any Ranker, a fundamental skill taught in the earliest stages of awakening. He opened his inner channels, the meridian pathways that carried mana throughout his body, and guided a thread of his own energy into the core. The crystal responded immediately, its surface warming as it recognised his intent.
The first tendrils of foreign energy seeped into his body, entering his meridians like tributaries flowing into a great river. The sensation was familiar—a warmth that spread through his limbs, a subtle tingling that danced along his nerves. The energy of the core was raw, primal, the distilled essence of a creature that had lived and breathed and fought in the darkness below.
Astartes guided it through his channels, directing it toward his core—the central nexus of his power, the reservoir that defined his Rank and capability. As the energy merged with his own, he felt his body respond: muscle fibres contracting and strengthening at a cellular level, bone density increasing imperceptibly, neural pathways optimising for faster reflexes and sharper perceptions.
The first core dissolved into nothing, its energy fully absorbed. Without hesitation, he reached for the next.
One by one, the low-grade cores vanished into his body, each adding to the growing tide of power within him. The process was methodical, almost meditative—a rhythm of absorption and integration that demanded his full concentration. He could feel himself growing stronger with each passing minute, the boundaries of his current Rank beginning to strain against the influx of new energy.
The middle-grade cores required more time, their denser energy taking longer to fully integrate. He approached each with careful attention, ensuring that not a single iota of power was wasted. The amber and gold light of the cores flowed into him, mingling with his existing energy, raising his baseline attributes with every passing moment.
By the time he reached the high-grade core, two hours had passed. Sweat beaded on his brow, and a fine tremor ran through his muscles from the sustained effort. But his eyes remained sharp, his focus unbroken.
The high-grade core was different from the others. As he pressed it against his chest, he felt an almost sentient resistance—a wild, untamed power that did not wish to be tamed. The iridescent energy within the crystal thrashed against his channels, demanding dominance, seeking to overwhelm him.
Astartes gritted his teeth, his jaw clenched as he wrestled the core's energy into submission.
'You are mine, ' he thought, pouring his will into the struggle. 'I earned you. I bled for you. You WILL serve me.'
The battle was silent but fierce, a clash of wills fought in the depths of his own body. The high-grade core fought back with every ounce of its stored power, threatening to destabilise his channels, to burn him out from within. But Astartes held firm, his resolve unyielding, his control absolute.
And slowly, inexorably, the core's energy began to yield.
The absorption took nearly an hour—far longer than any of the others. By the time the high-grade core's power was fully integrated, Astartes was panting, his body slick with sweat, his muscles trembling from the strain. But as the final remnants of energy settled into his core, he felt it: a surge of power that made his entire being sing with potential.
His aura flared—a visible corona of energy that crackled around his body, causing the spirit-silk mat beneath him to hum with resonance. The luminescent crystals in the walls pulsed in sympathy, their soft glow brightening as they responded to his elevated state.
Astartes felt the changes coursing through him, each more profound than the last. His muscles, already lean and efficient, were now packed with explosive power. He could feel his cells regenerating, old fatigue dissolving as new vitality flooded his system. His perception sharpened to a razor's edge—the ambient sounds of the building, the distant hum of energy barriers, even the subtle currents of air across his skin became crystal clear.
He raised a hand, flexing his fingers, and marvelled at the sensation of absolute control. There was power in his very fingertips now—power that could rend stone, that could reshape the world around him. He felt like he could break through a solid concrete wall with his fingers alone! Such a feeling of becoming increasingly powerful was immensely thrilling, borderline addictive.
The pleasure of growth, the intoxication of strength—it swept through him like a tide, threatening to drown his reason. For a moment, he understood why some Rankers lost themselves to their power, why they turned to selfish gain and arrogant cruelty. The sensation was intoxicating, a drug more potent than any substance.
'Perhaps this is what makes others power drunk,' he thought, his consciousness wavering on the edge of elation.
But then, his training—and his purpose—asserted themselves.
With a force of will that surprised even himself, Astartes shook off that thought. The elation receded, replaced by a calm, cold clarity. He had not come this far to become another cautionary tale, another Outlaw Ranker who had lost themselves to their own power. His path was different.
He rose to his feet, his movements fluid and precise, his body responding instantly to his commands. The residual energy of the cores continued to settle within him, but the overwhelming rush had faded, leaving behind a controlled, focused power.
Standing in the centre of the chamber, Astartes raised his gaze to the window, where the city sprawled beneath the night sky. The lights of the metropolis twinkled like distant stars, each one representing thousands of lives that depended on Rankers like him to keep the darkness at bay. The crisis that Zoom Glass had mentioned lurked on the horizon, a shadow that threatened to swallow everything he had fought to protect.
He clenched his fists, feeling the new strength surge through his limbs.
"High Class E power?" he muttered, his voice steely and cold, devoid of the intoxication that had threatened to claim him moments before. "Not enough."
The words were not despair. They were not frustrated. They were a promise—a vow to himself and to those who had placed their trust in him.
There were more Catacombs to clear. More cores to claim. More power to seize. The path to Class D and beyond stretched before him, treacherous and perilous, lined with monsters and Outlaw Rankers and dangers unknown.
But Astartes was not afraid. He was more determined than ever.
He turned away from the window, his gaze falling upon the empty meditation mat where, just hours before, he had been merely Low Class E. He had taken a significant step forward tonight—a step that brought him closer to his ultimate goal of becoming powerful enough to protect everything that mattered.
The night was still young. His body was renewed, his power enhanced. There was work to be done.
Astartes reached for his robes, beginning the ritual of donning his gear with practised efficiency. The path of the solitary warrior called to him once more, and he answered without hesitation.
The city needed him. The Catacombs awaited.
And he would not stop until he had achieved the strength to face whatever darkness came.