He used it once, on a bully who had cornered him. The boy’s own combat knife stopped an inch from Quinn’s throat. The bully’s arm simply refused to move. Quinn whispered, “Walk away,” and the boy did, tears streaming down his face, screaming internally. The turning point came during the Mid-Year Trial: a simulated dungeon-break in the colony’s lower sectors. A real rift had opened, spitting out beasts. The teachers sealed the exits, turned it into a graded exercise. Survive for six hours. Kill as many as you can.
Second, the System arrived.
Quinn smiled.
He stared at the screen. Then, with a thumb that trembled only slightly, he pressed . The pain was not transformation. It was deconstruction.
When the last Lurker fell, Quinn stood in a charnel house. His HP was full for the first time in months. His lesions had vanished. And above his head, invisible to all but him, a new notification glowed:
He let his drop. The Lurkers saw him. They charged. The first one’s claws raked his chest, drawing blood— his blood. The System pinged.
He had been hungry for three days.
