Chapter 24 - [ Ch 24: Days, Weeks, Months. - Part 01: Eye of the Tiger ]

Over the next few days, Niero learned a brutal truth.

Passing the sparring test didn't mean he was free.

It meant the real nightmare had just begun.

Every three days, without fail, Mom dragged him back into the D-Blockade Dojo and worked him like iron on an anvil—hammering him with relentless close-quarter combat, Mana Arts, and occasionally even her Sororitae form whenever she decided he was getting "too comfortable."

It wasn't sparring anymore.

It was forging.

Niero fought with everything he had—Nova-Spark bursts, psionic reflexes, telekinetic feints, blade tricks, and brute endurance—but victory remained a distant star. He could keep up longer now, he could read her movements better, and he could survive exchanges that would've ended him weeks ago…

Yet Mom still had another gear.

Always.

And she made sure he felt it.

The Dojo itself became his second enemy.

The environment shifted mid-fight—walls expanding, floors tilting, terrain reshaping into uneven rubble, narrow corridors, or open arenas. At one point, the gravity field increased until Niero felt like his bones were being crushed under invisible mountains, forcing him to fight while his muscles screamed and his lungs burned.

But something had changed.

Unlike before, Niero wasn't leaving the Dojo looking like a corpse wrapped in mummy bandages.

Mom's beatdowns were still savage—

but controlled.

Precise.

Painful enough to break his pride, not his body.

No bruises severe enough to raise suspicion.

No swollen face.

No ridiculous "angry bees" excuses.

No fever lies.

His sisters remained blissfully unaware.

To them, Niero was just… Niero.

A little tired.

A little sore.

Still cocky.

Still annoying.

Still alive.

And when the three-hour sessions ended, when Mom finally dismissed him with a cold "again in three days"…

Niero didn't go rest.

He went deeper.

Back into his mind.

Back into the Ego-Space.

Where time became his weapon.

With the time dilation—one year inside for every day outside—Niero could train far beyond what any normal soldier could endure.

While his body in reality only experienced a few hours of exhaustion…

his soul endured days.

His mind endured weeks.

His will endured months.

Twenty-four hours of brutal combat drills in the War Room.

Repeated simulations.

Refining Nova-Spark control.

Sharpening psionic techniques.

Rebuilding himself over and over again.

Because if Mom was the hammer—

then the Ego-Space was the furnace.

Because of his growing arsenal of traits—[Legacy of the Star Ravager], [What Doesn't Kill You…], and the threefold evolution of [Trinity of Self-Supremacy]—Niero didn't just recover from every beating.

He adapted.

Every injury became fuel.

Every failure became data.

Every near-death moment sharpened his instincts until his body began moving on its own, as if it had memorized pain and rewritten it into strength.

His muscles grew denser.

His Nova-Spark output became smoother, less wasteful.

His psionic control stopped feeling like wild talent and started feeling like discipline—a blade he could finally grip properly.

And slowly, day by day, he began to understand the truth:

The Stargod System wasn't just giving him power.

It was teaching him how to become worthy of it.

Of course, to his family, it was still "Psionic ability."

Just psychic powers.

A rare gift.

A lucky mutation.

A miracle of the Dominion.

That lie was safer.

That lie was simpler.

And it was the only reason Mom hadn't locked him in his room and welded the door shut.

Even so… deep down, Niero could feel it.

He wasn't merely chasing his mother anymore.

He was chasing the impossible idea of one day standing above her.

Not through luck.

Not through rage.

Not through another unconscious berserker episode.

But through sheer, relentless evolution.

Victory over Emmy Ripley might still be out of reach—

but it no longer felt like a fantasy.

It felt like a destination.

And until the day of the military academy try-out in January 2088…

Niero had only one job.

Learn. Train. Endure.

Recently, because both Sophie and Daisy had their hearts set on becoming Sororitae, Mom finally decided to include them in the household's "training regimen."

But the difference between their training and Niero's training…

was like comparing a morning yoga class to a battlefield.

For Sophie and Daisy, the sessions were mostly standard physical conditioning—stretching routines, stamina drills, basic calisthenics, and controlled Mana exercises focused on output stability and efficiency.

No broken bones.

No cratered floors.

No lightning-infused beatdowns that made breathing feel optional.

Meanwhile, Niero's "training" was still basically a private war.

A brutal forge.

A grindstone that didn't care whether he was exhausted, bleeding, or shaking.

Sometimes, Mom would even have him join Sophie and Daisy during their outdoor routines—like jogging through the streets of Sector 13, weaving through alleyways, markets, and residential blocks.

The girls would be panting within minutes.

Daisy would clutch her side dramatically, wheezing.

"I… I think I'm dying…"

Sophie would bend forward, hands on her knees, gasping.

"Why… is running… so cruel?!"

And Niero?

He'd be jogging beside them with a blank expression, barely sweating.

His mind completely deadpan.

This is training?

To him, this wasn't even warm-up.

This was what Mom called "active recovery."

But he didn't say anything.

The jogging sessions with Mom and his sisters barely made Niero break a sweat.

If anything, it felt almost insulting—like his body was waiting for the real punishment to begin.

Still, he kept showing up.

Not because he needed it…

…but because Sophie and Daisy did.

He ran beside them to keep them motivated, occasionally slowing down so they wouldn't feel like they were chasing a ghost. Even when Daisy was practically wheezing like a dying animal and Sophie looked like she was about to collapse out of pure pride, Niero stayed with them.

And it wasn't just the sisters.

Even Pumpkin, their rotund orange tabby, was dragged into the exercise routine—waddling along with a tiny harness leash, looking like he'd rather face execution than cardio.

Pumpkin's belly jiggled with every step.

His expression screamed betrayal.

Meanwhile, Aunt Alura stayed behind to man the café, smugly claiming she was "supporting the family economy," when really she just didn't want to run.

Sometimes, after the session was over—once Sophie and Daisy were dying on the sidewalk and Pumpkin had flopped onto the ground like a furry sack of potatoes—they would stop by Madam Xixi's convenience store to cool down.

Cold canned drinks.

Sports beverages.

Nova-Cola.

Ice pops.

Anything that could bring them back from the brink of death.

-

=====

-

At the same time, Niero couldn't stop thinking about what happened after the final sparring match.

Not the fight itself.

Not the thunder.

Not the pain.

But what came after the darkness swallowed him whole.

Because once he was officially approved into his brutal Marauder training, he eventually asked Vuldyr for something he hadn't dared to ask earlier.

A replay.

A full out-of-body combat record—captured by the Stargod System's observational layer like some cinematic drone footage.

And when Vuldyr projected it into his vision…

Niero watched himself get beaten into the ground like a corpse that refused to stay dead.

Watched his mother's final strike.

Watched his body go limp.

Watched himself collapse.

Then—

the real shock began.

The footage continued.

He saw Mom, already depowered, trembling as she cradled his battered hand like it was made of glass.

He saw her break down.

Not quietly.

Not gracefully.

But ugly, shaking sobs—like a woman who had just beaten the life out of her own heart.

And beside her…

Aunt Alura.

Wrapping him in bandages.

Too many bandages.

So many bandages that he looked like a cursed mummy pulled out of some ancient tomb.

Niero's face twitched in disgust.

Yeah. That checks out.

But then the footage shifted.

And his blood went cold.

Alura leaned over his unconscious body, saw the talisman locked in his left hand, and tried to pry it loose.

She tugged at his fingers.

Hard.

Then she spoke.

"If we take it now, we can just tell him he never got it. He loses. He stays home."

Niero froze in his bed as he watched.

His jaw tightened.

His chest burned.

For a moment, it wasn't anger.

It was betrayal.

He watched Alura look at his mother like it was the most logical thing in the world.

And then Mom—

his Mom—

hesitated.

For one long second, her expression looked like she was about to break.

Then she slapped Alura's hand away.

"No."

She said it like a verdict.

Like an execution.

Like a vow.

"He earned it."

Alura argued.

Pushed.

Pressed.

But Emmy didn't move.

She didn't flinch.

Even when it meant letting her son walk toward the Fog.

Even when it meant letting him chase a future she feared more than death.

She upheld her end of the deal.

Because she wasn't just a mother.

She was a woman who understood what it meant to have your choices stolen.

And she refused to become that kind of monster again.

When the replay ended, Niero just sat there in silence.

His first feeling was raw offense.

A sharp, bitter sting in his chest.

So they were really going to lie to me…?

But then another feeling crawled in behind it.

Something warmer.

He realized something important.

They could've cheated.

They could've rewritten the narrative.

They could've saved him from the outside world by turning his victory into a lie.

And they didn't.

Even Alura, in her twisted way, wasn't trying to betray him.

She was trying to protect him.

In the most underhanded way possible.

And Mom…

Mom chose trust over fear.

Niero exhaled slowly.

His fists unclenched.

And despite everything—

despite the bruises, the pain, the thunder, the blood—

he felt something settle in his chest.

A strange kind of relief.

A confirmation.

They weren't just keeping him safe.

They were letting him grow.

Letting him fight.

Letting him become something greater.

And for the first time since the sparring match…

Niero smiled.

Small.

Quiet.

But real.

"…Yeah," he muttered under his breath.

"They really do believe in me."

-

=====

-

Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months.

And somehow—despite the bruises, the training, the chaos of the cafe, and the constant tension of the outside world—the Ripley household still found time to do what families were meant to do.

Celebrate.

April came first.

April 23rd. Daisy's birthday.

The cafe was decorated with soft ribbons and pastel paper lanterns, the kind of colors that made the whole place look like a Sororitae-themed dreamland. Mom baked a pink velvet cake, fluffy and delicate, with tiny sugar flowers and glittering icing shaped like stars.

Daisy nearly cried the moment she saw it.

Sophie clapped like a proud big sister.

Niero complained it was "too cute to be edible," then proceeded to eat two slices.

Pumpkin, unfortunately, treated the entire celebration like a military operation.

He crouched on the chair, eyes locked onto the cake like a predator stalking prey.

And the moment no one was watching—

THUMP.

The fat orange tabby launched himself toward the table.

Only for Mom to catch him mid-air like a seasoned assassin.

"Pumpkin," she said with a terrifying smile, "don't you dare."

The cat meowed like he was the victim.

Daisy's present that day was simple but perfect:

A thick, shiny Sororitae Encyclopedia, filled with illustrations, rankings, famous heroines, and legendary Arcana records.

Daisy hugged it like it was a sacred scripture.

-

Then May arrived.

May 21st. Niero's birthday.

His cake was… very him.

A salted caramel glazed cheesecake, designed with a futuristic digital-grid pattern—dark icing lines, glowing neon-blue frosting accents, and little sugar cubes shaped like pixels.

It looked less like a dessert and more like something you'd find in a high-end ArkNet cyber lounge.

Niero stared at it for a long moment.

Then he smirked.

"Yep. That's my cake."

His gift made Mom's eye twitch.

Because Aunt Alura, with all the subtlety of a drunk war criminal, proudly handed him a small box.

Inside was a BB Glock pistol.

Clean.

Black.

Compact.

And completely unnecessary for a teenager's birthday.

Mom's face went pale.

"…Alura."

Alura waved it off. "Relax. It's non-lethal."

Mom's glare sharpened. "It's still a gun."

Niero, of course, looked like someone had just gifted him a holy relic.

"Best birthday ever," he whispered.

Mom nearly fainted.

And as if the day couldn't get more chaotic…

Alura also brought him a durian milkshake.

His favorite.

Cold, thick, golden-yellow, and pungent enough to violate international biological weapon laws.

Niero took one sip and sighed in happiness.

Daisy gagged dramatically.

Pumpkin sniffed it once, hissed, and sprinted upstairs like he'd seen a demon.

Mom pinched the bridge of her nose.

"Niero," she said calmly, "drink that outside."

Niero pouted. "It's a gift."

"It's a crime," Sophie muttered.

-

Then June came.

June 19th. Sophie's birthday.

Her cake was elegant, almost regal:

A rich fruitcake, topped with a smooth crème brûlée surface—glassy caramel crust cracked perfectly under the spoon, with gold flakes sprinkled like luxury.

Sophie smiled with quiet satisfaction, the kind of smile that said she felt seen.

Her present was a brand-new smartphone, sleek and expensive, with upgraded ArkNet access and Sororitae-compatible scanning functions.

She acted calm.

But the way she held it carefully with both hands gave her away.

And through all three birthdays, one battle remained constant.

Pumpkin vs. Cake.

Every celebration, the cat tried.

Every celebration, the cat failed.

And every time Mom caught him, she muttered the same thing under her breath:

"Lose weight, you little menace."

Pumpkin never listened.

But the family did.

They laughed.

They ate.

They argued.

They teased each other.

And for a few hours, the Fog outside the walls didn't matter.

For a few hours, they were just a family.

-

=====

-

Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months.

And for Niero Ripley…

life became a cycle of pain, progress, and obsession.

By day, he vanished into the Ego-Space, where the marble infinity of the War Room welcomed him like an execution ground disguised as a training hall. Hours became days. Days became weeks.

He fought until his muscles tore.

Until his bones cracked.

Until he collapsed—

only to stand up again.

And by night, when the real world reclaimed him, his mother was waiting in the underground D-Blockade Dojo with the same cold patience of a woman who had once survived the horrors of the Fog.

Her training wasn't sparring anymore.

It was forging.

She taught him survival—how to ration food, how to move without leaving tracks, how to read unnatural weather patterns, how to recognize the scent of monsters before they appeared.

She drilled him on enemy knowledge until his head felt like it was splitting open.

Names.

Ranks.

Weaknesses.

Patterns.

Kill zones.

Escape routes.

Then came weapons training.

Not flashy.

Not heroic.

Just practical.

Knives.

Firearms.

Improvised tools.

How to kill quickly.

How to disable faster.

How to stay alive when "winning" was no longer an option.

And somewhere between bruises and blood, between exhaustion and stubborn pride…

Niero grew.

Not just physically.

But fundamentally.

The Stargod System confirmed it one evening with its cold, indifferent clarity.

He had risen again.

Two levels higher.

His stats surged with the familiar rush of improvement.

A clean, undeniable reward carved out of suffering.

A brutal truth made into numbers.

+2 Levels.

+0.10 to all stats.

And it wasn't only his body that changed.

His Nova-Spark energy became denser, more refined—less like wild plasma and more like controlled fire.

His psychic abilities sharpened, no longer just tricks or bursts of instinct, but weapons he could shape with intention.

Even his newly awakened spiritual force began to stabilize.

The three pillars of his existence—

the three aspects of his Trinity of Self-Supremacy—

were no longer just traits on a system window.

They were becoming real.

Mind.

Sharper. Faster. Harder to break.

Body.

Stronger. Tougher. Enduring beyond reason.

Spirit.

A pressure beneath his skin—an invisible force that refused to kneel.

And for the first time…

Niero could feel it.

The power itself. 

-

=====

-

Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months.

And one evening, Alura dragged Niero out of Sector 13 like she was escorting a prisoner.

Not to a bar.

Not to Madam Xixi's store.

Not even to some shady gambling den.

But to the local church.

It was small—almost laughably so compared to the grand cathedrals built in reverence of the Radiant Empress. Its stone walls were old, its stained glass modest, its wooden pews creaking like they hadn't been replaced in decades.

A stubborn relic of the Old World.

A Christian church.

Father Creed's territory.

Niero stared at the cross hanging above the altar, then glanced at Alura with suspicion.

"…Why are we here?" he asked. "You owe Father Creed gambling money or something?"

Alura scoffed so hard it sounded like an insult.

"Wow," she muttered. "Is that really how you see your own aunt?"

Niero shrugged. "You did lose a poker game so hard you looked like a corpse."

"Fair," she admitted.

Father Creed stepped out from the side door, his boots heavy against the floor, his presence as stern as ever. He looked more like a man who wrestled demons than someone who preached salvation.

Alura didn't waste time.

She reached into her coat and pulled out something wrapped in cloth—carefully tied, like contraband being passed between criminals.

She placed it into Creed's hands.

Creed's eyes narrowed.

Then, slowly, he unwrapped it.

A candle emerged.

Red.

Not painted red.

Not dyed.

It looked red in a way that felt… wrong.

Too deep.

Too old.

Too sacred.

Niero blinked.

"…What the hell is that?"

Father Creed stared at the candle like it was a loaded gun.

"This," he said quietly, "is rumored to be a holy candle."

He turned it slightly, inspecting the wax as if reading history through it.

"Made with a minuscule amount of blood from a reverent priest… long before Black December."

The words hit the air like a warning.

Black December.

The year the world broke.

The year the Hollow began to bleed into reality.

The year humanity stopped believing the apocalypse was a metaphor.

Niero swallowed.

"…That's a rumor."

Creed didn't deny it.

Instead, he said, "Even rumors have weight, boy. Especially the ones people are willing to kill for."

Niero looked back at Alura.

She leaned against a pew with a smug half-smile, arms crossed like she'd just delivered a gift basket.

"I've been around," she said casually. "Secret networks. Black markets. A little trading here, a little deal there."

She tapped the side of her head.

"Reel and deal, kid. That's how you survive."

Then her eyes sharpened.

"And before you ask—no. I didn't steal it from a church."

She paused, then smirked wider.

"…Probably."

Niero's eyebrow twitched.

He stared at the red candle like it had personally insulted him.

"…You dragged me all the way here," he muttered, "for a lousy colored candle?"

Alura clicked her tongue. "Watch your mouth. That's a premium lousy colored candle."

Father Creed's expression didn't change, but his voice carried a quiet weight.

"Even if it looks worthless to you," he said, slipping the wrapped candle carefully into his coat pocket, "it is an Old World relic. And relics have value… to those who still believe in the Lord."

Then his eyes shifted to Alura.

"Did you tell the boy why he's here?"

Alura grinned like a cat caught near an open fish basket.

"I wanted to surprise him."

Creed actually let out a low chuckle—brief, almost reluctant.

"…Of course you did."

He turned and motioned for them to follow.

"This way."

Niero hesitated before walking, his annoyance mixing with unease.

He leaned toward Alura and whispered, "What does he mean, this way?"

Alura winked. "No spoilers, Kid."

"That's not an answer."

"That's the point."

They entered Father Creed's office.

It was larger than Niero expected—spacious, warm, and suffocatingly religious. Crosses hung on the walls. Paintings of saints stared down like silent judges. Shelves overflowed with Bibles, prayer books, old hymnals, and handwritten notes.

The air smelled like incense, aged paper… and something metallic underneath.

Father Creed shut the door behind them.

Then, without another word, he walked to his office table.

Niero watched as the old priest gripped the heavy wooden desk and—without straining—dragged it aside with a scrape that made the floor groan.

Niero's eyes widened slightly.

Okay. Definitely not just a priest.

Underneath the desk was a trapdoor.

A real one.

Built into the floor like something out of a conspiracy movie.

Creed knelt down, fingers finding a hidden latch. With a quiet click, the door released.

He pulled it open.

Cold air crawled up from below.

Darkness yawned beneath it like a throat.

Creed looked back at them, calm as ever.

"After you."

Niero froze.

His irritation evaporated instantly, replaced by pure suspicion.

He stared at the open hole in the floor, then slowly turned his head toward Alura.

"…Aunt."

Alura's grin widened.

"See?" she said brightly. "Surprise."

-

As soon as they climbed down the narrow staircase, the air changed.

It wasn't the warm scent of incense and old paper anymore.

Down here… it smelled like burnt metal, gunpowder residue, and something faintly oily—like machinery that had been cleaned a thousand times but never truly lost its history.

Niero's footsteps slowed.

Then—

CLACK.

The trapdoor above them shut.

The sound echoed like a coffin lid.

For a moment, the darkness became absolute.

Niero's throat tightened instinctively.

"…Seriously?" he muttered. "That's not ominous at all."

Then—

CLICK.

A switch.

And the world exploded into light.

Niero flinched, eyes squeezing shut as the bulbs blazed to life. It took a few seconds for his vision to adjust.

When it did—

His breath caught.

A spacious underground firing range stretched out in front of him.

Concrete walls.

Targets lined at the far end.

DIY soundproof panels nailed into place.

Wooden tables, toolboxes, ammo crates stacked like emergency rations.

Weapon racks lined the walls—neat, organized, cared for.

Not high-tech Bloom Dominion military gear…

But something else.

Something older.

Something that felt like it belonged to a different era.

A forgotten era.

Niero stepped forward slowly, almost afraid to believe it was real.

"…No way."

Alura folded her arms proudly, like she had just revealed a masterpiece.

"Belated birthday gift," she said with a smug grin. "You're welcome."

Niero turned to her, stunned.

"You—wait. You did this?"

"I made some deals," she said casually, like she'd traded vegetables at a market. "Father Creed agreed to give you limited access."

Niero's gaze snapped to the priest.

"…Father Creed. You own this place?"

Creed's voice was calm, gruff as always.

"Technically, it belonged to the priest before me," he said. "My mentor. He built it."

He walked forward, boots scraping lightly on the concrete.

"I only maintain it."

Niero stared at the racks.

Handguns.

Old rifles.

Shotguns.

Even a few weapons he'd only seen in ArkNet documentaries—models that weren't produced anymore, their designs too blunt, too mechanical, too honest.

And yet…

They were kept in near-pristine condition.

Cleaned.

Oiled.

Respected.

Niero reached out slowly, fingers hovering near the cold steel.

His voice came out quieter than he intended.

"…These are Old World weapons."

Father Creed glanced at him.

"Yes."

Niero swallowed.

The excitement was there—burning, electric, childlike.

But beneath it was something heavier.

Something that felt like stepping into a secret he wasn't supposed to touch.

He looked back at the priest.

"…What kind of priest needs a firing range under his office?"

Niero's fingers brushed along the cold steel of an old rifle, the metal worn smooth in places where countless hands had once held it.

It felt… real.

Not like the glossy, mass-produced Bloom Dominion firearms shown in recruitment ads.

These weapons had history.

They had weight.

They had blood.

Behind him, Father Creed's boots stopped with a soft scrape.

The old man's face was calm as ever—but his eyes weren't. They carried something deeper than fatigue. Something carved in.

Creed continued, almost casually.

"Because priests aren't the only ones who fight demons."

Niero blinked.

Creed reached toward one of the racks and picked up a handgun—Pre-Y2K design, simple and brutal. He checked it with practiced ease, as if it was as natural as breathing.

"Just like your mother… and your aunt," Creed said, "I have my own demons."

His gaze drifted, distant for a second.

"As a colonial soldier, I saw the Hollow up close. Too close."

Niero's smugness faded.

The silence between them thickened.

Creed set the pistol down gently, like it was a relic.

"I've buried friends," he said. "Buried children. Buried entire squads."

His jaw tightened.

"And even after all these years… the war never really leaves your head."

Niero didn't speak.

He just listened.

Creed exhaled through his nose, almost like he hated the weakness of admitting it.

"Some nights," he muttered, "I still wake up reaching for a weapon."

His fingers tapped the rack once.

"I keep a pistol under my pillow."

Niero's eyes widened slightly.

A priest.

A man of God.

Sleeping like a soldier in enemy territory.

Creed's gaze flicked to him.

"That's what the Hollow does," he said. "It doesn't just kill you. It follows you."

Niero swallowed.

Then, slowly, he nodded.

"…So you were a soldier too."

Creed's expression didn't change, but his voice hardened.

"I was."

Niero's mind raced.

Colonial soldier… like Aunt Alura.

His eyes drifted to the weapon racks again.

Then back to Creed.

And suddenly, it clicked.

If Creed knew Alura was a soldier…

If Creed assumed Mom was also one…

Then—

Niero's stomach tightened.

He realized something quietly, almost like a knife sliding between his ribs.

Father Creed didn't know.

He didn't know Emmy Ripley wasn't just a former soldier.

He didn't know she had once been something far darker.

Something far more dangerous.

An Umbral Maiden.

And Niero…

Niero kept his face neutral.

Niero's eyes darted across the weapon racks again—rifles, pistols, shotguns, boxes of old ammunition stacked like forgotten treasure.

Then he slowly turned toward Alura, deadpan.

"…So this 'birthday gift' is literally a gun show?"

Alura snorted. "Sort of."

Father Creed folded his arms. "Less a gun show. More a gun practice."

Niero blinked. "Gun practice?"

Creed nodded once, expression grim but honest.

"You want to be a Marauder. That means you'll eventually be outside the walls."

His voice lowered.

"And outside the walls… your fists won't always be enough."

Alura leaned on the rack casually, smirking. "Besides, if you're gonna get traumatized by monsters, you might as well look cool doing it."

Niero shot her a look. "That's not comforting."

"It's realistic," she replied.

Niero's gaze drifted back to the guns.

Excitement crept into his face despite himself.

Then he frowned.

"…But aren't these weapons kinda… old?"

He pointed at a rifle that looked like it belonged in a museum.

"These look underpowered compared to modern Bloom Dominion stuff. Where's the plasma coils? Smart-rounds? Guided bullets? Rail-assisted barrels?"

Creed's eyebrow twitched.

"Boy," he said flatly, "these weapons were killing monsters before your mother even learned how to bake."

Niero froze.

Creed continued, voice like stone.

"They're old, yes. But they're reliable. And most modern weapons were built from the bones of these designs."

He gestured at the racks.

"If you can master what's here, you can handle standard armory weapons anywhere."

That answer made Niero's blood stir.

A grin tugged at his lips.

"…Okay. That's fair."

His fingers twitched with anticipation.

Then—

Vuldyr's voice slid into his mind like silk.

> ["Stargod. With [Golden Eye], I can scan these weapons down to molecular structure."] 

Niero's pupils narrowed slightly.

> ["Ammo composition too,] Vuldyr added. [Depending on the model, you may be able to replicate them later with Omnia Matter through the Foundry function. Cheaper than advanced weapon systems."]

Niero mentally swallowed his excitement.

"Do it," he replied silently. "Scan everything you can." 

> ["Already starting,"] Vuldyr purred.

Outwardly, Niero turned back to Alura and Creed, his expression sincere.

"…Thanks. Seriously."

Alura waved him off. "Yeah yeah. Don't get emotional. It's gross."

Creed only gave a small nod, as if gratitude was unnecessary.

Then the old priest turned toward the staircase.

"Wait here," he said. "I'll get drinks before we begin."

Niero blinked. "Drinks?"

Creed spoke like it was nothing.

"I made radler beer. Low alcohol content. Even a fifteen-year-old 'future Marauder' can indulge."

Alura's eyes lit up immediately.

"Ooooh. Got anything stronger?"

Creed stopped mid-step and looked back at her like she'd committed a sin in real time.

"…Woman."

Alura grinned shamelessly.

Creed sighed, deeply, as if praying for patience.

"I have a twenty-five-year-old whiskey."

Alura's grin widened into something predatory.

"Bless you, Father."

Creed's eye twitched.

"I haven't agreed to give it to you."

Alura pointed at him confidently. "But you will."

Creed muttered something that sounded suspiciously like a curse, then climbed the stairs anyway.

The trapdoor shut above them.

The underground range fell quiet again.

Niero stared at the weapon racks.

His heartbeat quickened.

Not from fear.

Not from nerves.

Niero stepped closer to the racks again, eyes scanning the familiar shapes like he was staring at relics from a forgotten age.

Then his hand reached out.

His fingers wrapped around cold metal.

And he pulled free a rifle.

An AK-47.

The weight settled into his arms like it belonged there.

Niero adjusted his grip instinctively, shouldering the rifle and aiming down the sights toward the far end of the range.

For a second, his breathing slowed.

His posture tightened.

Not sloppy. Not playful.

Focused.

Like a boy pretending to be a soldier—

and a soldier pretending not to be afraid.

Then—

Vuldyr whistled inside his mind.

> ["Oho. Classic choice, Kiddo."]

Niero didn't lower the rifle.

"What?" he muttered quietly, still aiming.

Vuldyr's voice carried that smug amusement.

> ["Avtomat Kalashnikova 47. One of the longest-running firearm designs in human history."] 

A holographic flicker shimmered faintly near his peripheral vision—Vuldyr's scanning process quietly running.

> ["Born in 1947. Survived wars, nations, collapses, revolutions. Used by the Soviet Union, then by half the planet after that."] 

Niero's eyes narrowed slightly.

Vuldyr continued, almost reverent.

> ["Legendary reliability. Low manufacturing cost. Extreme simplicity. Harsh-condition performance so good it became myth."] 

She paused, then added with clinical clarity:

> ["Chambered in 7.62×39mm. Effective at close-to-medium range. Heavy punch. High firepower."] 

Niero's lips twitched.

He couldn't help it.

His heart beat faster—not from adrenaline, but from excitement.

"…No way," he whispered.

He pulled the rifle tighter into his shoulder, feeling the familiar shape like a memory from a hundreds of FPS matches.

His grin widened.

"AK-47…"

It was one of his favorites.

A weapon he'd only ever held through pixels and controllers.

Now it was real.

Now it was cold steel.

Now it had weight.

Now it had consequence.

Niero glanced sideways slightly, still holding the aim.

Telepathically, he spoke to Vuldyr.

"Are you a gun nut or something?"

Vuldyr scoffed.

> ["Please. I'm am the Logoi, the ultimate partner. The omniscient digital entity linked to your brain."] 

Then she added casually:

> ["I just pulled the data from ArkNet."] 

Niero snorted under his breath.

"…Of course you did."

Niero lifted the revolver carefully, immediately feeling the difference.

It wasn't just heavy.

It felt wrongly heavy—like the weapon itself expected respect before use.

The cylinder gleamed under the range lights. The barrel looked almost exaggerated, too long for something meant to be held in one hand.

Vuldyr reacted first.

…Damn.

Niero blinked. "That's new."

A holographic scan flickered.

Smith & Wesson Model 500. 2003 design.

Her tone shifted slightly into something more serious.

This isn't a magnum revolver. This is a hand cannon.

Niero frowned. "A what?"

Five-shot, .500 S&W Magnum. One of the most powerful production revolvers ever made.

A pause.

Recoil is… not beginner-friendly.

Niero rotated it slightly, feeling the balance.

"…So basically, it kicks like a truck?"

A truck would be insulted by the comparison.

He stared at it for a moment longer, then raised it slightly to aim downrange.

Before he could even adjust his stance—

A whistle cut through the room.

Niero froze.

Alura.

She had appeared behind him at some point like she owned the shadows.

She leaned in, eyeing the revolver like an old memory.

"Ohhh," she murmured. "That's a nice one."

Niero glanced at her. "You know this thing?"

Alura straightened, grin forming.

"Can I play with it?"

"…It's not a toy."

"That's what makes it fun."

Before he could argue, Niero instinctively handed it over.

Alura caught it smoothly—too smoothly.

Then she spun it once around her finger.

Clean. Controlled. Confident.

Like a Western gunslinger who had just stepped out of the wrong century.

Niero went silent.

"…You can do that?"

Alura tilted the revolver, checking its weight.

"Of course I can."

She brought it up, not even aiming properly at first, just feeling it.

"This thing's a beast," she said casually. "Used it a few times during deployment."

Niero raised an eyebrow. "You used it?"

Alura gave him a sideways glance.

"Manaless soldiers don't get the luxury of flashy magic tricks."

Her voice lowered slightly, more matter-of-fact now.

"You train with firearms, explosives, anything that keeps you alive. Especially when you're dealing with things that don't die cleanly."

She rotated the cylinder with her thumb.

"First time I fired one of these, I thought my wrist was going to leave my body and file for divorce."

That made Niero exhale a short laugh.

Alura continued, almost nostalgic.

"Still remember it though. Point-blank shot. Monster didn't even get to finish moving."

She looked at the revolver again, then casually handed it back to Niero.

"But don't get cocky with it. This isn't your AK. This one bites back."

Niero accepted it more carefully this time.

He stared at the weapon in his hands, then at Alura.

"…You're kind of terrifying when you're not being weird."

Alura smiled sweetly.

"I'm always terrifying. You just don't notice when I'm being weird."

Alura leaned against one of the weapon racks like she belonged there more than the guns did.

Her expression softened a little at Niero's question.

"Father Creed?" she repeated, rolling the name in her mouth like she was checking an old habit.

Then she shrugged.

"He was… one of the first people who didn't look at us like we were already half-dead walking into Sector 13."

Niero stayed quiet, listening.

Alura continued, a bit slower now.

"When we arrived in Mega-Ark City 01, we were newcomers. No reputation, no clean history anyone trusted, no real place to belong. Even in Sector 13—friendly as it is—you can still feel it."

She tapped her chest lightly.

"That 'you don't belong here' feeling."

Niero glanced down slightly.

Alura nodded as if she noticed that reaction.

"Creed helped anyway. Not because he was naïve—he's not. But because he decided we were the kind of people worth helping."

She glanced toward the stairs above them, where the café sat.

"So we built a story. A simpler one."

Niero's brow tightened slightly. "A story?"

Alura didn't flinch.

"Retired Dominion soldiers. Survivors. PTSD cases trying to live quiet lives with kids. People who fought the fog and came back… damaged, but alive."

Her tone was matter-of-fact, not ashamed—just practical.

"It made sense. It made people stop asking questions."

Niero slowly processed that.

"…And everyone believed it?"

"Most of them," Alura said. "Because it wasn't far from the truth."

A beat passed.

Then Niero asked the part that mattered.

"Did Father Creed ever notice anything weird?"

Alura let out a short breath through her nose, almost amused.

"If he did, he never pushed it."

She tilted her head slightly.

"Creed's the kind of man who sees people carrying invisible weight and decides not to make it heavier unless they ask for help."

Her eyes narrowed a little, thoughtful.

"And even if he does suspect more… he's a priest. A soldier too. He understands classified lives, broken lives, and the things people don't say out loud."

She straightened again.

"So no. He didn't interrogate us. He just… stood nearby in case we needed a helping hands."

The moment Father Creed came back down the stairs, the mood shifted again—less talk of secrets, more of something grounded and almost domestic in its own strange way.

He set the jug down with a dull thunk and began pouring the pale, fizzy liquid into glass cups.

"Radler," he announced gruffly. "Beer and lemonade. Don't complain."

Alura's eyes lit up immediately. "You brought beer but not whiskey?"

Creed didn't even look at her.

"Can it."

He pointed a finger at her like a warning. "You are not touching my whiskey reserve. Not after last time."

Alura placed a hand over her chest dramatically. "That was a misunderstanding of inventory management—"

"Water or radler," Creed cut in.

She pouted hard enough to be audible.

Niero, watching this, snorted under his breath. "Wow. Even you get denied sometimes."

Alura shot him a look. "Careful, baby badger. I raised you better than this level of disrespect."

"I wasn't raised by you," Niero said, taking a glass anyway.

"That's the spirit," she replied instantly.

Creed slid a cup toward Niero. "Drink. You'll need it before we start."

Niero took a sip.

It was light, slightly sweet, barely alcoholic—almost deceptive for something served in a gun range beneath a church.

He blinked. "This is… actually good."

Creed gave a short approving grunt. "Meant to be. Keeps the nerves steady."

Alura leaned in, eyeing Niero's cup. "See? Even holy man approves of fun."

Creed ignored her and instead began unlocking one of the weapon racks, keys clinking softly.

"As for noise," he added, glancing up at Niero, "don't worry about the people upstairs."

He tapped the reinforced ceiling once with a knuckle.

"Soundproof padding. Old Ark-standard. You could fire a cannon down here and the café wouldn't even hear a spoon drop."

Niero raised a brow. "That's… reassuring and mildly concerning at the same time."

Alura smirked. "Welcome to your birthday gift, part two."

Creed continued casually, already checking magazines and safeties.

Father Creed worked with the calm efficiency of someone who had done this too many times for it to ever feel impressive anymore.

He laid out pistols one by one across the worn range table—clean, maintained, but clearly not ceremonial. Tools, not trophies.

"First lesson," he said flatly, sliding a magazine into place. "Firearms are not extensions of ego. They are extensions of discipline."

Niero nodded, attentive despite the lingering soreness in his body from everything that had happened in the past days.

Creed continued, voice steady.

"Trigger discipline. You do not touch the trigger until you are ready to accept the consequences of what comes out of the barrel."

He glanced at Niero, making sure the point landed.

"Most people fail there before they even fire a shot."

Niero took the Glock when it was handed to him—feeling its weight, its balance, the cold mechanical certainty of it.

"Got it," he said. "Don't shoot unless I mean it."

"Good," Creed replied. "Next: grip. Stance. Breath control. Then maintenance. If you don't understand how it comes apart, you don't deserve to use it."

Niero gave a small nod. "I'll follow your instructions."

Creed studied him for a second, then gave a short approving grunt.

"That's all I need from you. Not talent. Not bravado. Just obedience to process."

He turned away, already adjusting targets at the far end of the range.

"And understand this," he added over his shoulder. "I'm not training you to win. I'm training you to survive long enough to regret what you had to do."

Niero didn't answer immediately.

Then quietly:

"…That's a pretty depressing goal."

Creed didn't look back.

"It's a realistic one."

From the corner of the room, Alura was sprawled across a battered sofa that looked like it had survived at least three minor wars and one major gambling addiction.

She lifted her glass lazily.

"Don't worry, kid," she said, smirking. "If you blow your hand off, I'll laugh, then help your mom yell at you."

Niero sighed. "That's extremely reassuring."

Alura took another sip of radler. "You're welcome."

Creed finally called out:

"Enough talk. Line up."

The atmosphere tightened—not hostile, but focused. Like the room itself had shifted from conversation to consequence.

Niero looked down at the Glock in his hand again, then stepped forward toward the firing line.

Whatever else he was becoming, it was starting here: not with power, not with destiny—

but with learning not to flinch when things mattered.

-

=====

-

Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months.

And Niero Ripley stopped having anything resembling a normal life.

His training became a three-front war of attrition.

First: his mother.

Brutal, precise, and unrelenting. Combat sparring that blurred the line between instruction and survival. Melee weapon drills that punished hesitation. Tactical conditioning. Survival doctrine. And constant exposure to the realities of the Fog and its monsters—each lesson delivered with the weight of someone who had seen what happens when people are unprepared.

Second: Alura and Father Creed.

Firearms. Military discipline. Tactical awareness. Movement under pressure. Decision-making when things went wrong in less than a second. Creed's voice always calm, always absolute; Alura's presence always casual, but never careless.

Third: the Ego-Space.

Where time lost meaning.

Where goblins and orcs existed only as endlessly spawning threats.

Where the combat dummy waited with the cold, merciless precision of his mother's Astra Codex combat matrix—Ver. 01.

At first, it destroyed him.

Again.

And again.

And again.

But slowly…

That stopped being the outcome.

Niero adapted.

He learned spacing. Timing. Punishment windows. Micro-movements between strikes. How to read motion before intent fully formed.

And then, one day—

It happened.

The simulation ended.

The combat dummy stilled.

Niero stood there, breathing hard, bruised in spirit more than body.

Then the system confirmed it.

Victory.

He blinked.

"…I actually did it."

For a second, there was silence.

Then—

"YES!" he shouted, throwing a fist into the air. "Finally!"

It wasn't graceful. It wasn't clean. But it was real.

He had defeated the Ver. 01 combat matrix of his mother.

Not her true self. Not her Rank-S reality.

But a version of her.

And that alone meant something.

Even Vuldyr's voice carried a rare note of acknowledgment.

> ["Analysis: significant improvement in adaptive combat response. You are no longer being "survived" by the system."] 

Niero exhaled, collapsing backward onto the simulated ground, laughing once under his breath.

"…Took long enough."

Outside the Ego-Space, time seemingly stood still.

Inside it, he kept growing.

By mid-August, the system finally updated his progress.

+5 levels total gained.

+0.25 to all stats overall.

Small numbers.

But in a world like his—

they weren't small at all.

They were distance.

Between who he was…

and what he was trying not to die as.

-

=====

-

Days turned into weeks. Weeks into months.

The morning of September 24th hit Maison Bella Café like a controlled chaos drill.

It was technically a public holiday.

Which meant, in practice, it was busier than usual.

Customers came in waves—regulars, tourists, curious passersby—all expecting pastries, coffee, and the café's usual "homey warmth" that Emmy Ripley somehow maintained even when everything else was falling apart behind the counter.

But today, the Ripley siblings had a different mission running underneath the business.

A quiet one.

A cake mission.

"Almond milk is missing," Sophie announced, staring into the pantry like it had personally betrayed her.

Daisy peeked in beside her. "That's bad, right? That's like… cake disaster bad?"

Niero, already half-tied in an apron, leaned over and confirmed the worst.

"…Yeah. That's 'Mom's birthday cake collapses into sadness' bad."

Silence.

Then all three of them turned slowly toward each other.

A shared understanding formed instantly.

No panic.

Just operation mode.

Alura, meanwhile, was at the counter handling a customer complaint about "insufficient foam artistry" with the emotional stability of a gambler on her third loss streak.

"Sir," she said sweetly, "if you want foam art, I recommend art class. This is a café."

The customer visibly reconsidered his life choices.

Sophie pointed decisively. "We're out of almond milk. We need more."

Daisy raised a hand. "But there are vegan customers today. They're already… looking at us."

At that exact moment, a group of extremely serious-looking vegan patrons glanced over in sync.

Niero followed their gaze.

They were watching the kitchen like it owed them money.

"…Yeah," Niero said slowly. "That's not a 'we'll substitute it' situation."

Sophie grabbed his sleeve. "You go."

"Me?"

"You're fastest," Daisy added.

Alura, without looking up from the counter, waved a hand. "Go fetch your sacred almond juice, Bossboy."

Niero sighed.

"…Why is everything my job today?"

"Because you're the one who can survive outside," Sophie said matter-of-factly.

That… wasn't wrong.

Niero pointed at them. "If anything explodes while I'm gone—"

"We'll bake through it," Alura interrupted.

"That's not reassuring."

"It shouldn't be."

And just like that, Niero was out the back door.

-

Madam Xixi's convenience store sat a few blocks away, bright and slightly chaotic in its own way—stacked shelves, glowing signage, and the unmistakable energy of someone who had optimized retail into an art form.

The bell chimed as Niero entered.

Madam Xixi looked up immediately.

"Ohhh," she said, squinting. "The bruised boy returns."

"I need almond milk," Niero said without preamble.

Xixi blinked. "You always need something dramatic when you come here."

"I'm on a mission."

"That explains the urgency and lack of manners."

Niero ignored that. "Large stock. Cartons. Preferably not expired."

Xixi tilted her head, then smiled knowingly.

"Birthday cake?"

Niero paused.

"…How do you know that?"

She tapped her temple. "Small town. Big gossip network."

He sighed. "Just give me the milk."

-

Madam Xixi's convenience store had a very specific kind of charm.

The kind that only existed in local neighborhood stores where organization was more of a suggestion than a rule.

Shelves were packed to the brim with snacks, canned drinks, instant noodles, spices, cheap stationery, prayer charms, and oddly specific household items. Half-opened boxes of products sat in the aisles like they had decided to become permanent furniture. A basket of fruits sat beside detergent. Vegetables were stacked next to imported chocolate bars.

It was cluttered.

It was chaotic.

And somehow… it worked.

Madam Xixi called it "East Asian store charm."

Niero called it "a health hazard maze."

Still, he followed her through the narrow aisles while she navigated with the confidence of a woman who could walk this place blindfolded.

"So," Niero asked casually, stepping over a box of instant noodles, "how've you been, Aunty?"

Xixi waved a hand like it was nothing.

"Good. I beat my brain tumor."

Niero nearly tripped.

"…Excuse me?"

She said it as casually as if she had beaten a cold.

"Doctor said maybe surgery," Xixi continued, unfazed. "But I drank special tea. Ancient recipe. And I prayed. Now I'm fine."

Niero stared at her like she was insane.

"…You're just going to drop that on me like it's normal?"

Xixi shrugged. "It is normal. Life is life."

Niero blinked, then slowly recovered.

"…Okay. Uh. Congratulations."

"Hm." Xixi nodded proudly. "Also my grandson learned to walk. And talk. Two years old already."

"That's… also good news," Niero said, still processing the tumor thing. "Congrats. To both."

Xixi beamed. "See? Good boy. You know manners."

They continued chatting as she led him toward the back of the store, where the air grew cooler.

A heavy plastic curtain hung over a doorway.

She pushed through it.

Cold storage.

The temperature dropped instantly, raising goosebumps on Niero's arms.

Xixi stepped to the side and opened a box stacked near the back wall.

Inside were neat cartons labeled:

Dutch Grace's Almond Milk

Niero's shoulders loosened in relief.

"Oh thank the Empress. You actually have it."

Xixi clicked her tongue.

"Of course I have it. You think I sell only corporate crap?"

Niero grabbed one carton, checking the label carefully.

"I mean… corporate crap is kind of what keeps the café alive."

Xixi scoffed. "Natural almond milk better. If you want real taste, you grind almond yourself."

Niero checked another carton.

"Yeah, well, we don't exactly have time to grind almonds today. I need to get back. Mom's birthday cake is on the line."

"And those vegan customers?" Xixi added knowingly.

Niero grimaced. "Especially those vegan customers."

Xixi began pulling out her small notepad, flipping it open and licking the tip of her pencil like an old-school merchant.

"Okay. How many cartons?"

"As many as you can spare."

Xixi gave him a look. "You got money?"

Niero hesitated. "I'm… kinda low right now."

Xixi sighed loudly, writing anyway.

"I'll pay you back. I promise." Niero promised quickly, still inspecting each carton.

Expiration dates.

Seals.

No dents.

No leaks.

He wasn't about to bring expired almond milk back and start a vegan riot in the café.

Xixi glanced at him while scribbling down the tab.

"Hmph. Pay later. Just don't forget. If you forget, I will start charge interest."

Niero narrowed his eyes. "That's illegal."

Xixi smiled sweetly. "I'm only joking. But still, pay your tabs."

Niero sighed, but he couldn't deny the relief in his chest.

At least the mission wasn't a failure.

While Madam Xixi scribbled away on her notepad, Niero continued inspecting the almond milk cartons one by one.

Seal intact.

Expiration date valid.

No dents.

Good.

But then… his eyes drifted.

Right beside the almond milk stacks, four boxes sat neatly piled like someone had intentionally placed them there for temptation.

And the labels immediately caught his attention.

Nova-Food's Nova-Cola

A popular fizzy drink in sleek cans, each one equipped with an attached micro-refrigeration module that kept it cold even without ice.

Madam Margarette's Butter Brew Beer

Foamy, sweet, low-alcohol beer in cans—also equipped with the same micro-refrigeration module.

Samurai Star's Instant Ramen

A modern instant ramen set that came with a water capsule and a built-in micro-heating module.

And lastly—

A box that looked far more expensive and far more serious.

Micro-Food's MDR (Molecular Dehydration Rations).

Niero's eyes narrowed slightly.

The MDR brand was infamous even among lower-tier citizens.

Not because it tasted good…

But because it was military-grade convenience.

Food and drinks compressed down into tiny pills and pellets—molecularly dehydrated, shelf-stable, lightweight.

And when rehydrated…

they became real meals.

Inside the open box, he spotted a smaller packet containing three assorted blister packs:

Bullet-Meal(food variant)

Pellet-Bev(drink variant)

Niero stared at them for a long moment.

Then his lips curled into a grin.

A devious, shameless grin.

Because he suddenly remembered something important.

He didn't need money.

Not for this.

Not anymore.

Madam Xixi stepped out of the cold storage, still muttering to herself while writing down the café's tab.

"Almond milk… almond milk… you Ripley people always buy like apocalypse tomorrow…"

Niero didn't answer.

Instead, he reached out casually, like an innocent customer browsing.

And in his mind—

Vuldyr. Get ready. Golden Eye.

Vuldyr's voice responded instantly, amused.

Oh? Bossboy is about to commit intellectual theft again?

It's not theft. It's… survival planning.

Sure. Survival planning. Proceed.

Niero placed his hand on the first box.

Nova-Cola.

His eyes flickered faintly—barely noticeable.

The world sharpened.

For a split second, the can wasn't just a can.

It became a blueprint.

A structure.

A map of molecular arrangement and engineered components.

The micro-refrigeration module.

The seal mechanism.

The carbonated syrup ratio.

The aluminum alloy composition.

Everything.

Catalogued.

Recorded.

Stored.

Next, his hand slid to the second box.

Butter Brew Beer.

Again—

Data poured in.

Foam stabilizers.

Sweetening compounds.

Fermentation residue.

Preservation method.

The third.

Instant Ramen.

He scanned the packaging.

Then one individual cup.

The noodles' dehydration pattern.

The flavoring packet's chemical profile.

Even the water capsule design and heating mechanism.

Then—

His fingers brushed the final box.

MDR.

This one made his breath catch.

Because the scan felt… deeper.

More complex.

More refined.

The molecular compression process alone was beyond anything an average civilian food company should have been capable of.

When he scanned a single blister pack, his mind flooded with information.

Nutrient density ratios.

Rehydration trigger compounds.

Protein substitute chains.

Flavor synthesis matrices.

It was… terrifyingly efficient.

And when the scan completed, Niero slowly pulled his hand away, heart thumping with quiet satisfaction.

His grin widened.

Not because he had stolen food.

But because he had stolen options.

In the future, when he was beyond the walls—

When the Fog swallowed the horizon and the world stopped being civilized—

He wouldn't just be carrying bullets and blades.

He'd be carrying food security.

He could fabricate emergency rations.

Cold drinks.

Hot meals.

Sustenance.

All through the Foundry, fueled by Omnia Matter.

Semi-infinite food and drink, as long as he had resources to convert.

Niero's mind raced.

I should diversify more…

Not just snacks.

Not just processed stuff.

Raw ingredients.

Meat, grains, oils, vitamins…

If he could scan enough of them, he could eventually build a survival stockpile that didn't rely on the Dominion supply chain at all.

Vuldyr's voice hummed with approval.

You're thinking like a Marauder now.

Niero swallowed, his excitement dimming into something sharper.

Something cautious.

Because he also understood the danger.

If the Bloom Dominion ever found out what he truly was—

Not just a boy with Psionic gifts…

But a living fabrication engine.

A walking anomaly.

A resource factory.

A threat to corporate monopolies.

A threat to the Dominion's control itself.

They wouldn't let him live freely.

They'd either lock him up…

Or carve him open to see how he worked.

So Niero forced his grin back into something casual, something harmless.

He picked up the almond milk cartons and stacked them into his arms.

In his mind, he whispered one thing to himself:

Keep it secret.

-

Niero made it back to Maison Bella Café just in time to prevent disaster.

The moment he stepped through the door with the almond milk cartons in his arms, Sophie practically sighed in relief like she had been holding her breath for the past ten minutes.

"You took long enough," she snapped, though her tone carried more panic than anger.

Daisy peeked over the counter.

"Big brother! Almond milk!"

Niero lifted the cartons like trophies. "Mission accomplished. You may all bow before my greatness."

Alura leaned against the espresso machine, smirking. "Sure, sure. Hero of almond juice."

And right on cue, the vegan customers at the corner table looked up like hawks spotting prey.

Niero felt their eyes.

He swallowed.

"…Yeah. Let's not keep them waiting."

With almond milk restocked, the café's atmosphere instantly stabilized. Lattes were made. Tea orders were filled. The looming threat of sour-faced vegan rage was neutralized.

Meanwhile, in the kitchen—

Daisy had taken her role as cake decorator with absolute seriousness.

She whipped the almond milk cream until her arms nearly fell off, then slathered it over the buttercake with the intensity of a Sororitae preparing for holy war.

Sprinkles followed.

Chocolate bits.

More sprinkles.

Then, with melted pink chocolate in a piping bag, she carefully wrote:

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, MOM!

The letters weren't perfectly straight.

Some were slightly wobbly.

But it was unmistakably made with love.

Sophie looked at it and nodded. "It's… actually cute."

Niero smirked. "Yeah. Mom's gonna cry."

Daisy puffed her cheeks. "Of course she's gonna cry! It's the law!"

Alura laughed. "She'll cry, then yell at you for using too many sprinkles."

The next day—September 25th—Emmy Ripley finally returned from her spa retreat.

She walked into the café expecting nothing more than her usual routine.

Instead—

POP! POP!

Party poppers exploded.

A banner unfurled across the ceiling.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY, EMMY!

And a chorus of voices shouted—

"SURPRISE!!"

Emmy froze in the doorway like she'd been ambushed.

Her eyes widened, hands half-raised defensively like she was about to fight invisible enemies.

Then she saw them.

Alura.

Sophie.

Niero.

Daisy.

Even Pumpkin, sitting proudly on the table like a fat orange guardian of the cake.

And not just her family.

Father Creed stood near the back, arms crossed but smiling faintly.

Madam Xixi was there too, holding her two-year-old grandson on her hip.

A few familiar shop owners from Sector 13.

Even some regular customers who had joined in, wanting to show appreciation for the woman who always served warmth with her coffee.

For a moment, Emmy didn't speak.

Then her lips trembled.

Her eyes shimmered.

And tears welled up so quickly it was almost unfair.

"…You guys…" she whispered.

Daisy ran up first, throwing her arms around her mom's waist.

"Happy birthday, Mommy!"

Sophie followed, hugging her from the other side.

Niero just stood there for a second—awkward, proud, smiling.

Then he stepped forward too.

"Happy birthday, Mom," he said softly.

And that was it.

Emmy broke.

She covered her mouth, laughing and crying at the same time.

"You… you didn't have to…"

Alura snorted. "Yes we did. You're old now."

Emmy glared through her tears. "Alura!"

Everyone laughed.

Phones came out. Pictures were taken. Group selfies, candid shots, Pumpkin photobombing like an oversized orange blob.

And when the buttercake was brought out—

Emmy stared at it like it was a sacred artifact.

The almond milk cream.

The sprinkles.

The chocolate pieces.

And the slightly uneven pink writing that screamed Daisy's effort.

Her hands trembled as she touched the edge of the cake.

"…You made this?"

Daisy nodded proudly. "I did the writing!"

Sophie crossed her arms. "I helped with the baking."

Niero smirked. "And I saved the day by acquiring the sacred almond milk."

Emmy laughed again, wiping her tears.

Then she leaned down and kissed each of their foreheads one by one, like she was memorizing them.

All of them.

Even Niero.

Even Alura.

Even Pumpkin, who immediately tried to lick the frosting.

"HEY!" Emmy yelped, pulling the cake away while everyone burst into laughter again.

Gifts were given.

Makeup.

A new dress.

Plushies from the shop owners.

A handmade scarf from an elderly customer.

Small things, big things—none of them expensive enough to matter.

But all of them heavy with meaning.

And for that entire day, Maison Bella Café didn't feel like a café.

It felt like what Emmy had always wanted it to be.

A home.

A safe place.

A pocket of warmth in a world full of Fog.

-

=====

-

Days turned into weeks.

Weeks into months.

And the Ripley household slowly fell into a brutal rhythm that became almost… normal.

Mom's training remained the most punishing—sparring that bordered on cruelty, weapon handling drills, counter-technique refinement, and constant academic lessons about what existed beyond the walls of Mega-Ark City 01.

Lessons about monsters.

Lessons about Fog.

Lessons about death.

Father Creed's training became equally serious. Firearms were no longer "cool toys" to Niero—they became tools of survival. Creed drilled him in trigger discipline, reload timing, shooting under stress, and even basic tactics.

And then there was the third front:

The Ego-Space.

A world where time bent itself into obedience.

A world where Niero refined his Nova-Spark output, his psionic precision, his spiritual pressure, and the branching aspects of his growing Trinity of Self-Supremacy.

By the time December arrived…

Niero had become something different.

His body no longer felt like a teenage body.

It felt like a weapon being sharpened.

And the Stargod System reflected it.

By early December, his status window updated:

Level +4

Total Level: 30

Total Ascension Points gained: 9

Total stat growth across all attributes: +0.55

A massive leap in only a few months.

For anyone else, it would have been impossible.

For Niero, it was the natural result of pain, obsession, and refusal to stay down.

But then…

something strange happened.

No matter how hard he trained—

No matter how many times Mom beat him down—

No matter how many simulated battles he fought inside the War Room—

His level wouldn't move.

Not even by a fraction.

No countdown beep.

No chest-tightening sensation.

No Ascension pulse.

Nothing.

It was as if the system had slammed a door in his face.

Niero stared at his status window late one night, sweat still drying on his skin.

"…No."

He tried again the next day.

And the next.

Still nothing.

By the fourth day, he finally snapped.

He sat down hard in the Ego-Space War Room, breathing heavily like he had been cheated by reality itself.

"Vuldyr!" he barked telepathically. "What the hell is going on?!"

Vuldyr manifested beside him, with her expression was calm yet concern.

> ["What? Whats wrong, Kiddo?"] 

"My level," Niero growled. "It won't go up! I'm stuck at thirty!"

His voice cracked with frustration.

"I've been getting beaten half to death by my mom for months… and now the system's like 'lol no more progress'?"

He clenched his fists.

"Is Level 30 my cap?! Is that it?! Am I just stuck like this forever?!"

For a moment, the War Room was silent except for his breathing.

Then Vuldyr sighed.

> ["…Kiddo."] 

She stepped forward, eyes narrowing like she was scolding a child.

> ["Calm down, boy! Stop panicking."] 

Niero glared at her. "Don't tell me to stop panicking."

Vuldyr flicked her finger, summoning a holographic display.

-

> [ STARGOD SYSTEM: ASCENSION BOUNDARY DETECTED ]

> Ascension Realm: 1st Realm — Mortal Realm

> Current Sub-Realm: Student Phase

> Ascension Level Cap Detected: Lv.30

> Condition: Breakthrough Required

-

Vuldyr tapped the display.

> ["You hit a wall. A natural wall."] 

Niero blinked. "A… wall?"

> ["Yes,"] Vuldyr replied flatly. ["The Mortal Realm has stages. You are currently in the Student Sub-Realm."] 

Her tone became more analytical.

>["You cannot brute-force your way into the next stage with training alone. Your growth has reached the maximum stability your current spiritual foundation can support."] 

Niero's eyes narrowed.

"…So you're saying I can't level up because my body can't handle it?"

> ["Not just your body,"] Vuldyr corrected. ["Your existence. Your system synchronization. Your soul compatibility with the Stargod framework."] 

She folded her arms.

> ["If you want to go beyond Level 30, you need a breakthrough."] 

Niero swallowed.

"…How?"

Vuldyr's voice became quieter, almost serious.

> ["Meditation."] 

Niero frowned. "Meditation?"

> ["Yes. Not fighting. Not bleeding. Not brute force."] 

She pointed at his chest.

> ["You have to stabilize yourself. Align with the Stargod System. Synchronize your internal energies—Nova-Spark, Psionic resonance, and spiritual authority."] 

The holographic window shifted again.

-

Next Sub-Realm: Mortal Realm — Disciple Phase

Requirement: Spiritual Synchronization / Internal Refinement

Method: Meditation + Ego-Space Integration

-

Niero stared at it like it was insulting him.

"…That's it? I just sit down and breathe?"

Vuldyr's eyes narrowed dangerously.

> ["If you call it that again, I'll personally simulate your mother beating you for another year."] 

Niero shut up instantly.

Vuldyr continued.

> ["The Disciple Phase is where you stop being someone who borrows power…"] 

> […and become someone who can contain it.] 

Niero slowly leaned back, the frustration still boiling inside him—but now it had direction.

He exhaled.

So Level 30 wasn't his limit.

It was just the edge of his current world.

A gate.

And for once…

the only way forward wasn't through violence.

It was through stillness.

Niero clenched his jaw, eyes burning with stubborn determination.

"…Fine."

He stood up.

Then sat down again, cross-legged.

Right there in the War Room.

"Then I'll break through," he muttered.

Vuldyr smirked faintly.

> ["That's more like it."] 

And as the War Room's marble floor stretched endlessly around him, Niero closed his eyes—

and began the first step toward becoming something beyond a "Student."

-

Niero sat cross-legged on the endless marble floor of the War Room.

The silence here wasn't natural.

It wasn't peaceful.

It was the kind of silence that existed in a vacuum—where even sound felt like it needed permission to exist.

He closed his eyes, forcing his breathing to slow.

But his mind still burned.

Still restless.

Still impatient.

"…Vee," he muttered telepathically, voice strained. "Guide me on this."

Vuldyr manifested beside him in her human form, arms folded, expression unusually serious.

> ["First thing first. Relax,"] she ordered. ["Stay calm."] 

Niero clenched his jaw. "I am calm."

Vuldyr raised an eyebrow.

> ["…You're calm in the same way a grenade is calm before it explodes."] 

Niero didn't reply.

Vuldyr stepped closer.

> ["Look inward,"] she said. ["Search for your core. Your Stellarion Core."] 

Niero exhaled.

He sank deeper into himself.

Past the noise. Past the irritation. Past the instinct to fight everything with brute force.

At first… there was nothing.

Only darkness.

Only a void where his thoughts echoed like distant footsteps.

Minutes passed.

He felt frustration rising again—

until—

A faint glow appeared.

Small at first.

Then clearer.

Then undeniable.

It wasn't a "thing" he saw with eyes.

It was a sensation.

A gravitational pull inside his own existence.

Niero's breath caught.

He found it.

A massive, radiant star burning in the center of his being.

And orbiting it—

three smaller stars.

Three smaller lights circling the core like loyal satellites.

Niero's eyes widened behind his closed lids.

"…I see it."

Vuldyr's voice softened slightly.

> ["Good."] 

She pointed toward the vision, her tone almost reverent.

> ["The large star is your existence. Your soul. The true 'you.'"] 

Niero felt its weight.

It didn't just glow.

It pressed against him like a planet.

Vuldyr continued.

> ["And those three smaller ones…"] 

She paused.

> ["They represents an aspect of your existance as well as your Stargod traits; your Body, Mind, and Spirit—the Trinity of Self-Supremacy."] 

Niero swallowed.

"So that's what it really means…"

Vuldyr nodded.

> ["Now listen carefully, Kiddo. This is the starting point of your breakthrough."] 

Her eyes narrowed.

> ["You have to synchronize them."] 

Niero frowned. "Synchronize?"

> ["Yes. Align all four cores. Merge them into one stabilized Stellarion Core."] 

Her voice became firm.

> ["Not just orbiting. Not just coexisting."] 

> ["Unity and Ascension."] 

Niero's chest tightened.

"…So if I do that, I'll enter the Disciple Realm?"

> ["Disciple Sub-Realm,"] Vuldyr corrected sharply. ["Don't get too ahead of yourself."] 

Niero exhaled slowly.

Then he tried.

He focused on the three smaller stars, attempting to pull them inward.

Nothing happened.

He pushed harder.

Still nothing.

He gritted his teeth.

Again.

The stars trembled… but refused to merge.

Niero's brow twitched in irritation.

"What the hell? Why isn't it working?"

Vuldyr didn't answer immediately.

She watched him closely.

> ["Because you're forcing it,"] she finally said. ["You're treating your own existence like an enemy you can overpower."] 

Niero clenched his fists.

"I'm not forcing it."

Vuldyr scoffed.

> ["You're trying to crush the universe with stubbornness. That's your whole personality."] 

Niero fell silent.

Then he tried again.

But this time…

he didn't try to pull them together like chains.

He tried to tune them.

Like adjusting a radio.

Like matching frequencies.

And then—

He felt it.

A spark.

A friction.

A subtle resonance, like two gears grinding against each other.

Niero's breathing sharpened.

"…There."

Vuldyr's voice became low.

> ["Yes. That's it. The resonance point."] 

Niero focused.

The three smaller stars began rotating with more purpose.

Not randomly.

Not loosely.

They moved like gears—three smaller gears spinning around a massive central gear.

And for the first time, he felt it.

The rotation wasn't just motion.

It was alignment.

His body.

His mind.

His spirit.

They weren't separate.

They were parts of a machine.

Parts of a greater self.

The synchronization deepened.

The friction became warmth.

The warmth became energy.

The energy became rhythm.

Niero's heartbeat matched the rotation.

His breathing matched the orbit.

His thoughts quieted into a single clear line.

And then—

The four stars began to overlap.

For a moment, Niero felt weightless.

He felt like his entire being was about to collapse into a singular point of existence.

A single unified Stellarion Core.

A breakthrough.

A step beyond the Student Phase.

He could feel it.

He could almost touch it.

His lips parted slightly.

"…I'm doing it…"

Vuldyr's eyes narrowed, sensing it too.

> ["Yes,"] she whispered. ["Keep going."] 

Niero pushed deeper.

The stars trembled.

The fusion point brightened.

And then—

Something went wrong.

A sudden imbalance.

Like a misaligned gear snapping teeth.

The orbit stuttered.

The synchronization shattered.

And the backlash hit him like a hammer.

His chest convulsed.

His spine arched.

A violent shockwave surged through his internal pathways, ripping through his spiritual channels like molten glass.

Niero's eyes snapped open.

"Ghk—!"

He coughed.

Hard.

A thick spray of blood splattered onto the marble floor.

His breath caught, choking.

His body shook as if his organs had been struck directly.

Niero grabbed his chest, trembling violently.

"W-What…?"

Vuldyr's expression shifted instantly.

For the first time in a long time—

she looked genuinely alarmed.

> ["NIERO—!!!!!"] 

Niero coughed again, blood spilling between his fingers.

His vision blurred.

His core burned like a collapsing star.

He felt it.

That rebound wasn't normal.

That wasn't just "failed meditation."

It was a warning.

A punishment.

A rejection.

And in the War Room's endless silence, the taste of iron filled his mouth as Niero realized something terrifying:

Breaking through wasn't just hard.

It was dangerous.

Niero sat hunched forward on the marble floor, one hand pressed against his chest, the other smeared with blood.

His breathing was ragged.

His throat burned.

And every cough felt like his ribs were cracking from the inside.

"Gh… damn it…"

He spat again, crimson staining the pristine white floor like an ugly signature.

He didn't understand.

He felt it.

He had it.

He was so close—

So why did it collapse?

Vuldyr manifested instantly.

Not in her casual human form this time.

She appeared in her full humanoid manifestation—beautiful and terrifying, her body radiating soft celestial geometry. Angelic wings of shifting polygonal light unfurled behind her, and a pseudo-mechanical halo hovered above her head, spinning with silent precision like a divine machine.

She knelt beside him.

And for once, her voice didn't carry sarcasm.

It carried urgency.

> ["Easy there,"] she said, placing a hand on his back. ["Breathe nice and slow."]

Niero coughed again, blood dripping from his lips.

"What… what the hell was that…?" he rasped.

Vuldyr's eyes narrowed, scanning him as if reading invisible data lines.

"> [You achieved resonance,"] she said. ["Your four cores aligned in frequency."] 

Niero lifted his head, eyes red.

"Then why did it fail?!"

Vuldyr's wings flickered faintly.

> ["…Because alignment isn't enough."] 

She paused, searching for the right words.

> ["The synchronization began. But when the resonance point reached critical mass… it distributed."] 

"Distributed?" Niero repeated weakly.

Vuldyr nodded slowly.

> ["As if the system attempted to merge you into one Stellarion Core…"] 

> ["…but something, something related to your existence, refused cohesion."] 

Niero blinked.

His brow furrowed.

"…Cohesion?"

Vuldyr's gaze sharpened, but her answer was hesitant—because even she wasn't fully certain.

> ["It could be many things,"] she said carefully. ["Deep-rooted doubt. Fear. Inner contradictions. Unresolved trauma. A fractured mindset."] 

Her eyes lingered on him.

> ["Or something even deeper."] 

Niero stared at the blood on his hand like it didn't belong to him.

"…So you're saying I'm mentally blocking myself?"

Vuldyr didn't answer directly.

> ["I'm saying that something, maybe even possibly, your soul is not fully agreeing with itself."] 

The words hit him harder than the rebound.

Niero's jaw tightened.

He wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve, leaving a smear of red.

"No," he muttered.

Vuldyr frowned.

> ["Kiddo—"] 

"No," Niero repeated, stronger this time.

He forced himself upright despite the pain stabbing his chest.

He sat cross-legged again, straightening his back like a monk preparing for war.

His eyes closed.

His breathing slowed.

Vuldyr's voice sharpened immediately.

> ["Stop. Don't do it again."] 

Niero ignored her.

He reached inward.

He felt the Stellarion Core again—faint, shaken, but still there.

He began tuning the orbit.

The friction returned.

The resonance trembled into place.

His body shook.

His mind screamed at him to stop.

But he pushed harder.

He forced the gears to align.

He forced the stars to converge.

Then—

CRACK.

Not a sound.

A sensation.

Like an internal bone snapping in his metaphysical structure.

A second rebound slammed into him.

His eyes flew open.

"GHHK—!!"

He coughed violently.

More blood.

Thicker.

Hotter.

His chest burned like someone had shoved a blade into his lungs.

He fell forward onto his hands, trembling, gasping.

His heartbeat became chaotic.

His vision blurred at the edges.

He heard Vuldyr's voice like it was far away.

> ["NIERO!!!"]

But he still tried to sit up.

Still tried to meditate again.

Still tried to brute-force his own ascension like it was just another enemy he could beat down.

His hand rose—

His breathing steadied—

His eyes started to close—

And suddenly—

Vuldyr grabbed him.

Hard.

She yanked him back like she was pulling him away from the edge of a cliff.

Her wings flared wide, light erupting around her.

> ["ENOUGH!"] 

The force of her voice shook the War Room.

Niero froze.

His body shook in her grip.

Blood dripped from his chin onto the marble.

He glared up at her, half delirious.

"I can… do it…"

Vuldyr's eyes were sharp, furious.

> ["No,"] she hissed. ["You are not 'doing it.' You are dying."] 

Niero tried to speak.

Another cough interrupted him.

His whole torso convulsed.

Vuldyr held him steady, her grip unyielding.

> ["You don't understand the mechanism,"] she said coldly. ["You don't understand the missing factor. And you're forcing a spiritual fusion with a fractured foundation."] 

Her voice dropped, deadly serious.

> ["That's not training."] 

> ["That's suicide."] 

Niero's lips trembled.

"But… January…"

Vuldyr shook her head.

> ["January doesn't matter if you don't live to see tomorrow."] 

She pulled him into a sitting position, forcing his back straight, forcing him to breathe.

> ["Listen,"] she said, slower now. ["You need to step back."] 

> ["You need to recover."] 

> ["You need to understand what cohesion means for you."] 

Her halo spun faster, as if the system itself was alarmed.

> ["You can try again later, maybe even go through trial and errors or finding new infomation to achive breakthrough."] she said. ["But not now."] 

Niero clenched his teeth, eyes burning with frustration and helplessness.

He hated this.

He hated walls.

He hated limits.

He hated that his own existence had betrayed him.

But as his chest throbbed and his blood stained the floor, he finally couldn't deny the truth.

This wasn't like sparring with his mother.

This wasn't like fighting goblins.

This wasn't even like breaking bones.

This was different.

Because the enemy wasn't outside.

The enemy was the part of him that refused to become whole.

And forcing it only tore him apart further.

Niero sat on the War Room floor, chest still aching, breath finally steady again.

Blood stained his palm.

Bright red against pale skin.

It didn't look real.

It looked like someone else's problem.

But it was his.

He stared at it for a long time before finally lifting his eyes toward Vuldyr.

>["…Do you know what it is?"] he asked quietly. ["What's stopping me?"] 

Vuldyr's expression softened—not with pity, but with something closer to resignation.

She flicked her fingers, and a faint holographic script of the Astra Codex shimmered into existence, spinning with layers of incomprehensible symbols and system formulas.

> ["I have information,"] she admitted. ["Methods. Models. Frameworks."] 

Her wings dimmed slightly.

> ["But your lack of cohesion…"] 

She looked directly into his eyes.

> ["That isn't a technical error. It isn't a missing stat. It isn't a system limitation."] 

She paused, her voice becoming quieter.

> ["It's something inside you. A part of you that refuses to become whole."] 

Niero's throat tightened.

"So… you don't know."

Vuldyr shook her head slowly.

> ["No. Because the answer isn't something we can find within the Codex."] 

She pointed to his chest.

> ["It's within you. Somewhere deeper than your body. Deeper than your mind. Deeper than your spirit."] 

Her tone sharpened again.

> ["A place beyond my reach. Beyond the Stargod System's analysis."] 

Then she leaned closer, eyes narrowing.

> ["You want the truth, Kiddo?"] 

Niero didn't blink.

Vuldyr's voice dropped into something almost intimate.

> ["Whatever is stopping you… is something you have to uncover by yourself."] 

Niero didn't respond.

> ["At this point, take your time to do so, to understand it. Okay?"] 

He only looked down at his bloody hand again, frustration burning behind his eyes—yet beneath it, something else.

Curiosity.

A gnawing unease.

A question he couldn't name.

What part of me is broken?

And why did it refuse to breakthrough?

-

=====

-

> [ STARGOD SYSTEM: ASCENSION STATS ]

-

> Ascension Realm:1st Realm: Mortal Realm (R-01.1: Student -> R-01.2: Disciple) 

> Ascension Phase:Phase 3: Sovereign Phase 

> Ascension Level:21 -> 30 (+9 leveling point) 

-

> Health Points:150 / 150 

> Shield Points:100 / 100 

> Energy Points:150 / 150 

-

> STR (Strength):02.30 -> 02.85 (increased by +0.55) 

> AGI (Agility):02.30 -> 02.85 (increased by +0.55) 

> END (Endurance):02.30 -> 02.85 (increased by +0.55) 

> INT (Intelligence): 02.30 -> 02.85 (increased by +0.55) 

> PER (Perception): 02.30 -> 02.85 (increased by +0.55) 

> LUK (Luck): 02.30 -> 02.85 (increased by +0.55) 

> CRM (Charm):01.30 -> 01.85 (increased by +0.55) 

> CRT (Critical Rate):02.30 -> 02.85 (increased by +0.55) 

-

> Unused Ascension (leveling) Points:14 Available (+9 points) 

> Unused Stargod Boon Roll:2 Available

> Unused Empyrean Reliquary Boon roll:2 Available

-

=====

-

<<<[ Ch 24, Part 01 - END ]>>>