She needed every tool she could get. A new awareness pulsed in her mind, distinct from the shock of the bounty file. A skill, waiting.

  “Miri,” she subvocalized, her breath still ragged. “Did you say you see my status window?”

  “Yes, Phantom.”

  “Useful. Since when?”

  “Since the last system update, concurrent with your class acquisition. The Nexus’s data stream is partially legible to my sensors.”

  “If you notice any changes in yourself, please notify me. I trust you.”

  “Phantom, my core programming is—”

  “Spare me that. I trust you. The entity I’m talking to right now.”

  A barely perceptible pause. “Affirmative.”

  The trust was a gamble, but a calculated one. Miri was her tether, the only piece of her old reality that hadn’t betrayed her or turned into a cosmic-scale terrorist.

  Her mind turned to the skill. The acid spray and the fireball. Surviving them back-to-back had clearly pushed something. A pattern was emerging: risk and adaptation, not comfort and routine, generated skills. Though, she thought, remembering the endless, mind-numbing punches against the stone slab, maybe sheer, brutal repetition could do it too—it just had a much higher threshold.

  She focused inward. The skill crystallized.

  [Shedded Alabaster Carapace of War – Rank 0]

  [Permanent Construct. Reduces all physical injury, including kinetic and environmental damage, by 65% while worn. Impairs movement speed of the user by 70%. Only affects the creator. Requires full set to function and protects all parts of the skill user’s body, even exposed areas without armor. Durability scales based on the physique of the user during creation. Cooldown: 1 month.]

  Jess let out a low whistle that was half-pain, half-appreciation. The trade-off was as brutal as it was clear: near-invulnerability for glacial speed. A tank. A bastion. A stationary target if you used it wrong.

  But a permanent construct. That changed things.

  Without hesitation, she willed it into her third and final Core Slot. The familiar system messages flickered.

  [Shedded Alabaster Carapace of War slotted into Rank Zero Core Slot Three. Remove at will. One-day cooldown until the core slot can be reused. One-month cooldown for re-manifesting this skill’s construct.]

  One month if she lost it. Planning required. No helmet, she noted. But the description said it covered everything. She focused on activating it.

  There was no flash of light. Instead, the air around her cooled several degrees. From her skin outward, a substance bloomed. It wasn’t summoned; it was excreted, a rapid, silent secretion of a matte, off-white material that flowed over her limbs and torso like liquid porcelain before hardening in an instant. It formed interlocking plates—a chest piece, segmented arm guards (two pieces each), leg greaves, gauntlets, boots. It was seamless where it needed to be, articulated at the joints. It fit her perfectly, as if grown from a mold of her own body. No spikes, no ornamentation, just an uneven, organic-looking carapace the color of old bone.

  She felt… insulated. The persistent ache of her wounds faded to a distant murmur. She took a step.

  It was like wading through solidified syrup. Her body, capable of sprinting through a forest moments ago, now fought against a profound, dragging inertia. Every motion required conscious, deliberate effort. She knocked a fist against her chest plate. A deep, solid thunk answered, like striking seasoned oak.

  I feel like an ivory tank. Or a battering ram. A slow one. At Level 2, this was a devastating trade.

  She looked at the thick trunk of a nearby tree, a reckless, gamer-brain impulse surfacing. Run at it. Test it. She quashed the thought immediately. No, Jess. No running headfirst into trees. No jumping off cliffs. Not yet.

  But then the real synergy hit her. The memory of the orbital drop, the crushing impact, her bones knitting themselves back together. This armor… this was the answer to that. Not for evasion. For terminal ballistics. For turning a devastating landing into a tactical entry.

  A grim, exhilarated smile touched her lips. “Thank you, Nexus. You really know what momma needs.”

  The power of it was staggering for a Rank Zero skill. “Unique Class and a lifetime of orbital drops,” she muttered, hefting an arm that felt like it weighed fifty kilos. “Tailoring the skills to me. That feels like cheating.”

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  But it was a cheat with a cost. If it was destroyed in combat, she’d be without it for a month. She couldn’t just hot-swap it mid-fight. It required strategy, foresight.

  Another realization dawned. The pieces, now fully formed, felt… disconnected from the skill itself. She focused on willing the armor away. Not de-slotted, just dismissed.

  The carapace didn’t vanish. Instead, the plates unsealed with soft, ceramic clicks and fell away from her body, landing on the soft moss without a sound. She was left in her tattered biosuit, but the armor pieces lay there, intact. She picked up the chest plate. It was surprisingly light for its apparent density and volume. She could bundle the set together, carry it. It was equipment now, not just an active effect.

  Situational. But powerful.

  Storing it for now was the smart play. She couldn’t outrun a Rank Two Tracker at 30% speed. She bundled the cool, smooth plates together, using strips of her ruined biosuit to tie them into a tight, manageable pack. The weight was noticeable, but not crippling.

  She slung the bundle over her shoulder, her body feeling thrillingly light and fast again without the carapace’s burden. She was bruised, burned, hunted, and her target was now the most complicated person in two universes.

  The immediate needs of the present were a welcome anchor, pulling her mind from the vertigo of cosmic bounties and lost friends. There was a more immediate responsibility: a hungry hatchling.

  Nearly a day in the Beast Space without water. She hadn’t wanted to torture the thing. Food wasn’t strictly necessary yet, but who knew when it had its last—or first—real meal?

  She focused on the mental compartment, the Beast Space, and willed the hatchling forth. There was a soft pop of displaced air, and the fluffy white Terror Beak materialized on the moss.

  It blinked its large, dark eyes, disoriented for a second. Then it saw her.

  “Coo!”

  It did a little, unsteady dance, its long legs tripping over each other.

  “COO!”

  It waddled forward and pressed its blunt, soft beak against her leg. She reached down, scratching the surprisingly soft down at the base of its neck.

  “COOOOO!” it trilled, a sound of pure, simple delight.

  “Come on, follow me,” she said, her voice softer than she’d used in days.

  It stumbled after her to the bank of the black-water pond. Seeing the water, it let out a greedy series of “Gulk! Gulk! Gulk!” sounds, dipping its beak and drinking deeply.

  Watching it, the practical problem returned. What to feed it? She still refused to give it parts of its own mother. That was a line.

  She thought through the options. Spearfishing? One of the hardest primitive skills to master without training. She didn’t have years. A hook and line? She didn’t know the local bait, habits, or have a proper rod or float. Weaving a net would take ages.

  Forget fish. Go for bigger, simpler protein.

  Her eyes tracked one of the giant dragonflies as it hummed past, its body as long as her forearm. Not a leech. Not some weird, possibly toxic insect. That would do.

  Then, the other matter. A name. She looked at the fluffy predator-to-be, imagining it full-grown, a titanic terror bird. Rex was tempting, but… too pompous. Terry. Terry Rex. That had a ring to it. A little ridiculous, which fit the absurdity of her situation.

  “Alright then. Come on, Terry. Let’s catch you some food.”

  The hunt was short. The dragonflies were fast, but predictable in their hovering patrols. A well-thrown rock (a skill honed over countless missions where ammo ran low) brought one down in a clatter of broken wings. Terry watched, fascinated, as she used her knife to pry away the iridescent carapace. Underneath was firm, pale white meat, surprisingly dry, with no ichor or odd liquids.

  She tossed a chunk to Terry. The hatchling snapped it up with a surprisingly swift peck, swallowed, and let out a satisfied “Coorrk!”

  Curious, she cut a sliver for herself and tasted it. The texture was like dense crabmeat, the flavor mild and clean. “Not bad…” Then she felt it—a faint, effervescent tingle in her stomach, a subtle warmth that seeped into her limbs. The deep-seated fatigue from the run and fight lessened, just a fraction.

  “Miri? Any changes in my vitals?”

  “Yes. Your muscular micro-tears are recovering at a 0.3% accelerated rate. Pulmonary efficiency has increased marginally. Glycogen synthesis in your liver is receiving a constant, minuscule supplementation. Your overall fatigue markers are declining.”

  “Stamina recovery? In real-time?”

  “Affirmative, Phantom.”

  “Measure duration and effect.”

  To test it, she spent the next twenty minutes in a cycle of low jumps and shadow-boxing jabs—not enough to trigger her bash skill, but enough to burn energy. The usual draining exhaustion was there, but it was… countered. A tiny, persistent trickle of vitality kept her from hitting a wall. She could maintain low-exertion tasks in a near-perpetual cycle. Throwing a full-power punch would still drain her reserves, but the recovery between efforts was noticeably quicker.

  “It’s approximately 0.21% of your total stamina reserve per second. The effect is catalyzed by a substance saturated with altered cyan energy breaking down in your digestive tract.”

  “And it’s gone now? So the effect lasts about twenty minutes after ingestion?”

  “Data logged. Designation: Giant Dragonfly meat, presumed water-adjacent hatchling biome. Provides twenty minutes of continuous low-level stamina recovery. Phantom, do you require me to track another specimen?”

  “Not for now,” she said, watching Terry peck at another piece. “It’s just good to know they exist.”

  The practical discovery was filed away. But it was the other revelation that now dictated her next move. Kirael. Kilean. The bounty file had changed everything.

  She stared into the darkening forest, towards where the village lay. Her earlier plan—to avoid the scouts and the complication—was obsolete. The village held clues. Stories of a “Saintess from the sky.” History. Maybe even a trail. If he had been here for centuries, he’d left a mark. She needed data.

  She clenched her fist, the new muscle density a comforting solidity. “What did you do here?” she whispered into the twilight, the question aimed at the ghost of a friend now labeled a terrorist. “I hope you’re alright.”

  But sentiment wouldn’t keep her alive. The calculation was cold now. The scouts were an obstacle. Before, she’d avoided lethal force. Now, with the stakes personal and galactic, her rules of engagement had shifted.

  If the scouts stood in her way tonight, she would no longer just evade them.

  She would go through them.