The acid rain in Scrapyard 7 always carried the sour stench of rust and low-grade battery acid.

  Kane stood in purple mud that reached his ankles, looking up.

  In the evening sky, piercing through the heavy radiation clouds, was a massive, gleaming Kunlun Corp. aerial fortress.

  It drifted slowly over the abandoned earth, its underbelly projecting a colossal holographic neon advertisement—a commercial for zero-pollution purified water by Genesis Power.

  The cold, blinding neon blue light illuminated the trash heaps below in vivid detail.

  The sky belonged to those living on the uppermost layers of the floating islands. People at the bottom, like Kane, could only dig for food in the muck like wild dogs.

  Kane withdrew his gaze. He had just spent several hours soaking in radioactive wastewater and was now dragging back the mangled corpse of a mutated hyena to finish his shift.

  He was a "Scavenger," or as the local gangs more commonly and maliciously called them—Corpse-Dogs.

  Kane’s daily job was to process combat remains.

  Whether it was the corpse of a cyber-psycho or the severed chunks of a mutated beast, it all fell to him.

  "Kid, move your ass! Those bastards from the Vulture Gang just finished a scrap with a pack of Shadow Stalkers. There are parts everywhere, high-end and cheap ones alike."

  Old Phil’s greasy voice crackled over the radio.

  Kane didn't answer. He simply crouched down, using his mechanical prosthetic fingers to poke through the pile of corpses Old Phil had mentioned and continued working...

  He dragged the meat chunks toward the incineration pit, his expression blank. His eyes were as cold as steel on a wasteland winter night.

  Repeating the same work every day, he had long since become numb.

  "Hm?"

  Kane’s movements paused as he dragged the corpse of an exceptionally large Shadow Stalker.

  The heart of this Shadow Stalker was still beating with extreme weakness. One claw twitched neurotically.

  It wasn't fully dead.

  According to the rules, he should report this immediately. On the other end of the radio, Old Phil would sell that intel to the Vulture Gang without hesitation in exchange for a few bottles of cheap booze.

  Kane’s eyes flickered, his mind calculating rapidly.

  A living, heavily injured Shadow Stalker was worth far more than a pile of scrap.

  Its nerve bundles and sharp claws could fetch a good price on the black market.

  He looked around. The wasteland wind kicked up dust; no one was watching this corner.

  Do it.

  Kane pulled a rust-stained military dagger from his waist. It was his only self-defense weapon.

  He stayed low, approaching step by step.

  The Shadow Stalker seemed to sense the killing intent. A "he-he" rattling threat emerged from its throat, its golden vertical pupils locked onto him.

  Now!

  Kane lunged forward, pinning the Shadow Stalker with his full body weight. The dagger in his hand thrust precisely into its neck.

  Puchi!

  Warm blood sprayed across his face.

  The Shadow Stalker struggled violently. Its razor-sharp claws scraped against his cheap protective suit with a piercing screech, leaving behind a wound deep enough to see bone.

  Kane gritted his teeth. His hands gripped the hilt deathly tight as he twisted with force!

  "Awoooo—"

  After a shrill, miserable cry, the Shadow Stalker went completely still.

  Kane exhaled and slumped to the ground, panting heavily.

  The sharp pain in his arm made beads of sweat roll down his forehead, but an excited glint flickered in his eyes.

  This was a massive score.

  However, in the next second, something bizarre happened.

  A green Essence Orb the size of a fist slowly drifted from the Shadow Stalker’s corpse and hovered near the ground.

  It emitted a soft glow, and the surrounding air seemed to warm in its presence.

  Kane froze.

  What was this? A hallucination? Or some new type of energy leak?

  He instinctively reached out his right hand, intending to touch it.

  The moment his fingertips were about to make contact with the orb, a star-shaped scar on his palm suddenly turned searing hot!

  "Sss!"

  The agonizing heat made Kane jerk his hand back, but it was too late.

  Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  The green Essence Orb acted as if it were being pulled by a magnetic force. It transformed into a streak of light and instantly vanished into his palm.

  A warm current surged up his arm and flooded his entire body. The deep, bone-deep gash on his arm actually began to heal and scab over at a speed visible to the naked eye!

  In barely ten seconds, the wound was reduced to nothing more than a faint red mark.

  As the burning sensation faded, it was replaced by a coldness that seeped into his very marrow.

  Kane’s breath hitched. He slowly raised his right hand, his movements as stiff as rusted machinery.

  The star-shaped scar on his palm was no longer a dull flesh tone. It had turned pitch black, looking like a miniature black hole, its edges flickering with ominous, ghost-green threads of light that only he could see.

  This wasn't healing. It was more like… some kind of parasitism and reconstruction.

  The mutation of the mark acted like a key, violently prying open the shackles of his memory.

  Old Tock’s cold corpse, the night the mark first formed on his palm… scene after scene exploded uncontrollably in his mind, overlapping with the eerie sight on his hand.

  The sensation wasn't conveyed through words, but through a more direct, primal infusion of information.

  It felt as if a red-hot iron needle had been driven into his cerebral cortex, branding images deep into his consciousness.

  Immediately after, a massive flood of information followed—chaotic and brutal, as if the Shadow Stalker’s dying wails and resentment were being poured into his brain.

  He "saw" how the green light was extracted from the Shadow Stalker’s corpse and how it was greedily "devoured" by the seal on his palm.

  The seal… had activated.

  It had absorbed the Shadow Stalker's… soul fragments?

  Suddenly, a brand-new sense of power surged up his spine, instantly spreading through his limbs.

  A tingling sting shot through his nerve endings; his muscle fibers felt as if they were being stretched and reshaped by invisible hands.

  Flashbacks of the Shadow Stalker’s life—every leap, every kick-off, every hunt—flickered through his mind in a blur.

  A faint golden filter suddenly overlaid his retina. The dead wasteland around him became vibrant with color—he could see the flow of air currents and lingering traces of heat.

  He realized his pupils were constricting violently. He could even hear a beast-like low growl mingling with the rhythm of his own heartbeat.

  He instinctively looked at a withered leaf being tossed by the wind in the distance. As it drifted, he found himself actually predicting the exact angle of its next tumble.

  There was an indescribable sensation lingering in his heart, but in the next instant, he understood exactly what power he had obtained. It was as if this ability had been naturally etched into his brain from birth.

  Kane’s mind went blank, only to be filled by a violent roaring sensation.

  This was no hallucination!

  The searing star-shaped mark on his palm, the skin on his arm now smooth as it had ever been, and the unprecedented lightness surging through his limbs—it was all ruthlessly shattering a decade’s worth of common sense.

  In this world, the only path to power was through expensive cybernetics and weaponry purchased with piles of cash. That was the iron law of the wasteland!

  But now… he looked down at his hands. These hands, which only knew how to process trash and corpses, had actually torn a hole in that iron law.

  A surge of ecstasy erupted from his heart like molten lava, making him want to howl at the sky.

  Power! This was power!

  If he had possessed this kind of strength back then, would his mentor, Old Tock, have had to die?

  But a second later, that peak of ecstasy was strangled by a wariness rooted deep in his marrow.

  He shuddered violently, glancing around to confirm he was alone before curling into the shadows of a scrap pile.

  Calm down, Kane. You have to stay calm! he told himself repeatedly, his teeth chattering from a mix of excitement and lingering fear.

  This secret was more important than the half-dose of antibiotics he had hidden under his bedboards. it was the only trump card that could keep him alive—or get him killed even faster.

  He stared blankly at his hand, muttering to himself, "Kill a creature... gain an ability... Old Tock, what exactly did you leave me? Did you even know about this yourself...?"

  Old Phil’s raspy laughter crackled over the radio: "Kid, you moved that Shadow Stalker corpse yet? That thing is heavy. If you can't manage, wait for me to bring a couple of brothers over to give you a hand."

  Old Phil’s malicious voice came through once more.

  Kane’s eyes turned cold. He grabbed the radio and replied flatly, "Quit nagging. The body’s too mangled. It’s a mess to clean up."

  He quickly finished processing the Shadow Stalker's remains, hiding the valuable parts within a hidden layer of a scrap pile before slowly pushing the incinerator cart back.

  Kane didn't rush. He used the Shadow Stalker’s claw to slice open his sleeve, stuffing the precious nerve bundle into the deepest part of his shirt. Then, he grabbed a handful of sand mixed with machine oil and smeared it thickly over the pitch-black mark on his right hand.

  He had to remain the same submissive scavenger—at least until he had the power to tear these jackals apart.

  Just as he returned to the Scrapyard 7 processing area, a man wearing a Vulture Gang vest blocked his path.

  It was a bald man with a hideous scar running across his face. He toyed with a steel pipe, aimlessly pointing it toward Kane.

  "Kid, I heard you struck it rich today?" the scarred man asked, his smile not reaching his eyes.

  Kane’s heart sank.

  The news had leaked. It was Old Phil.

  He remained composed and replied, "Just a few chunks of rotten meat. You’re joking, Scar-face."

  "Rotten meat?" Scar-face shook the radio in his hand. From it came Old Phil’s greasy voice: "...Yeah, that big one. I’m certain the kid hid something good. Scar-face, don't forget that bottle of 'Fire-Throat' after this..."

  The audio cut off. He looked at Kane, whose face had instantly darkened, with a playful expression. "Hear that? Straight from Old Phil’s mouth. It's a Shadow Stalker nerve bundle, isn't it? Those things aren't cheap."

  "Hand it over, and we’ll call it even for today."

  Scar-face clearly lacked patience. "Otherwise, I don't mind stripping the bones from your body to see what they’re worth."

  Kane’s gaze swept over him, his heart hammering against his ribs.

  Ten minutes ago, his only choice would have been to surrender the item, kneel and beg for mercy, and pray the man would let him go.

  But now... he felt a restless sense of power surging from deep within his muscles.

  A foreign impulse burned in his blood.

  The world seemed to slow down slightly in his eyes.

  He could see the almost imperceptible tension in the muscles of Scar-face’s fingers as they gripped the steel pipe; the rise and fall of his chest with every heavy breath; the way his feet shifted, bracing to lunge.

  This wasn't thought—it was a beastly instinct. The predatory nature of the Shadow Stalker was screaming a warning in his mind: He’s about to move!

  A mad thought grew uncontrollably—perhaps he didn't have to live like a dog anymore.

  The desperate look in Old Tock’s eyes as he was dragged away flashed through his mind.

  No! Never again!

  Kane’s gaze shifted from tension and hesitation to a flash of cold, hard resolve.

  "Hand it over," Scar-face pressured, stepping closer as the steel pipe scraped against the ground with a piercing screech. "And I might make your death quick."

  Kane stared him down, every muscle in his body taut.

  The beastly power within him was waking up, clamoring, hungering.

  It wasn't fear.

  It was a bloodthirsty, primal urge to tear apart the threat in front of him.

  His right hand reached for the military dagger at his waist—the one he used for processing corpses.

  In the center of his palm, the five-pointed star seal radiated a searing heat.

  Him—a "Corpse-Dog" who had spent three years struggling to survive in the scrap heaps.

  The other—a cold-blooded gang butcher.

  In the shadows of the scrapyard, the roles of hunter and prey were flipping.

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