Chương 3: The Return

By the time he finished, the primeval forest had sunk into full darkness. Rowan stared at the dulled Möbius ring birthmark on his right wrist, tentatively bringing the freshly harvested earth-yellow mana crystal closer to it. Unfortunately, even when pressed completely against his skin, there was no reaction. Calming down, Rowan observed it more closely and noticed that the birthmark's ashen, greyish hue seemed to be slowly deepening over time. Is this some sort of recharging process?

Fighting through the sheer exhaustion in his body, he found a natural hollow formed by the thick, arching roots of a giant tree nearby and curled up inside. To replenish his severely overdrawn stamina, Rowan used his knife to whittle off a handful of dry wood shavings. He wasn't a formal mage yet, meaning he couldn't cast spells bare-handed, and the spell burned into his Aether Core was water-based.

Left with no other choice, he sprinkled a pinch of cheap, low-grade Alchemical Combustion Powder he kept on him to ignite a small campfire. He then skewered the two skinned rabbit legs and set them over the flames to roast. Back in the Seventh Abyssal Hive, the bottom-feeders survived meal-to-meal on "Synthetic Nutrient Paste"—a slop churned out from recycled proteins and a flood of chemical flavoring.

Even though the Consortium had "thoughtfully" developed dozens of flavors like beef and apple, the gooey, gelatinous texture always made him feel like he was swallowing cold caulking paste. The rabbit meat sizzled over the fire. There was no salt, no spices—only the pure, unadulterated aroma of fat forced out by the high heat. When Rowan tore off a piece of golden-brown roasted meat and shoved it into his mouth, his movements instantly froze.

The firm, authentic meat fibers, the explosive, pure savory flavor, and a surge of mild natural mana that flowed warmly down his throat... It washed over him like a hot spring, rapidly soothing his aching muscles. At that moment, he felt like everything he had consumed over the past twenty years of his life was nothing more than indescribable industrial garbage. After wolfing down the meal, the energy contained within the rabbit meat restored most of Rowan's stamina.

Although he had no water, he felt he lacked the energy to go searching for a water source right now anyway. Rowan licked his chapped lips, suppressing the absurd urge to release a water blade from his Aether Core just to quench his thirst. In this perilous forest, that spell was his absolute last line of defense; even if he were dying of thirst, he couldn't squander it. After setting up a crude, primitive warning trap, Rowan lay down heavily, overwhelmed by endless fatigue.

That was how his first night in another world passed. The next morning, Rowan woke up to hunger, thirst, and muscle soreness. Seeing the break of dawn, he didn't choose to just sit and wait. Instead, he forced his body up and cautiously crept out of the tree hollow, attempting to scout the surrounding environment. After exploring for about half an hour, he stopped dead in his tracks in front of a low-lying ravine, holding his breath.

Just a few dozen meters ahead, a tiny natural Mana Spring oozed forth from the earth, its essence pure liquefied mana rather than the water of ordinary springs. Rowan's eyes locked onto it. The very first page of his textbook stated: Mana Springs originate from a Mana Primordium. And the second page read: A Mana Primordium is the first catalyst required for a mortal to become a mage, also known as the Origin Catalyst. This was his hope of becoming a true mage!

The author's tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. However, the light that had just sparked in his eyes instantly froze. Resting in the colossal tree's shadow behind the spring was a terrifying beast the size of a heavy tank. It was covered in thick, rocky carapace armor. Every heavy breath it took sent ripples across the surface of the nearby stream. That has to be a mid-tier Tier 1 Mana-Beast! Just the oppressive aura radiating from it made Rowan's hairs stand on end.

Pluck the catalyst? Walking up there was a death sentence. Rowan bit his lip so hard he tasted the rusty tang of blood, forcefully suppressing the raging greed in his brain. Without making a single sound, he slowly backed away, decisively retracing his steps.... After a full night, the birthmark had gradually returned to its original state. Having roughly scouted the surrounding terrain, and knowing there was a dangerous Tier 1 beast nearby, Rowan didn't dare make any rash moves.

He decided to wait in place for the birthmark to finish "recharging." Eventually, the birthmark on his right wrist regained its profound, pitch-black color, a faint luster surfacing on its skin once more. Glancing at his AR projection, he noted that roughly 24 hours had passed. Taking a deep breath, Rowan carefully recalled the sensation of his first transit. He channeled his mental power into the birthmark. It responded, pulsing like a heartbeat.

The spatial rift peeled open silently within the tree hollow, and Rowan vanished into the void once again. Hummm—! The familiar, sour stench of the underhive sewers, the smell of rusted metal, and the faint, erratic buzzing of neon lights in the distance instantly enveloped him. He was back! He immediately checked his own condition and found that his mana had been depleted by about a third. As expected, the transit consumes energy. The waste heat from the overload must have fueled it the first time.

Rowan glanced at the mechanical clock on the wall, his expression shifting slightly. A full day had passed in the world of Terra as well. The flow of time between the two worlds was 1: 1! After confirming nothing unusual had happened during his absence, Rowan swiftly changed into a baggy, worn-out grey hoodie. He pulled on a filtration mask that covered most of his face, tucked his bundle of "loot" into his jacket, and slipped out the iron door. The Seventh Abyssal Hive. The Black Market.

"Scrap Iron Street". The air here was perpetually thick with the stench of machine lubricant and the bloody metallic tang of illegal cybernetic surgeries. Rowan skillfully navigated a labyrinth of alleyways before stepping into a dim shop bearing a battered sign: Second-hand Magitech Component Recycling.

"We don't take junk. Only the real deal." The appraiser was an old man with half his skull encased in metal plating. His cybernetic eye scanned up and down the scrawny, undocumented kid hidden beneath the hood. Without a word, Rowan slapped his bundle onto the grease-stained counter and peeled back the broad leaves.

The moment that mana crystal—radiating a pure earthy-yellow halo—the two dagger-like saber teeth, and the peculiarly patterned scraps of fur were exposed to the air, the appraiser's mechanical eyeball emitted a sharp, whirring sound as it frantically autofocused.

"This purity..." The old man's hand jerked violently. He looked up at Rowan in shock.

"Did you poach this from an Animal Reserve? Or did you break into some tycoon's Private Ecological Park?!" On resource-depleted Terra, beast materials brimming with such primal, natural mana could only be found within the private estates of the wealthy elite.

"Cut the crap. Make an offer if you can afford it. If not, I'll find another buyer." Rowan deliberately lowered his voice, his right hand buried deep in his pocket as if wrapped around a hidden trigger. Staring at the materials, the old man's Adam's apple bobbed as he swallowed hard.

"The mana crystal is incredibly pure, top-tier alchemical base material. The fur is a bit ruined since it's sliced in half, but these teeth... they are excellent armor-piercing materials." The old man's fingers danced across a battered credit-tallying console, eyes darting.

"One price. 1, 500 Terra Credits."

"3, 000. I won't sell for a credit less."

"2, 000. Any more, and I'll be taking on the risk of the Consortium's security forces knocking down my door." Two thousand. Rowan did the math rapidly in his head. Renting out his brain's processing power day and night through excruciating heat only netted him 45 credits a pop. This sum was an unimaginable windfall for him.

"Deal." When the balance of 2, 000 Terra Credits hit his account, Rowan didn't feel the wild ecstasy he had expected. All he felt was the profound relief of a drowning man on the verge of suffocation who finally takes a massive gulp of fresh oxygen. Stepping out of the black market, his stomach rumbled in protest.

Rowan walked over to the "Premium Synthetic Steakhouse" on the corner and splurged a full 50 credits on the "Exclusive A-Grade Synthetic Steak" he usually only dared to drool over through the display window. The chef sprayed the sizzling steak with a thick mist of flavor-enhancing chemicals, then drowned it in industrial-grade sauce. Rowan used a plastic fork to cut off a huge chunk and shoved it into his mouth. Sweet, salty, spicy—the chemical spices exploded violently in his mouth.

Yet, on a tongue that had just been baptized by "otherworldly wild rabbit meat," it simply couldn't mask that dry, synthetic, industrial plastic texture.

"Just higher-grade garbage..." Rowan chewed expressionlessly. His gaze pierced through the dilapidated alleys, looking toward the distant, towering upper levels of the colossal hive—squatting like a massive beast over the city. Up there were the brilliant lights of the Consortium, burning eternally bright as day. He checked the numbers in his account. Adding his meager previous savings, he had 2, 150 Terra Credits. This money would become his starting capital for supplies.

It was the first step toward his military practical assessment in three months... and the first step toward making that high-and-mighty, filthy-rich Consortium prince pay the ultimate price.