A damp chill clung to Lucien. Every shadow seemed to stretch, twisting into accusing fingers. Whispers of the "Whispering Shadow" were already circulating. His heart hammered a frantic rhythm against his ribs. He needed to disappear, to become truly invisible, before the legends he'd accidentally forged became his undoing.
Raw hunger gnawed at his stomach. Days of meager scraps had left him weak, his resolve wavering. Survival was a constant, brutal negotiation. He needed a place, a temporary refuge, and food. The slums, for all their squalor, offered anonymity.
He watched the teeming alleys from a hidden alcove. Merchants hawked their wares, their voices raspy. Beggars huddled in doorways. A wizened old man, his back hunched, meticulously arranged a display of rusted tools and discarded trinkets outside a cluttered stall. Silas, a notorious fence, known for his sharp mind and even sharper tongue.
Silas had a reputation. He bought anything, sold anything, and asked no questions. He also paid poorly, but discretion was his true commodity. Lucien observed him, a plan beginning to form.
This wasn't about grand schemes. This was about living to see another sunrise. His F-rank skill, Attribute Archive, was a secret weapon, too dangerous to fully reveal. He had to offer a diluted version, a palatable lie.
Slowly, Lucien emerged from the shadows. His steps were measured, his expression carefully neutral. Silas, without looking up, grunted. "Lost? Or just another rat looking for crumbs?"
"Neither," Lucien replied, his voice low, steady. He approached the stall, his gaze sweeping over the various items. A rusted iron bar, a chipped ceramic bowl, a torn leather strap. Each held attributes, waiting to be extracted.
Silas finally lifted his head. His eyes, like chips of flint, narrowed. "Then what? I'm busy."
"I have a… unique skill," Lucien began. He chose his words with precision. "I can refine materials. Not just purify, but extract their core essence. Make them better. Purer."
Silas snorted, a dry, rattling sound. "Everyone has a 'skill' in the slums, boy. Most of them involve taking what isn't theirs." His gaze lingered on Lucien's empty hands, then drifted to his worn clothing.
"This is different." Lucien picked up a small, dull piece of iron. It was heavily corroded, practically worthless. He held it for a moment, his fingers brushing the rough surface. Inside, the Attribute Archive whirred. He didn't want to show too much, just enough to pique interest.
Concentrating, he performed a partial extraction. Not a full Attribute Transfer, not a storage. Just a focused purification, pulling out the impurities, leaving a denser, cleaner metallic core. It was a trick, a sleight of hand of his own power.
He placed the now slightly shinier, visibly denser piece of iron back on the stall. The change was subtle, but undeniable. The rust was gone, the surface smoother, hinting at the metal's true nature.
Silas picked it up, turning it over in his calloused fingers. His brow furrowed. "What sorcery is this?" His voice held a hint of genuine curiosity, overriding his usual cynicism. "It feels… heavier. Cleaner."
"It's refined," Lucien stated. "I can do this with various materials. Metal, wood, even some raw elements. For a price."
"A price?" Silas scoffed, but the flinty eyes held a calculating glint. "And what do you ask, 'refiner'? Gold? Silver? I see no coin in your pockets."
Lucien met his gaze. "Food. A place to sleep. Discretion. And access to your… inventory. Things you consider worthless, I might be able to make valuable."
He felt a pang of guilt. This was deception, a carefully constructed façade. He was exploiting the old man's ignorance, hiding the true, terrifying scope of his power. But the gnawing hunger, the fear of exposure, pushed the guilt down. Survival demanded deception. His past self, the insignificant man from Earth, had taught him that powerlessness was a death sentence.
Silas leaned back, rubbing his chin. He was clearly weighing the risks, the potential rewards. The old merchant was a predator, but Lucien was a survivor. He had to be the smarter one in this twisted game of pawns.
"Access to my inventory, you say?" Silas finally spoke. "And you'll just… take things?"
"Only what you deem worthless," Lucien clarified. "I don't steal. I transform. What good is a rusted bucket to you? I can turn it into usable metal. Or take a rotten plank, and give you pure, unblemished wood."
Silas thought for a long moment. He eyed Lucien, searching for tells, for a hint of trickery. Lucien remained impassive. His poker face was well-practiced, a shield forged in a lifetime of being overlooked.
"Alright, boy," Silas finally conceded. "We'll try this little 'skill' of yours. One rusted anvil. Turn it into usable iron. If it's pure, if it's what you say… then we talk terms. Food and a corner of the backroom. Don't think for a moment you'll be sleeping on silk, mind you."
Relief, cold and sharp, washed over Lucien. He had bought himself time. A small victory, a temporary reprieve. He followed Silas into the back of the cluttered stall, the air thick with the smell of old metal and dust. The backroom was worse, a claustrophobic space piled high with forgotten junk. A cot, no more than a few planks covered with a threadbare blanket, was shoved into a corner.
Silas pointed to a massive, heavily rusted anvil, half-buried under a pile of broken tools. "There. The smith down the street tossed it. Too far gone, he said. Let's see your 'magic' on that."
Lucien approached the anvil. Its surface was pitted, a landscape of decay. He placed both hands on its cold, rough exterior. The Attribute Archive hummed to life, eagerly identifying the 'Iron' attribute within. This time, he didn't hold back. He initiated a full extraction, pulling the raw 'Iron' attribute directly into his Archive. The anvil, stripped of its core attribute, crumbled into a pile of red-brown dust, a hollow husk.
From his Archive, Lucien then projected the pure 'Iron' attribute onto his palm. It coalesced, shimmering, a solid, palm-sized ingot of incredibly dense, perfectly smooth metal. It was pure, unblemished, far beyond what any mundane forge could produce. This was an attribute made manifest, not mere refined metal.
He presented it to Silas. The old man took it, his eyes widening. He ran his thumb over the flawless surface, his expression shifting from skepticism to awe. This wasn't merely 'cleaner' or 'denser'. This was something else entirely.
Silas, examining the refined 'Iron' Lucien extracted from a rusted anvil, mutters, "Such purity… only the gods or the Shadow Lord could achieve this." Lucien's blood runs cold.