The glare of a hundred optical lenses burned through Nithos, sharper than any blade. Guildmaster Morvan, a predator in a pristine uniform, stood too close, his breath smelling of sweetened synth-wine. Morvan’s fingers, adorned with gaudy guild rings, curled around the Crypt-Librarian insignia pinned to Nithos’s threadbare tunic. Around them, the Oravan Academy courtyard, usually a bustling hub of armored cadets, was silent, save for the rhythmic hum of the Bastion’s life support systems. The colossal, brutalist megastructure loomed, its upper levels glittering with neon-lit luxury, a stark contrast to the rusty truth of the lower tiers. “Crypt-Librarian,” Morvan’s voice dripped with condescension, amplified by the courtyard’s acoustic dampeners. “A class so utterly devoid of combat utility, it’s a blight on the Oravan name. Your ‘contribution’ to the System is a disgrace.” Nithos kept his gaze flat, an internal landscape of cold, ancient fury simmering beneath the surface. He felt the phantom ache of Varek’s muscles, remembered the heft of a true vanguard’s armor. This flimsy body, this public spectacle – it was a fresh scar on an old wound. “Perhaps some truths are best kept in the archives, Guildmaster,” he replied, his voice raspy, laced with a weariness that went beyond physical exhaustion. “Lest they disturb the pretty narratives.” Morvan’s lips thinned. “Insolence. The Bastion faces existential threats from the Wastes, and you speak of narratives? We need raw force, not dusty scrolls.” With a theatrical flourish, Morvan tore the insignia from Nithos’s chest. The cheap fabric ripped with a sound like tearing parchment. “Consider yourself expelled, Nithos. Relegated. Your talents, such as they are, might be better suited to documenting the refuse in the lower tiers. Your rations will reflect your new, utterly worthless status.” The humiliation was a bitter, familiar taste. Nithos saw the cadets around them, their faces a mixture of disgust and smug indifference. Not one of them would spare a thought for the fallen. Not one of them would remember the legend he once was. He caught the eye of Enforcer Syris, standing a little apart from the main contingent. Her face, usually a mask of implacable stoicism, held a flicker Nithos couldn’t quite decipher – a shadow of sorrow, a ghost of recognition, quickly shuttered. She would never know it was him. Varek was dead. Guards, their enhanced sinew evident in their square frames, moved to escort Nithos. He didn’t resist. There was no point. The upper levels, with their clean air and floating advertisements, receded as the express elevator plunged him downwards, a plummet into the forgotten strata of the Bastion. The air grew heavy with the scent of rust, grime, and something else – a faint, metallic tang that bespoke desperation. Neon gave way to flickering lumen-strips, then to outright darkness. Nithos was dumped unceremoniously into a narrow, refuse-choked alleyway in the Rust-Labyrinth, the lowest tier. The ground was slick with ancient oils and questionable fluids. Hunger, sharp and persistent, gnawed at his stomach. He hadn’t eaten a proper meal in days, his 'support class' rations barely enough to sustain a child. A scuttling sound drew his attention. From a pile of discarded bio-mechanical parts, a creature emerged. It was Rix, his personal chaos engine – a grotesque but loyal scrap-lizard. Its scales shimmered with scavenged chrome, and one eye glowed with the repurposed lens of an old data-pad. Rix dragged something behind him, something limp and surprisingly large. He dropped it at Nithos’s feet with a soft, chittering whine. It was a Gutter-Scuttler, a mutated vermin common in the lower tiers, typically considered inedible due to its toxic glands. Its carapace was iridescent, twitching slightly. Nithos’s stomach gave a painful lurch. He had once feasted on beast-lord organs, on the choicest cuts of apex predators. Now, this. He knelt, his fingers, once capable of wielding a colossal axe, now fumbling. He located a discarded burner-coil, still faintly warm. He didn’t bother with skinning the creature whole. He found the heart, still plump and faintly pulsing. His hands, trembling not from fear but from a deep, primal hunger, stripped away the thin membrane. The stench was acrid, but he pushed past it. This was sustenance. This was survival. He placed the heart on the burner-coil, watching it sizzle, the small sounds echoing in the damp alley. The aroma, though faint, sharpened his senses. When it was cooked through, he lifted it, still steaming, and swallowed it whole. It tasted like ash and iron, but the warmth spread through his empty belly. Then, a sudden, blinding flash. Holographic text, colder and more clinical than the usual Genesis overlays, erupted before his eyes. It was glitching, shifting, almost as if the System itself struggled to process the input. [ERROR: Class Skill 'Lore-Reading (Tier 0)' Overloaded.] [Processing Unconventional Biomass Input...] [Skill Mutation Detected. New Skill: 'Gastronomic Analysis (Tier 1)' Acquired.] Another cascade of data, precise and terrifyingly detailed, flooded his vision. [Gutter-Scuttler Heart (Mutagenic Strain 7-B)] [Nutritional Value: High] [Warning: Potentially Toxic. High Concentration of Mutagenic S-Compounds.] [Digestion Efficiency: 99.8%] [Unique Property: Direct Absorption of Minor Genetic Traits. High Strength Yield.] A jolt, like raw current, surged through Nithos’s entire body. His frail frame convulsed. His muscles, thin and atrophied, suddenly felt… dense. Taut. Heat surged from his core, pushing out against the cold, damp air. He clenched his fists, and the bones no longer felt brittle. A faint, almost imperceptible tremor ran through the ground beneath him. He stood, his gaze sweeping over his hands, over his lean, new-feeling limbs. [Strength: +10 Permanent] [Endurance: +5 Permanent] [Constitution: +5 Permanent] [Skill 'Gastronomic Analysis' leveled up to Tier 2.] Nithos stared at the holographic text, a slow, predatory grin stretching his lips. Mocked. Banished. His class deemed worthless. And yet, one bite of a toxic rat heart had given him more raw stats than a week of the Academy’s grueling combat drills. The Genesis System, with its rigid tiers and brutal logic, had a loophole. An unpatched mechanic. The 'useless' Crypt-Librarian, capable of 'reading lore,' could now read the very essence of life within biomass. He could devour. He could grow. Infinitely. His gaze hardened, the hunger in his eyes no longer just for food, but for something far grander, far more devastating. Morvan. The Oravan Syndicate. They had made a terrible mistake. He was Varek, the Devourer. And he was just getting started. [Devour 10,000 biomass to reach Tier 2; apex prey detected nearby.]

The Expelled Gourmet