Syris saw the future in those molten eyes: incineration. She didn’t flinch, didn’t scream. A trained professional, she simply braced, her hand instinctively going for the empty holster at her hip. A pointless gesture. This thing would atomize her before her fingers even closed around a grip. The abomination raised an arm, a jagged limb of fused osseous matter that glowed with superheated vapor. It brought the limb down, slow and deliberate, a cleaver of pure destructive force aimed directly at her. Then, a blur. Nithos, his slight frame appearing almost comically small next to the descending horror, stepped forward. He raised a single hand, unarmored, unshielded, and caught the descending thermal edge. The cavern air shrieked as the bio-titan’s cleave met Nithos’s palm. A shockwave rippled outward, kicking up dust and bits of rubble. Syris, blown back a step, could only stare. The white-hot blade, meant to bisect tanks and melt through rock strata, was stopped. Not deflected, not absorbed, but *caught*. The radiant charge bled into Nithos’s palm, harmlessly dissipating into his skin, leaving no mark. Nithos sighed, a sound of profound boredom. “The skeletal structure is a mess,” he observed, his voice dry. “Poor load-bearing joints on the upper appendages. All that raw thermal output, and they still went with brittle, fused bone. Amateurs.” He twisted his wrist. The bio-titan shrieked again, a sound of agony this time, as its massive burning arm buckled and snapped with a report like a collapsing bridge. The severed limb, still glowing, tumbled away, sparking against the cavern floor. [Lore-Reading (Digestive Mechanics) activated: Bio-Titan Limb (Plasma-Fused Ossein) acquired. Nutrient density: Extreme. Potential stat gain: Monumental.] “See?” Nithos tutted, shaking his head. “Fractures at the ulna-radial junction. Completely avoidable with proper reinforcement. And the discharge conduits are exposed. A child could exploit this.” The bio-titan, enraged, surged forward, its remaining limbs thrashing, its orange eyes blazing with pure, unadulterated fury. It opened its maw, a gaping abyss lined with crystalline teeth, and a torrent of superheated gas spewed forth. Nithos simply walked into it, unfazed. He reached into the stream, his hand glowing faintly as he ripped a chunk of the beast’s lower jaw clean off. Syris watched, her mind struggling to process. The man who had coughed pathetically in the Rust Tiers, the ‘frail librarian’ publicly shamed, was dismantling an S-rank disaster with his bare hands, critiquing its design flaws as if he were reviewing a poorly constructed shelf. Nithos paused, holding the steaming jawbone. “You know,” he mused, glancing at the mangled mercenary remains scattered nearby, “a beast this size. There’s no point letting all this go to waste.” He rummaged in his pack, pulling out a rusted, dented pot and a portable induction coil that whirred to life. From a pouch, he produced a handful of dried, luminescent herbs. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the severed ossein arm into the pot, followed by the jawbone. The glowing herbs followed. He then, with chilling efficiency, dodged a sweeping strike from the bio-titan’s tail, a blow that pulverized the rock behind him, and with the same fluid motion, sliced off a section of the monstrosity's pulsating torso. This, too, went into the pot. The concoction within began to bubble, emitting a rich, savory aroma that somehow cut through the metallic stench of the dungeon and the acrid ozone. “A good stew needs a solid base,” Nithos explained, almost to himself, as he parried another attack, severing one of the bio-titan’s articulated legs. “And a little bit of flair. These crystalline teeth, for instance, are surprisingly high in mineral content. Excellent for texture.” He scooped a handful of teeth and dropped them into the pot, which now glowed with an eerie, internal light. From a crevice in the rubble, a single surviving scout, his face streaked with grime and terror, peered out. He had seen his entire squad, seasoned combatants, ripped apart like paper dolls. He had watched the 'useless librarian' block a blow meant for a titan, then calmly start… cooking? The scout whimpered, pressing himself deeper into the shadows, praying to whatever forgotten god might hear him. The bio-titan, now a mangled, lurching wreck, stumbled. Its movements grew sluggish, its discharge output sputtering. Nithos, his eyes fixed on the simmering pot, finally looked up. “Ah, done,” he declared, as if he had merely been waiting for a timer. With one last, effortless motion, he plunged his hand into the bio-titan’s exposed core, ripping out its pulsating heart. The colossal carcass shuddered, let out a final, guttural gurgle, and collapsed, a mountain of cooling, fused bone and spent slag. [S-Rank Bio-Titan Heart (Core Primeval) acquired. Nutrient density: Cataclysmic. Potential stat gain: Transcendental.] [Tier Advancement Condition Met: Devour 10,000,000 biomass to reach Tier 3; Apex Prey (Core Primeval) consumed. Tier 2 Achieved.] Nithos, ignoring the holographic message, casually dropped the heart into the pot. The stew flared, a vibrant, multi-hued broth that pulsed with raw luminescence. He dipped a spoon into it, took a deliberate taste, and nodded with satisfaction. “Needs a touch more salt, but acceptable for a field meal.” He offered a spoonful to a panting Rix, who gobbled it down with a delighted chitter. Syris, meanwhile, was not seeing the stew, nor the monster’s demise. She was seeing the way Nithos moved. The almost casual lean into a strike, the precise footwork that negated momentum, the economy of movement that spared every ounce of force. It was a dance she knew, a brutal, efficient art form that only one person she had ever known could perform with such terrifying grace. Her stoic composure, the shield she had worn since Varek’s supposed death, crumbled. Her gaze fixated on the frail librarian's back, a whisper of a forgotten memory on her lips. A tremble ran through her voice, fragile as spun glass. “Varek… it’s you, isn’t it?”

The S-Rank Stew