Syris’s words hung in the humid air of the hollow, thin and raw, a desperate plea echoing against the dripping rock. “Varek… it’s you, isn’t it?” Nithos paused, the glowing ladle still poised over the stewpot. The bio-titan’s steaming remains lay forgotten, its reactor core cooling to a dull ruby. Rix, still chittering with delight, nudged Nithos’s leg, hoping for another spoonful. Syris's staring eyes dug into the spine of his coat, sharp with recognition he had dodged for three years. He felt the fragile tendril of hope Syris extended, a dangerous thing he couldn’t afford to grasp. He turned, his expression a mask of cold disinterest, a stark contrast to the raw power he had just displayed. His eyes, usually sharp with sarcasm, were flat, distant. “Captain Syris,” he stated, his voice devoid of warmth, “are you perhaps suffering from a concussion? My name is Nithos. I am a Crypt-Librarian. The System has my designation quite clear, even if your recall appears to be failing.” He gestured vaguely at the holographic overlay still shimmering faintly near his wrist, a dismissive flick of his hand. Syris took a halting step forward, her hand reaching out, then pulling back. “No… no, the movements. The way you… there’s no one else. The way you broke its shield arm, the turn into the exhaust vent. It’s him. It *has* to be.” A rattle scraped through her throat, fracturing her stoic composure. “Varek wouldn't leave me behind. He wouldn't...” Nithos’s gaze hardened, the pretense of indifference snapping. “Varek discarded everyone,” he interjected, his voice sharp as broken tile. He scooped a large portion of the stew, ignoring the question. “He deserted his post, his guild, his precious Enforcer captain. He threw away his life for a fool’s errand and paid the price. You speak of him as if he were a martyr, Captain. He was a broken man, executed like a common street scavenger. Do you truly wish to associate *that* failure with this… this pathetic custodian?” He gestured to himself, a sneer twisting his lips. He watched her face crumple, the hope in her eyes replaced by a wounded confusion, then a flicker of anger. Good. Anger was safer than hope. Anger built walls. “You dare dishonor his memory?” she whispered, her voice trembling with accusation. “Honor?” Nithos let out a harsh, humorless laugh. “Honor is a word Morvan uses to sell more recruits to the slaughter. There’s no honor in an ionized blade in your back.” A vivid scene bit into his skull, three years old and raw as skinned knuckles. The stench of ozone and recycled air in the execution chamber. Morvan’s smug face under the harsh glare of the public broadcast screens. The heavy, ceremonial dagger in Morvan’s gloved hand, its thermal edge humming. Nithos, then Varek, bound and kneeling, the crowd’s jeers a dull roar. The cold, sickening plunge of the blade, not into his chest as prescribed by the ritual, but a deliberate, contemptuous stab between his shoulder blades, a personal touch from the Guildmaster, a final, spiteful betrayal that bypassed his combat class’s usual pain dampeners. The blinding agony, the rush of cold air as his life force tried to flee his body, the world dissolving into a red-tinged haze of pain and Morvan’s triumphant sneer. He took a long, deep draught of the stew, the glowing liquid scalding his throat, a scalding counterpoint to the old execution chamber. The S-rank bio-titan’s essence surged through him, a surge of raw heat that made his bones hum. His vision blurred for a split second, the holographic overlays of his stats, usually a crisp, placid blue, beginning to shimmer violently. [STAT OVERFLOW DETECTED. RECALIBRATING PARAMETERS.] [VISUAL CAP EXCEEDED. ATTEMPING AUTO-ADJUSTMENT.] [ERROR. ERROR. SYSTEM PARAMETERS COMPROMISED.] The holographic text, once contained to a neat rectangle, exploded outward, fragmenting into a blinding storm of red static that pulsed erratically, illuminating the cavern with a chaotic, crimson light. The glowing lines flickered, distorted, then reformed into impossible, soaring numbers that scrolled too fast for the eye to follow, only to shatter again. A low thrumming vibration ran through the cavern floor, not from Nithos’s power, but from something external, something heavy approaching. Syris gasped, shielding her eyes from the violent light. “What is that?” Nithos ignored her, focusing on the approaching vibration. His internal sensors, boosted by the stew, registered multiple heavy combat frames, precision-tuned pulse rifles, and the distinct power signatures of a high-tier strike unit. Morvan’s personal dogs, no doubt. Right on schedule. He drained the last drop of the stew, the rich, savory taste lingering on his tongue, the power still settling into his core. The thrumming intensified, accompanied by the grating crunch of heavy boots on stone. A unit of six figures, clad in obsidian-black combat frames etched with the Oravan Syndicate’s viper sigil, marched into the hollow. Their commander, a hulking figure whose frame outweighed the others, raised a heavy-caliber pulse rifle, its red beam settling precisely between Nithos’s eyes. “Hold it right there, waste-tier,” the point man boomed through his helmet’s vocalizer. “Where is the S-rank core? Guildmaster Morvan wants his prize.” Nithos wiped a bead of stew from his lip with the back of his hand, a slow, deliberate motion. He met the Syndicate officer's visor with a nonchalant shrug, teeth bared in a tight grin. Then, without a word, he let out a thunderous, stat-boosted burp. It wasn’t a polite sound; it was an explosive blast of digestive pressure, a concussive shockline of pure, unadulterated force that ripped through the cavern. The air shrieked, and the Syndicate squad's kinetic barriers, shimmering with blue light, warped, split, and then *shattered* into a thousand glittering fragments of spent charge, showering the shock troops in sparks. The officer stumbled back, his rifle clattering against the gravel, features twisted behind the visor in furious disbelief as he finally understood. The librarian hadn’t found the core. He had devoured it. “Silence them,” the officer snarled, digging his boots into the silt, his voice thick with rage. “Don’t let a single witness leave this hollow.” The remaining five troopers, rifles snapping level, lunged forward to clear the room.

Bitter Indigestion