His Verdant Gifts read:
[Fruit of the Tree of Hunger and Devouring:]
A fruit plucked from a great tree that has consumed myriad things from myriad places.
Every taste holds forbidden knowledge inside and is able to placate any hunger... for a while.
Nemo marveled at the description. He guessed if he ate one, he wouldn't feel hungry for quite some time, since it came directly from the Tree of Hunger. But the mention of forbidden knowledge made him apprehensive.
The way everyone was always hiding knowledge and speaking in riddles, he thought it might be better not to consume them easily.
He had 15 of those fruits in his soul, so he would have to find out as much as he could before consuming them.
Next he looked at his imprints. The first one was
Ever Searching for Hidden Truths:
The tendrils of truth can pry secrets from even the most forbidden places.
When in direct contact with something, the tentacles will quickly reveal its secrets to you.
Nemo knew exactly what those were, the weird tentacles he had seen when he was about to consume the red fruit. He looked at his hand in fear, and before he could will it to do anything, anxiety and terror stopped him.
Another time... another time.
Then he moved on and read the last Imprint:
Brilliant Flame of Blinding Splendor:
A flame that burns so brightly, with such beauty, it cannot be dimmed by the sorrowful pull of harrowing places.
Its bearer cannot be turned away by despair.
Nemo felt a certain power from those words and something familiar, but the description just left him utterly confused. Still, he was sure that he had gained this weird thing from the beautiful, alabaster-skinned young man in the world of hunger.
One thing, however, he knew for certain: he had to experiment. He had to learn how to move the power that now resided somewhere within him.
So, drawing on scenes from movies and television shows, he mimicked what he'd seen practiced by monks and mystics and carefully sat down cross-legged on the ground. The lotus position. He thought it would look weird, but alone in the quiet stillness of this unfamiliar space, he figured he could afford to look a little silly.
Settling into position, Nemo closed his eyes and drew in a long breath. Slowly, he exhaled and turned his attention inward. He began searching within his body, reaching out with a sense that had no name, attempting to locate what Arbil had called the nexus.
First, he stumbled upon the bridge—a faint connection, a thread of warmth that spanned from somewhere beneath his navel to the center of his chest. Following it patiently, he soon reached the nexus.
Arbil said that one needs to be able to move this center, or else they could be vulnerable to attacks targeting it.
He visualized the sphere of energy. A pulsing orb, vibrant but intangible. He imagined it floating behind his sternum, wrapped in threads of light. Just as he'd expected, it didn't come easily.
Trying to move something he couldn't touch, couldn't see—only sense—felt both foolish and frustrating. And worse, every time he tried to shift it, his concentration wavered.
His focus slipped from the orb to the surrounding sensations—the ache in his spine, the tickle on his skin, or the creeping fatigue in his mind.
Minutes passed. Then dozens of them. Time lost meaning as he sank deeper into his attempts. And then, after what felt like an eternity, he gave up. With a defeated grunt, he rose to his feet.
His belly ached from hunger, a deep, gnawing void. His head pounded from exertion, a relentless throb behind his eyes. To top it all off, he hadn't even managed to dispel the floating string of words that hovered persistently in his vision.
Arbil had shown him how to summon the words—how to call up the strange status screen that tracked his being. But he hadn't explained how to get rid of it. That, apparently, was something Nemo was supposed to figure out on his own.
In short, Nemo was annoyed. No—he was beyond annoyed. He was irritated, disoriented, and now, to add insult to injury, haunted by glowing text that refused to leave him alone. He rubbed his temples, trying to ease the pain.
No luck. He blinked several times and closed his eyes. Still there. The words floated on, unwavering, as if mocking him with their presence. He read them again.
Title: None
Yes, thank you. I know I am no one in this world. The line oozed with cruel truth. But the most aggravating one was: You are always hungry. Every time his eyes scanned over it, his stomach twisted just a bit more, as though the screen was amplifying his bodily needs.
He tried to laugh at the absurdity of it. He tried to remind himself that at least it wasn't constant. After a good meal, he had a brief window—ten, maybe fifteen minutes—when he felt almost normal.
Almost. But always eating wasn't a real solution, and deep down, he knew that. Just because the flaw said "always hungry" didn't mean he had the luxury to gorge himself endlessly.
Still, judging by the crates of food Arbil had brought him, it seemed like the Awakened burned through energy far faster than any average citizen.
His thoughts wandered. Inevitably, they drifted to the other fault. The one that tied itself to the metal chain he carried. That strange compulsion, vague yet sinister: he was compelled to bind people to him. What did that even mean? Was it metaphorical? Literal? He certainly didn't feel a sudden need to build a circle of friends. Nor did he feel desperate to reconnect with anyone he had known before.
If anything, he felt the opposite. Isolation was safe. Solitude was manageable. So how could this be a flaw? Wasn't the need for connection just... human? People naturally formed relationships. They created families, friendships, and alliances. Society was built on these bonds. If this flaw encouraged that, then it simply made him more human. Or was there something darker lurking beneath its phrasing?
Maybe it has to do with narcissism? he mused. Maybe it's not about connection, but control.
His headache flared again, the throbbing shifting to a sharp, almost electric stabbing. He winced. The quiet was no longer comforting—it pressed in on him, heavy, oppressive. He stood abruptly, the motion slightly dizzying.
Maybe walking would help. Maybe motion could shake the fog from his brain. He took a step...
and blacked out.