Asher was about to check his Memory when—
—!
His breath caught. His eyes locked on the soul fragments count.
[Soul Fragments: 47 / 1000]
"What?" he blinked. "How…?"
He hadn't fought anything. Hadn't even been near a nightmare creature since waking up! And he definitely didn't absorb any soul shards. And as far as he was aware, soul fragments didn't function as shadow fragments and even if it did, he had way to many for it too even make sense!
Frowning, he flipped back to his status screen and scanned through his attributes. It didn't take long before his gaze settled on a particular set of runes.
[Soul Veil]: Untouched by soul or scream, you walk cloaked in silence, feasting on the fading echoes of your kind made hollow by your very hand.
He reread the description, brows knitting tighter.
"...feasting on the fading echoes of your kind made hollow by your very hand."
Asher stared at it for a long moment.
Then frowned.
He was not the best at deciphering poetic nonsense.
In fact, he hated those interpret-the-poem questions on the SAT.
"Ugh. I can't do this right now."
He waved the screen away with a sigh, shoving the mystery to the back of his mind. It wasn't urgent. He'd figure it out later.
It definitely wasn't that he couldn't understand it.
No, no. It was the mood. That was all. Absolutely the mood.
Not the fact that he sucked at poetry.
Not at all.
'Now then.'
He summoned his runes for the [Second skin]
Memory: [Second Skin]
Memory Rank: Awakened
Memory Tier: IV
Memory Type: Armor
Memory Description:[Once, a man wrapped himself in flesh that was not his own. In time, he forgot the shape of his true body, and the flesh forgot the soul within. When the final echo of his scream faded, only the skin remained—stretching, writhing, longing to be worn again.]
Memory Enchantments: [Reactive Sheath], [Veinwoven]
"Ah."Asher instantly saw it — the reason he hadn't received a Divine Aspect.
His fist clenched. The urge to scream, to curse the Spell, bubbled up inside him like bile. But what would that change? Nothing.
[Memory Tier: IV]
He read the line aloud, voice tight.
The appraisal had referred to the Skinwalker as an Awakened Terror, but that was misleading. The Spell counted indirect kills, collateral effects — illusions of grandeur. In truth, when it came down to his own hand, Asher had killed an Awakened Devil, not a Terror.
Not enough.
His nails dug into his palm, drawing faint lines of red.
Frustration boiled inside him. Of course he was angry. The damned Spell had robbed him.
He was glad he'd killed Eurys in the end. That decision, brutal as it was, had earned him something precious. Something most would never touch.
A Sacred Aspect.
Still...
His eyes drifted back to the Memory's tier.
Tier IV.
Too low.
Far too low.
[Veinwoven]: The armor forms micro-connections with the wearer's nerves over time, increasing responsiveness and movement synchronicity.
[Reactive Sheath]: Where pain lingers, mass gathers. The shell remembers.
The enchantments were solid. Asher allowed himself a small nod of approval. He hadn't expected any active abilities — it was still just an Awakened-tier Memory, after all — but the passives were potent.
Yet, even as he appreciated them, a shadow of disappointment lingered.
What would it have been... if it had been Tier VI? Or higher?
The difference in power, potential — it gnawed at him.
He struck the wall beside him, cracking the surface with a dull thud. A few flakes of paint crumbled to the floor.
Dragging himself to the bed, he let his body fall, face down into the mattress.
"Why..."
He felt the mattress get wet
The knowledge that a Divine Aspect had been within reach — that it had slipped through his fingers — stung worse than any wound.
And his flaw?
It only made everything worse.
He remembered the [Veinwoven] attribute as he summoned his armor.
It was a bodysuit.
A full bodysuit. One would expect it to be the same color as his skin but no... It was black. Pitch black.
He could wear clothes over this. Then slowly, [Veinwoven] should start to take effect.
His eyes shifted to the clock on the wall.
It ticked quietly.
A small smile touched his lips.
"Dinner time."
***
Asher's eyes sparkled at the sight of the cafeteria spread.
'Starving was worth it!' he thought triumphantly, piling his plate high with layers of meat, rice, bread, and fragrant curries. It was a precarious mountain of food, and he struggled to balance it as he searched for a seat.
No sign of Sunny.
'Guess he went to his appointment,' Asher mused, settling at an empty table. He glanced at the clock — not much time left. His eyes dropped to the feast in front of him, and he grinned.
He sliced into what looked like steak — Was it steak? Who cares! — dipped it into a dark, savory sauce, and popped it into his mouth. Instantly, his eyes lit up. The meat melted on his tongue, tender and rich with flavor. He rolled it around in his mouth to savor the texture.
This wasn't a crumbling, post-apocalyptic world anymore. No — this was heaven.
He dove in without hesitation, piece after glorious piece vanishing into his mouth. He savored every bite, yet his pace was relentless. Before long, only a few scraps remained. Tearing off a chunk of bread, he dunked it into the leftover soup—
"Mmm." His body gave a small, involuntary twitch of delight.
Minutes later, the plate was clean. He leaned back and rubbed his full stomach, grinning.
"Hehe."
His purpose had been fulfilled.
'I could die in piece now— No! I meant peace! Peace!'
But alas, the world never let him enjoy his peace for long.
"Did you see that guy? He stuffed his face like he's never seen food before. Kekeke!"
"Oh yeah. My father warned me that outskirt rats might get in. I expected them to be pathetic, but this? Really?"
"His pervy friend was here earlier too— ate the same way. God, this food isn't even that good."
'...No way.' Asher froze for a second, stunned.
'Are they serious? 'People were judging how he ate? As far as Asher was concerned, he ate quite elegantly with utensils! Hadn't even spoken with his mouth full! What, was enjoying a meal a crime now?
But the laughter kept going. The whispers lingered.
And the stares… they clung to him like thorns.
His chest felt tight. The warmth from the food was gone, replaced by a cold prickle running down his spine. He slowly stood, tray empty, hands shaking just a little.
'Yeah… I have my appointment anyway.'
He walked toward the exit, head down. But even as he walked, the glances followed him. Eyes trailing him, watching every step — the way he moved, how his shoulders hunched, the way he held himself.
His thoughts twisted.
'Was I really that weird? That loud? Did I walk strangely?'
He tried straightening his posture. Then stopped. Now it felt too forced.
'Why are they all staring?'
Couldn't these legacies mind their own damn business?
He clenched his fists in his pockets.
'I hate this.'