Night fell over Sector 7. Cold rain slicked the rusted metal rooftops of the lower ring as Caine walked through the narrow, neon-lit alleys leading toward Old Man Silas's subterranean workshop.
Their harrowing Ruin Zone 7 deployment past the wall had yielded a staggering 20,000 merit credits per squad member—a high-hazard payout that reflected the lethal mortality rate of out-of-wall hunting. While Jax and Lyra used their individual payouts to overhaul their own gear, Caine knew better than to dump twenty thousand credits into his mother's public account all at once. An Auxiliary baseline suddenly dropping years worth of refinery wages into the lower ring would immediately trigger corruption and core-smuggling flags from Directorate Enforcers, putting a massive target on his family's back.
Instead, Caine had funneled the bulk of his 20,000 reserve into a non-trackable account, setting up a stealthy, phased stipend to slowly release funds over time—allowing his mother to quietly step down from her grueling refinery night shifts without drawing suspicion.
As for their recent opening arena victory over Section 2, that match had awarded Squad 4 an additional 500 merit credits. From his share of those fresh match winnings, Caine transferred a clean 300-credit sum directly to his mother's tablet, instantly clearing Maya's upcoming term tuition and household bills. The rest of his funds went straight toward Silas's black-market gear requisitions.
With his family's long-term security quietly anchored, Caine had one goal left: preparing for Darius.
Pushing open the heavy steel door of the workshop, Caine was greeted by the familiar scent of hot solder, ozone, and engine oil. Old Man Silas was sitting on his workbench, watching a low-resolution stream of Caine's match replay on an old cathode monitor while sipping dark tea.
"You made a mess of that kid's sword, white-hair," Silas grunted without turning around. "The lower ring mechanics are taking bets on how long your gloves will hold together after pushing that sensor readout up to 12."
"They held, but barely," Caine said, stepping inside and pulling off his right glove.
He set it on the workbench. The silver-threaded Conductive Weave was noticeably hot to the touch, and faint microscopic fraying showed along the inner palm line where twenty percent of his Phase 1 density had leaked through as friction.
Silas picked up the glove, examining the weave under a jeweler's loupe. His single eye narrowed.
"Twenty percent output..." Silas muttered, tapping the frayed silver thread with a copper needle. "Thorne's military-grade meters picked up that two-point blip because twenty percent of your internal load was already straining my weave. If you hit Darius with fifty percent of your density tomorrow, these threads will vaporize right off your skin, kid. Darius's golden light armor uses Compressive Radiance—it hardens kinetic strikes into heat."
"Which means if my punch leaks air or light, his armor will absorb the impact and turn it into a counter-blast," Caine said calmly.
"Exactly," Silas said, hopping down from his bench and pulling a small, heavy iron chest out from under his welding table. He unlocked it with a heavy brass key, pulling out a small vial of thick, dark liquid that shimmered with an oily, iridescent purple sheen. "This is refined Jahgred Core Fluid, harvested from the heart of a Grade-3 Shadow-Stalker. Requisitioning this used up a hefty chunk of those credits you handed over."
Silas looked up at Caine, his expression deadly serious. "I can coat the inner lining of your gloves with this stuff. It'll double the dampening threshold, letting you throw up to sixty percent of your Phase 1 density without leaking a single air ripple or giving Thorne's meters another readout jump."
"What's the catch?" Caine asked.
"The catch," Silas said grimly, "is that Jahgred fluid is volatile as hell. When it absorbs that much compressed kinetic mass, it burns like acid against your bare skin. You'll feel like your hands are buried in boiling lead every time you strike."
Caine didn't hesitate for a single second. He extended his hands toward the bench.
"Do it," Caine said. "I need every bit of density locked inside my fist tomorrow."