Chapter 2: The Taste of Nothing
The wind shifted.
The desert answered.
A muffled grunt rose from beneath the sand—low, hoarse, forgotten. Then the ground convulsed, and something pushed through from below.
A hand. Trembling. Caked in dust.
Then came a face—round, flushed, and soaked in sweat. Grit clung to his skin like scabs, black hair plastered across a broad forehead. His features were rough, messy, unapologetically human: wide nose, crooked teeth, tiny eyes blinking furiously against the glare of a cruel red sun.
Ugly.
Dirty.
Alone.
But alive.
He sucked in air like it cost Spirit Points, coughing sand from his lungs. Each breath rattled like a dying engine, but he didn't stop until his chest stopped spasming.
Then he saw it.
The Carbee.
Dead. Still twitching. Bleeding into the sand.
The boy froze—eyes wide, lips cracking into a slow, feverish grin. Hunger burned in them like madness. The kind of hunger that didn't care about dignity. The kind that ate it.
"Mine…" he rasped, voice dry enough to flake apart.
His fingers trembled as he reached for the dagger at his waist—if you could even call it that. It was a rusted thing, more metal shard than weapon. A cracked handle wrapped in filthy cloth. Useless in a real fight. But here, it had done the job.
Barely.
He didn't waste time.
The dagger scraped against the Carbee's plated shell with a sickening crunch, fighting back with every cut. But the boy kept going—gritting his yellow teeth, breath short and shallow. Sweat soaked his shirt. His arms ached. His stomach growled like something alive.
Then—crack.
The shell split.
A foul stench rolled out.
He didn't flinch.
Didn't hesitate.
Didn't care.
He dug his hands inside, ripped the soft inner flesh free, and shoved it into his mouth.
Ripped. Chewed. Swallowed.
Over and over.
Like an animal too desperate to be ashamed.
[I'm system]
[Flesh eaten. No spirit points gained.]
He paused. Blinked once. Then kept going.
[Flesh eaten. No spirit points gained.]
He bit harder. Slurped the juices leaking from the broken joints. Sucked on the limbs like marrow bones.
[Flesh eaten. No spirit points gained.]
Blood—dark, metallic, bitter—smeared his lips. Stained his teeth. Dripped down his chin.
Still nothing.
[Flesh eaten. No spirit points gained.]
Eventually, there was barely anything left.
He sat back, breathing heavy, belly distended and sore. His hands shook as he licked the last of the gore from his fingers.
"No points…" he murmured, staring at his palms. "Not even one…?"
The wind blew past him. The sun glared down. The world kept turning.
No reward. No pity.
He looked up at the sky.
And laughed.
Short. Dry. Bitter.
Not because it was funny.
But because if he didn't laugh, he'd fall apart.
---
A hundred years ago, humanity ruled the stars.
They crossed galaxies like stepping stones. Left behind Earth—lost to time, buried in memory. Colonies bloomed under alien suns. Cities floated between moons. Technology made gods out of mortals.
Then came the portals.
Nobody knew where they came from.
Not wormholes. Not black holes. Not gateways built by forgotten alien races.
Just… rips.
Tearing space open like cheap fabric. Standing still. Waiting.
The first to step through called it a miracle.
They were wrong.
Because what they found wasn't a planet.
It was a realm.
A place where the rules of physics collapsed like wet paper. Where machines died, satellites disintegrated, and mechs rusted the moment they crossed the threshold. A place where cold metal was replaced by something older. Wilder.
Spirit.
They called it the Holy Domains.
Here, nothing manmade lasted.
But something else did.
The spirit beasts.
Creatures shaped by instinct and energy. Born from spirit and evolution. They hunted. They ruled. They killed.
And when a desperate survivor sank his teeth into one… the world changed.
Because spirit beasts weren't just meat. They were fuel.
Their flesh wasn't just edible. It was transformative.
Eating a spirit beast could make you stronger. Faster. Smarter. It rewrote your cells, sharpened your instincts, rebuilt your bones.
Sometimes.
> [I'm system]
[Consume spirit beast flesh to gain between 0–10 Spirit Points.]
It was a gamble.
One mouthful might give you nothing. Ten might still give you nothing. But if you kept going…
Eventually, the system gave back.
> [Spirit Gear Acquired]
Weapons. Armor. Tools made of pure will and bound to your soul. They weren't crafted. Couldn't be forged. Only earned. Only dropped at random after a kill. You couldn't predict what you'd get. A sword. A cloak. A mask. A bracer. Whatever it was, it became yours.
For life.
That was the first miracle.
The second?
Cultivation.
Spirit Points changed the body.
But Cultivation changed the soul.
Techniques emerged—methods to gather, control, and refine spirit. People learned to leap over walls, heal gaping wounds, slow their heartbeats, break stone with a touch.
The stronger your spirit, the more you could shape the world.
The Holy Domains turned men into monsters—and monsters into prey.
Clans rose. Sects bloomed. Laws vanished.
Power became the only currency that mattered.
And in that blood-soaked world...
Zack Tennyson was nothing.
No gear. No technique. No luck.
Just a bloated belly, a rusted knife, and a mouth full of spirit beast meat that gave him nothing in return.
---
He stared at the hollowed Carbee corpse. The cracked shell. The sticky sand. The buzzing silence.
He wiped his mouth.
Spat.
"Again…" he muttered. "Still nothing."
The wind kicked up a flurry of dust. It coated his face like ash. He didn't move.
He'd killed ten this week. Maybe a hundred total. And nothing.
Not one Spirit Point.
"Guess I've bled this species dry, huh?" he mumbled, poking at the Carbee's limp leg with his dagger.
Not like he had options.
Carbee were Silver-rank spirit beasts. Weak. Dumb. Easy to lure. Easier to kill. Especially when you knew their blind spots and had nothing to lose.
Everything else?
Too fast. Too big. Too smart.
Too lethal.
He remembered the last time he'd gotten cocky.
A Steel-Back Iron Turtle.
Still Silver-ranked, technically. But on a completely different tier.
"I'm lucky I didn't die," Zack muttered.
Three broken ribs, deep gashes across his chest, one cracked wrist, and a month recovering in a back-alley medic tent surrounded by flies and drunks.
After that, he stuck to Carbees.
Safe. Predictable.
Pathetic.
But at least they didn't kill him.
In the Holy Domains, spirit beasts were divided into tiers—based on raw power:
Bronze were entry-level. Slightly enhanced animals. Things like Spirit Hounds, Razor-Tailed Apes. Dangerous to civilians. Worthless to hunters.
Silver was the real starting line. Carbee fell here. So did Iron Turtles, Bone Lurkers, and a few more nightmares he avoided like the plague.
Gold? Another world entirely. Ten times stronger. Ten times faster. Ten times more likely to end you in under a minute.
He'd seen one once.
From a distance.
Tore through an entire hunting party like a knife through paper.
And Platinum?
He couldn't even imagine it.
"Probably extinct," he muttered.
To survive against a Silver spirit beast, you had to have a full Bronze spirit bar. He had that. Barely.
But without spirit gear?
He was still garbage.
Spiritless. Gearless. Useless.