Braingasm

Steven stood over the wyrmling’s corpse, its shattered form dissolving into the cave floor, a faint shimmer signaling his reward. He felt the cave’s pull—dark, unyielding, whispering of more to conquer. His D-rank blood sang for it, but first, the loot. Five Wyrmling Scales glinted on the stone—smooth, green-black plates with a metallic sheen. He scooped them up, stashing them in his 5-slot bag. The inventory ticked: slot 1 with 2 Rabbit Fury Fur, slot 2 with 5 King Crab Chitin, slot 3 with 5 Wyrmling Scales—three of five slots claimed. With 3 silver already secured, he pressed deeper, the cave’s depths beckoning.

The tunnel sloped downward, the air growing colder, thicker with brine and musk. Sunlight faded, swallowed by the stone, and soon darkness cloaked him, his human eyes failing against the pitch. He paused, boots crunching shale, and sank to a crouch, thinking. Saiyan Fury had bloomed from Radiant Armament—new skills weren’t impossible. Closing his eyes, he focused inward, channeling intent into his vision. He pictured night vision—green or red, like the gear from his old life—willing his eyes to pierce the gloom. A resistance pushed back, a wall within him, stubborn and unyielding. Then, a spark of inspiration—he laced it with the holy essence of his fury skills. The block shattered, warmth flooding his eyes like molten gold. He opened them, and the cave blazed to life—golden light bathed every crevice, a radiant night vision sharper than any tech he’d known. “This is fucking sweet,” he grinned, rising to his feet.

Emboldened, he trekked on, the golden glow cutting through the dark. Three more King Crabs loomed ahead, their hulking shells glinting in his vision. He ignited Feet of Holy Fury, boots flaring gold, and met the first with a leaping stomp—crack—its shell split, ichor spilling as it raged. A pincer swiped; he dodged, smashing a radiant fist into its eye—splat—then finished with a flip-kick, shell bursting. The second charged; he sidestepped, twin punches caving its face, then a glowing heel crushed it flat. The third lunged—claws snapping—but he spun, a fiery kick shattering its legs, followed by a fist through its skull—SPLAT. Each vanished, dropping 5 King Crab Chitin apiece, stacking neatly into slot 2—now 20 total.

As he collected the last chitin, a ghastly roar tore through the cave—a deep, guttural bellow from its depths. It hit like a physical wave, wavering his resolve for a heartbeat, his pulse spiking. But Steven squared his shoulders, Fists of Holy Fury flickering to life. “Bring it,” he muttered, pressing on. The tunnel forked ahead—left stretched into a long, straight hall, shadows pooling at its end; right curved sharply after a short stretch, veiling what lay beyond. His golden vision pierced both paths, but the choice loomed.