Bond Master

The First Link (2)

[Viable Baseline Entity Located.] The cold mechanical voice echoed within his mind, sharper and more demanding than before. Initiating Anchor Sequence. Establishing Soul-Tether. 0%... 50%... 100%.]

Ren staggered backward, his breath catching in his throat as his consciousness was forcibly pulled into the pocket dimension of his Confinement Vault. Within that internal landscape of black iron and shadow, the phantom chains hanging from the ceiling suddenly began to rattle violently, their heavy links clashing together with a deafening metallic din. The crimson mist descended into the center of the vault's stone platform, condensing back into the solid shape of the stone-grey egg.

The heavy iron chains whipped through the dark, wrapping tightly around the egg's circumference, anchoring it immovably to the central pillar of his soul.

[Anchor stabilized. Entity recorded. Commencing baseline gestation acceleration.]

Within the span of three agonizing seconds, the stone egg within his mind began to tremble. Deep, glowing red fractures spider-webbed across the ridged shell. With a sharp, crystalline snap, the shell shattered outward.

Ren held his breath as a tiny creature emerged from the debris. It wasn't a standard bird or a common reptile. It was a juvenile Golden Shackle-Hound—a sleek, predatory canine creature covered in fine, slate-grey fur. Running along its spine were rows of interlocking, segmented bone-plates that looked exactly like a protective iron chain.

The pup opened its eyes, revealing two pools of brilliant, molten crimson light that stared directly back into Ren’s consciousness. It let out a silent, psychic yip, a bond of absolute loyalty locked into place between their souls.

"Whoa there, steady!"

The real-world voice of the guard snapped Ren out of his trance. He felt a firm, heavy hand gripping his shoulder, stabilizing him before he could stumble into a stack of clean trays. The guard was looking at him with deep concern, assuming the boy had simply suffered a sudden bout of vertigo or physical weakness from the lingering effects of the serum.

"Sorry," Ren muttered, shaking his head to clear the residual psychic static. He looked down at his empty hand, then toward the display case. The egg was completely gone, but the kitchen staff hadn't noticed his theft.

"Don't sweat it," the guard said kindly, guiding him toward a nearby leather booth. "Everyone is a bit detached for the first forty-eight hours after awakening. Especially when your body is screaming for nutrients. Just sit tight, and let the cook do his magic."

The burly line cook tossed Ren’s steaks onto the blazing hot iron grill, filling the dining court with the intoxicating, rich aroma of searing meat. He glanced over his shoulder, his eyes catching the massive, intricate crimson lines wrapping around Ren’s exposed forearm as the boy sat down.

"That's a hell of a marking you've got there, kid," the cook said, expertly flipping the steaks with a silver spatula.

"An unlisted nonstandard class? That’s a rough draw for a commoner boy from the industrial blocks. What does the manual say it is?"

"It doesn't say anything," Ren replied, his voice low as he felt the faint, comforting warmth of the newborn Shackle-Hound resting within his mind's vault. "The introductory book only covers the standard military tracks. The guard here tells me I'll have to figure it out through trial and error before we hit the Academy gates."

The guard laughed, leaning back in the booth and rolling up his own sleeve to show off his clean, geometric kite-shield mark. "I was just telling him, Chef—size doesn't always equal power, but his mark covers his entire forearm. It’s heavy. Not like those wimpy, centimeter-long starburst tattoos the specialized academy nerds get on the back of their thumbs."

The cook smiled, turning his left hand toward Ren. Amidst a collection of faded kitchen scars and old burn marks, Ren spotted a tiny, minimalist tattoo shaped like a single wooden wand with two small sparks radiating from the tip. It was barely two centimeters long, tucked neatly below his knuckle line.

"There's an old theory tossed around by the research division under the Cathedral," the cook said, sliding the perfectly grilled steaks, steaming wild rice, and caramelized tubers onto a massive ceramic plate. He walked over and set it down in front of Ren with a heavy thud. "They say the physical surface area of the marking corresponds directly to the volume of latent capacity the serum unlocked in your bloodline.

A small, precise mark like mine means I had just enough compatibility to manifest basic utility magic—perfect for temperature control and stabilizing heat signatures on a commercial grill, but useless for the frontlines. A mark that wraps an entire limb? That means the ancient power found a massive, deep well inside you. It’s a lot of raw force to manage without a blueprint."

The cook tapped the edge of the table, looking Ren dead in the eye. "Eat up, kid. Once your stomach is full, and you manage to trigger your first actual skill out there in the world, just close your eyes and firmly project the word [Status] into your core thoughts. If your class is connected to the ancient System Stones like the rest of us, it’ll give you a clear reading of how your attributes are adjusting. But until you activate that first skill, you're just a big battery with nowhere to plug the cable."

Ren picked up his knife and fork, the rich, mana-saturated aroma of the Aurochs steak completely capturing his senses. He looked down at his left arm, feeling the steady, rhythmic pulse of the chain mark. He finally had his anchor. He had his first link. Now, he just had to survive the arrival.

The instant his bare palm made contact with the ridged shell, a violent, static-like shock shot up his arm. The brand on his left forearm flared with a sudden, localized heat that made him gasp.

Before his eyes, the heavy stone egg didn't drop or roll; it completely dissolved into a mist of crimson particles, vanishing entirely from his grasp.