Symbiote Sovereign

Chapter 6: Metabolic Debt

The first night after the Integration was not peaceful.

In the dormitory, screams echoed from the adjacent bunks. New initiates were writhing in pain as their bodies rejected the foreign genetic material of their symbiotes.

Bio-rejection. A common side effect for Low-Tier stock.

Vane lay on his bunk, perfectly still. His face was pale, sweat beading on his forehead.

The *Lunite Shard-Tick* in his chest was hungry.

It wasn’t just feeding on his Ether; it was gnawing on his nervous system, transmitting a constant, low-frequency signal of *STARVATION*.

*My C-Grade Ether Heart produces 30 units of energy per hour,* Vane calculated coldly. *This tick consumes 15 units just to stay dormant. If I activate it for combat, I’ll burn through my reserves in three minutes.*

Metabolic debt. The curse of the lower class.

Without high-grade nutrient injections or Primeval Stones (solidified Ether crystals), a C-Grade host would slowly be eaten alive by their own weapon.

"I need an external power source," Vane thought.

He sat up. The dormitory was dark, lit only by the flickering emergency lights.

He checked his credit chip. It was the meager allowance left by his dead parents.

"Enough for three days of nutrient paste... or five liters of Industrial Ethanol."

Vane’s eyes flashed.

In the history of Moonblood Citadel, there was a legend. A rogue Bio-Hacker named "The Alchemist" who had died in the foundations of the spire. He was famous for creating a specialized symbiote—the **Fermented Gene-Slug**.

A creature that could refine raw Ether, purifying it by an entire Tier.

To finding it, one needed the scent of high-grade alcohol.

Vane stood up and put on his coat.

"Where are you going?"

Zane’s voice came from the darkness. He was sitting on his bed, glowing faintly—literally. The Clan Elders had already given him a bioluminescent aura implant, a mark of his new status.

"Out," Vane said.

"It's past curfew," Zane said, his voice dripping with newfound authority. "And... are you going to the Commissary? To buy booze?"

Vane didn't answer.

"Vane," Zane sighed, standing up. "I know you're upset about your Grade C result. But drinking won't change your genes. You're just embarrassing yourself."

"Embarrassing?" Vane paused, hand on the doorframe. He looked back at his brother—this shining, golden child who had never known a day of hunger.

"Zane, do you know why the Citadel uses ethanol to clean wounds?"

Zane frowned. "To kill bacteria."

"No," Vane smiled. It was a sharp, jagged smile. "To burn away the rot so the flesh can grow back stronger."

He stepped out into the corridor.

Ten minutes later, he was at the Commissary.

"Five liters of Synth-Ethanol. High purity," Vane slammed his chip on the counter.

The clerk, a bored cyborg with a optical lens for an eye, scowled. "Kid, you trying to kill your liver on the first night?"

"Just give it to me."

Vane grabbed the heavy canister. He didn't drink it. Not yet.

He walked out of the Spire, towards the ventilation shafts on the perimeter. The cold wind bit at his face.

The rumor was that the Alchemist died near the "Flower Wine Sector"—an old hydroponics bay.

Vane uncorked the canister. The chemically sharp smell of alcohol filled the air.

*Come out, little slug,* Vane thought, pouring a stream of clear liquid onto the rusty floor grating. *I have a drink for you.*

This was not depression. This was bait.