----
11:04 Standard Terran Time
The shift had been the same as always—long, dull, and exhausting. By the time Cassian stepped out of the Scriptorum, the artificial lights above bathed the hive in their usual sickly glow. He rolled his shoulders, feeling the stiffness settle in. But he wasn't heading back to his hab just yet.
His fingers brushed against the weight at his side. The laspistol. He still wasn't used to carrying it, but it was his now. A tool that could mean survival or death, depending on how well he handled it.
As he made his way through the hive's labyrinthine corridors, his mind went over everything he knew about the weapon. The standard Imperial Guard issue laspistol wasn't the strongest firearm, but it had advantages. It didn't need traditional ammunition—just a power pack that could be recharged. A single pack held dozens of shots, though he only had one.
By the time he reached the abandoned area he'd scouted before, his legs ached from the walk. It was a forgotten corner of the hive, a dead-end alcove near some collapsed structures. Debris and metal scraps littered the ground, giving it an eerie silence. It was risky to train here, but it was the best he could get without drawing attention.
Cassian got to work, gathering whatever he could use to make a target. An old metal sheet leaned against the wall would do for backing. A few stacked crates became makeshift height markers. He even found some loose plasteel rods, wedging them into the ground to make a rough human silhouette.
It wasn't perfect, but it was enough.
He stepped back, breathing in deeply. His fingers tightened around the grip of the laspistol as he raised it toward the target.
This was the part that mattered.
Cassian knew he wasn't a soldier. He wasn't some sharpshooter trained in the art of war. He was a scribe, someone meant to spend his days hunched over parchment and dataslates. His hands were made for quills and cogitators, not weapons.
He squared his stance, feet shoulder-width apart. He wasn't sure if that was the right way to do it, but it felt stable. His arms extended, laspistol held firm in both hands. He aimed at the center of the makeshift target, thumb flicking the activation rune. A faint hum vibrated through the weapon as it powered up.
Cassian swallowed.
Then he squeezed the trigger.
A sharp crack echoed as the laspistol discharged. A red bolt of energy lanced forward, slamming into the metal sheet with a hiss. The heat left a blackened scorch mark on impact.
He lowered the gun, letting out a slow breath. His hands weren't shaking, but he felt the tension in them. The kick had been manageable, but if he fired carelessly, he could still lose control. He had to be mindful.
He took his time, adjusting his grip and stance before taking another shot. Then another. He kept his movements deliberate, focused on keeping the laspistol steady. He wasn't aiming for speed or aggression—just control.
After a dozen shots, he stopped. The power pack wasn't empty yet, but he didn't want to risk draining it too much.
A glance at the target showed his results. The first few shots had been off-center, but the last few were closer to where he had aimed. Progress, even if small.
Cassian let out a breath and stepped back. His fingers flexed around the grip before he powered the weapon down. He wasn't good yet. He wasn't even decent. But he was better than when he started.
That was enough for now.
But he wasn't done yet. If he was going to improve, he couldn't just rely on the laspistol. His body needed to be stronger too. He set the weapon aside and moved to an open space near the collapsed structures.
No fancy training methods. No equipment. Just raw, simple exercise.
Push-ups, squats, planks—whatever he could do with what little energy he had left. His muscles ached from the strain, sweat slicking his skin as he forced himself through the repetitions. His body protested, but he didn't stop.
By the time he was done, his arms and legs felt like lead. His breath came in slow, measured exhales as he sat on the cold metal floor. His body hurt, but it was the good kind of pain—the kind that told him he was getting stronger.
Cassian wiped the sweat from his brow before glancing at the laspistol again. He still had a long way to go.
But he was getting there.
And in this world, that was all that mattered.
New Skill Acquired: Marksmanship (Lv.1)
---
The past five days had blurred into a relentless cycle of labor, training, and exhaustion. Every moment was accounted for, every action serving a purpose. Cassian had no time for anything else—no leisure, no unnecessary conversations, no distractions.
His routine was set in stone:
Scriptorum shift. Endless transcription, back-breaking hours hunched over ancient cogitators, his fingers aching from typing out records. The monotony was unbearable, but he endured it. It was still his primary source of survival, even if it barely sustained him. But strangely enough, he had begun to notice something—the process was getting easier. He made fewer mistakes, caught errors more quickly, and processed information faster than before. His mind, constantly at work, was sharpening.
Travel. The hive never changed. The same crowded pathways, the same rusted corridors, the same suffocating air. He moved through the masses like a ghost, unnoticed and unbothered.
Laspistol training. A slow, steady process. His first few days had been sloppy, wasting shots as he fought to control the recoil, struggling to keep his aim steady. But by the second day, he found a rhythm. By the third, his shots hit closer to center. By the fourth, he could reliably place his bolts where he wanted them. By the fifth, his hands moved with familiarity, the weapon becoming an extension of himself.
His accuracy wasn't perfect, not even close, but it was good enough—enough to matter.
Physical conditioning. Push-ups, squats, planks, makeshift pull-ups on metal beams. His muscles ached constantly now, a dull burn that lingered even in sleep. But the pain was proof of progress. His reflexes had also started improving. He reacted faster, moved more efficiently. It wasn't just strength—his body was adapting in ways he hadn't expected.
And it was progress.
Sleep. Never enough.
Status Page
Name: [Cassian vale]
Age: 14
Race: Human (Imperium)
Affiliation: Imperium of Man
Occupation: Imperial Scribe
Physique: F (4.7/10)[+0.5]
Dexterity: F (4.1/10)[+0.4]
Intelligence: F (6.2/10)[+0.2]
Wisdom: F (7.1/10)[+0.1]
Affinity: F (4.1/10)[+0.3]
Perk available: 0
Skills:
Basic Literacy (Low Gothic) : Level Max
Marksmanship: Level 5 [+4]
Physical Conditioning: Level 9 [+5]
It was satisfying, seeing the numbers increase. It made everything feel real. The grinding, the fatigue, the hunger—it wasn't meaningless.
But then there was that problem.
Food.
His extra funds were nearly gone. What had been enough for two weeks was now down to two days. He had miscalculated just how much he needed. Every meal outside of the Scriptorum had chipped away at his reserves faster than he'd expected.
If he didn't find a new source of income soon, he'd be back to just Scriptorum rations. And those… those weren't enough.
Cassian exhaled, staring at the ceiling of his hab.
Solutions. He needed solutions.
The first option was obvious: find new work. But what? Manual labor was out. He didn't have time anymore—his schedule was already packed. He could try odd jobs, but that would cut into either his training or his sleep. And skipping sleep was a fast way to ruin everything he'd built so far.
The second option? Cut back on food. Stretch out what little he had left, ration every bite. But that was a losing game. He was already pushing his body to its limits. Eating less wasn't an option.
Then there was the third option.
Joran.
He hadn't spoken to the old man much since their first conversation, but he had helped him before. Maybe he could help again. Maybe he knew something—a way to earn a few extra chits, a job that wasn't completely soul-crushing.
Or maybe Cassian was grasping at straws.
Either way, he'd find out soon.
—
11:35 Standard Terran Time
Cassian made his way through the lower hive streets, weaving between the usual mass of bodies that filled the corridors. It was another day, another series of exhausting hours at the Scriptorum, and soon enough, he'd be back at the abandoned site, training with the laspistol and pushing his body further. His life had fallen into a routine—a brutal, demanding one, but a routine nonetheless.
After, finishing his daily quota of exercises he walked out. Instead of going the usual way to his hab. He chose to go to the lower level where he might meet Joren.
Joran wasn't anyone special. Just another laborer Cassian had met during one of his shifts. A man who had been around long enough to know people, to hear things. Cassian wasn't sure what Joran did outside of his usual work, but he had hinted before that he sometimes found… other opportunities. Work that paid better than breaking your back for twelve hours.
Cassian needed that kind of work.
He found Joran right where he expected—leaning against a railing in a dingy corridor, watching the flow of workers shuffle past. He looked up as Cassian approached, a smirk forming.
"Well, look who it is. Thought you'd finally worked yourself to death."
Cassian rolled his eyes. "Not yet."
Joran chuckled. "Give it time." He pushed off the railing, eyeing Cassian up and down. "You look… different. What, been hitting the weights?"
Cassian just shrugged. "Something like that."
Joran let out a low whistle. "Damn. A few weeks ago, you looked like you'd snap in half carrying a crate. Now you've got some meat on you." He grinned. "Must be nice, actually eating."
Cassian didn't deny it. The extra food had made a difference, and it showed.
Joran crossed his arms. "So? You didn't come all this way just to show off your new muscles."
"I need work," Cassian said simply.
Joran raised an eyebrow. "You already got work."
"Work that actually pays."
Joran snorted. "Yeah, don't we all." He rubbed his chin, considering. "There is something. Pays well. But… it's not exactly the usual kind of job."
Cassian kept his expression neutral. "Go on."
Joran sighed. "Look, it's nothing crazy. You'd be running a package from one point to another. No questions asked, no looking too hard at what you're carrying."
Cassian frowned slightly. "And why does this pay better than normal labor?"
Joran gave him a flat look. "Because the people paying don't want just anyone doing it. It's not illegal, exactly, but it's the kind of job where you don't want to screw up. If you do, they won't be happy."
Cassian wasn't stupid. That was vague enough to mean trouble. Not necessarily law-breaking trouble, but the kind that could get you hurt if you made the wrong move.
Joran must have seen his hesitation. "Look, I wouldn't be telling you this if I thought you couldn't handle it. You're not an idiot, and you're careful. That's why I figured you might be interested."
Cassian exhaled slowly. "How much?"
"A month's worth of food," Joran said simply.
Cassian considered that. A month of food would take the pressure off completely. He could train without worrying about money for a while.
But the risk…
He didn't care about whether it was legal or not. That was meaningless in the grand scheme of things. What mattered was whether this would get him killed.
Joran was watching him carefully. "You in?"
Cassian didn't answer immediately. He weighed his options, running through every possible risk. Then, finally, he nodded. "I'm in."
Joran grinned, clapping a hand on his shoulder. "Good choice. I'll get you the details soon. Just be ready."
Cassian just nodded. He had no idea what he was walking into, but one thing was clear—this job was going to be a turning point.
He just hoped it wasn't a fatal one.
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