"Well, that's a lot."

"Not something you want to hear from a doctor," Ethan quips. He glances at the screen the man is looking at – a long spreadsheet of blood components. "It's up there with oops, and that's new."

"In that case, it's good. Everything is good," the doctor begins. "I don't think I have ever seen anything like it. You have higher than possible oxygenation, and perfectly stable sugar levels. And weirdest of all, no radiation exposure or scar tissue. Which is highly conflicting with your files."

Ethan scans his torso, finding that the numerous cuts and bullet scars he had vanished. He remembers having some of them while in the labyrinth. They disappeared during his coma. "Anything more preoccupying?"

"You mean, beside the fact that your biology changed to such a degree, any problem you may have could be unknown to any doctors on earth?" He smirks as he finishes his quip. "Your metabolism slept for your entire coma. You should go easy on foods; keep to low-protein, low-fat, easy-to-digest stuff, and no alcohol. And drink some water."

"Will do," Ethan replies.

The doctor eyes him with a mixture of curiosity and suspicion. "You're taking this remarkably well for someone who woke up with a completely overhauled biology. When did it happen? I'm sure you knew before she told you."

"What am I supposed to do? Cry about it?" Ethan shrugs, feigning nonchalance. He puts his hoodie back on. "When I got my strength past twenty, it didn't make my muscles bigger. Ether appeared from nowhere and, I think, changed them. Maybe that's the same thing for constitution."

"Maybe," the doctor prolongs. "I'd make you open your status if it didn't have your real name. How high is your constitution? I need to get started on some data to try to understand."

"Thirty-two," Ethan answers.

"That's a lot," the doctor comments.

"You are getting repetitive," Ethan mocks. He jumps down from the inclined chair. "If that's everything, I still have two other checkups to go through."

Mr. Miyï opens the door to his laboratory. "A moment if you will mister Five. I have something for you."

Ethan turns to see a series of injectors on a laboratory bench, each a different color. He walks up to them, the aging Chinese man holding the door for him. He touches them and thinks, 'Identification.'

Potion of strength (E)

Enhances the user's strength for a short period.

Potion of false death (E)

Slows the drinker's body to an almost stop, making them seem dead while they retain consciousness.

Potion of night vision (E)

Grants the drinker the ability to see clearly in darkness.

"They are among the creations I obtained with my levels and the samples your men brought me," Mr. Miyï says. "But with the resources we have, they are the only ones I could make. Miss Tombstone said you should be the one to take them. I encourage you to report on their effects should you use them."

"Thank you," Ethan says. He takes them into his inventory. "Do you have a list of the ingredients you would need to make your potions? I might be able to find you some."

Mr. Miyï grabs his grimoire and opens it, flipping the pages for Ethan. There are over twenty potions listed in them, but some are variants of another – a different way to make it or a higher rank. Mr. Miyï grabs a sheet of paper from a drawer. "Let me write them down in English for you."

Ethan probes his pants for his phone but remembers it's in his Inventory. He feels embarrassed to have forgotten that fact when waking up. He summons it and takes pictures of the ingredients' drawings before taking one of the translated lists.

"Do you like it here?" Ethan asks. Mr. Miyï recruitment must be a consequence of his reports to Tombstone. He knows little of the man besides his history as a practician before he immigrated to France. Somehow, he feels it could have been forced, knowing how advantageous having an Alchemist could be. "Do you have everything you need?"

"I'm allowed to do real work again, mister Five," Mr. Miyï says. He sits down on a stool and closes his grimoire. "Cops came to my shop; they asked for our status. I didn't expect it then, but the day after we were arrested. The prosecutor threatened me with every crime they could, even more than what I did running my clinic. All to offer me a deal where no one from the restaurant would see prison if I worked for them."

Ethan sighs. Tombstone warned him at the time that countries were recruiting by force. "I guess that's when you got a call."

"A cellmate handed me a phone; it was Ms. Tombstone. She offered to get everyone out; that she would give us new identities wherever we wanted. In exchange, I had to come to work here. But I'm free to take time off; I already did to go see my family in China. That was the first time in years; for that alone, it was worth it."

'Did she denounce him to save him later?' Ethan ponders. He unsummons his phone and moves back to the door. "I'm glad for you. I will leave you to your work; I'm expected somewhere else."

The genuine version of this novel can be found on another site. Support the author by reading it there.

"Take care, mister Five," Miyï says.

Ethan places his hand against the armory's tinted glass to see through. The man working the place, Tinker, is at the other window, the one for the official N.E.S.T. mercenaries. After a minute, the man notices Ethan and comes to his side.

"Yo, Five," he welcomes, his dreads flowing as his stool comes to a sudden stop. He stares at Ethan, a bit of anger in his eyes. "Long time no see. I hope you took care of my guns in Paris."

"A monster ate my HK, and one of my abilities broke the G28's barrel," Ethan says.

"You know my deal. You broke one, you own me one," Tinker says. He grabs the handle of his window to close it back.

Ethan places his hand above the counter and summons all his guns and magazines. They clatter against each other, forming a sliding pile.

"Damn," Tinker bursts. He stops the Vepr12 from falling off the counter. "That one ability I'd like to have. How's it called?"

"Inventory," Ethan answers.

"Fuck me, I would love to get my hands on it. Might need to convince them to send me to a few dungeons for it," he says. "The shotgun will be a nice addition. Glock 46?! Did you kill a cop?"

"No; plane hijacker," Ethan reassures.

"Sure," Tinker says. "Ok, ok, you got me back more guns that you took; all is good. So, what can I do for you?"

"Tombstone said you would be awaiting me. She talked about testing my capabilities," Ethan says.

"Mhh," Tinker lets out. He takes a sip of a white Monster as he disassembles the Glock. His eyes freeze as he realizes something. "Ho yeah, she called earlier. Wanted me to run you a target practice. There are some other guys in there already, so you'll have to wait your turn."

"Sure," Ethan confirms.

Tinker propels his stool between the metal shelves of his armory and retrieves a tan rifle that looks close to an M4. He places it down on the counter along with magazines. "XM7. Got a batch while you were gone. The U.S. wanted something to pierce modern protections; turns out it's good against monsters."

Ethan cycles the weapon before dryfiring at a wall. He grabs a magazine and slams into the well before chambering the first round.

"Don't go that hard when reloading with an opened bolt," Tinker says. He grabs one of his own and shows the bolt stopping against the magazine, locking it open.

"That's a huge flaw," Ethan says. "It will get soldiers who trained with the M4 killed. Do you have something else?"

"Sure," Tinker says. He takes the rifle and rolls back into his armory. Bringing back an HK417, he adds a Glock 17 and magazines for both weapons. "Better?"

"Definitely," Ethan answers. "Tombstone told me I should ask you about our new gear. The one made from Ether-infused metal."

"We got a few things," Tinker says. He takes ammunition from a drawer and places it down on the counter. "I made fifty bmg with it and some 7.62. It's way harder than making plates with it cause you can't smelt it. You have to forge it or the Ether vanishes."

"Can I get some?" Ethan asks.

"Plates? Sure. But for the ammo, that's all I've left. Two cleared me out last week; said she had big game to kill."

"I'll take you up on that once I'm done in there," Ethan says. As he moves towards the range's door, Ethan checks and loads both weapons. Grabbing a pair of earplugs, he glances back at the tinted window. "Put the hardest settings."

"That's what I was gonna do anyway," Tinker answers. He slides his window shut and rolls away.

Ethan enters the range to find firing lanes on his left and a killhouse to his right. The wood boards and concrete blocks building is lower than the rest, surrounded by walls, in case a round escapes it. Gunfire echoes from it. Through predator's sight, he sees five people training inside.

Two guards, codename Gravekeepers, are firing rifles on the left. Both hit heads at fifty meters. One of them notices Ethan and places his gun down. "Finally awake? You scared us on the helicopter, sir."

"You were with the extraction team?" Ethan asks, placing himself in the adjacent booth.

"Both of us," the man answers. "I was at the Browning. The others are training below."

"Thank you for the help," Ethan says. He taps the remote on the booth's side, making a target rise fifty meters away. He levels his rifle and fires a round; it hits to the right. Ethan takes a screwdriver from the booth's wall and turns the Eotech's horizontal dial.

"You aim well for someone who just got out of a coma," the second guard comments.

Ethan presses the remote, and the target vanishes, replaced by another at the alley's end, two hundred meters away. He levels his gun and fires round after round, his finger moving almost as fast as the gun cycles. Months ago, he considered himself exceptional with guns; today it seems too easy. His enhanced perception lets him aim thoroughly between two shots. And his strength negates so much recoil it feels like a twenty-two long rifle.

Sparks fly off the target's head as the only factor he doesn't control is the gun's dispersion. The target falls back down. Tinker's voice appears through the booths' speakers. "That's enough boasting. Try to not hit any blue ones."

A dozen targets rise from the ground, moving laterally along rails. Ethan reloads, dropping the expanded magazine from the gun in an emergency maneuver. Rounds crack through the air as they slam into the red humanoid targets.

The targets start moving unpredictably, zigzagging while others pause before darting off again. A blue target pops up in his line of fire, and Ethan redirects to another target.

"Your reflexes are insane," the first guard comments.

Ethan doesn't respond, his focus staying on the exercise. The twenty-first round leaves his barrel, leaving none for the last target. Ethan grabs the Glock and fires at it. The last target falls with a clang, and the range turns silent. He ejects both magazines and puts in new ones.

The speakers crackle to life. "That's a perfect score, Five. And you broke your own time record on top of that."

"What about Two's time?" Ethan asks.

"She still got you," Tinker says. "Made a new one a quarter of a second faster while you were out. She got the Gunslinger class; it helps a lot."

Five guards rise from the killhouse's pit, their eyes falling on Ethan. Their leader swings his gun to his back and gives a salute. "Glad to see you okay, sir."

"You know you don't have to call me sir or salute," Ethan comments. After refilling his magazines, he grabs a plate carrier from a locker and stores them in its holders.

"It feels natural," their leader comments. "Four would eat us up if we didn’t do it."

"I'm sure he would," Ethan confirms. He grabs a pair of ballistic glasses and slides down the ladder leading to the killhouse. He sees the guards edging the pit to watch him. Turning to a camera, he asks, "Ready?"

Tinker's voice comes through the speakers. "All right, Five. This is set to max difficulty. It's not speed alone I'll judge you on; don't act reckless because it's training."

A buzzer blares and Ethan surges forward. His perception allows him to anticipate the smallest movement – shadows shifting, the faint hum of mechanisms, the soft creak of rising targets.

He enters the first room, rifle down as he passes the door. A target pops up from behind a mock couch. The first round hits center mass. Another target swings from the ceiling. Ethan pivots; it's a drawn child; it holds an AK; Ethan fires on its hand.

Ethan swings wide at a door, engaging two red targets behind it. The second room is darker, with strobing lights disorienting his vision. A series of targets appear in quick succession: terrorist, terrorist, civilian, terrorist. He fires methodically, hitting the three enemy targets.

Ethan steps past a trip wire, the nylon glinting in the strobing light. A hostage target awaits him next; he strikes the enemy's head, leaving the child drawing unscathed. On the left, three targets zoom along openings leading outside. Ethan fires at them, hitting two as they appear, and the last through the wall.

The floor collapses, its planks moved by mechanical arms. Having heard the mechanism, Ethan grabs the edge with one hand. Three targets await him below; he fires his gun one-handed, striking each of them in the chest.

The buzzer sounds again, signaling the end of the exercise. Tinker announces, "Fifteen point one. That's the new best for the whole base, you fucker."