The System's chime still hung in the air, not a herald of new beginnings, but an executioner's bell. Yet, as panic spread through the streets like spilled blood, Jason's pulse raced with a different kind of thrill. It wasn't power lust – at least, not solely. It was the predatory calm of a man seeing his hunting grounds laid bare.

His gaze fixated on the monstrous wound pulsating above the woman's corpse. From her screams, his mind supplied the name – acid hound. Yet, even knowing what he faced, an insidious curiosity twisted inside him. There was something different about this hound, its fangs larger, the acid bubbling beneath its sickly green skin.

In his past, those differences would have filled him with dread. Now, his mind crunched numbers; his IQ wasn't merely intellectual, but a weapon honing his every observation. This monstrosity wasn't just an enemy, it was a data point.

It was all connected to the rift. Later iterations of these apocalyptic invasions became terrifyingly formulaic: rifts opening at predictable geographic weak points, an initial 'testing' wave of lesser monsters, then a calibrated escalation in horror. Each rift, each invasion, a brutal experiment orchestrated by an unfathomable force. He'd learned this, and had died because of it.

But here, at ground zero, those rules twisted. This hound, those pulsating marks on the walls… everything hinted at this early stage being the least predictable. The most volatile.

And, Jason's instincts sang, the most exploitable.

"So much potential, wasted…" he hissed to the creature's corpse, ignoring the way the woman's blood pooled with the dissolving wax – collateral damage he couldn't even afford to feel guilt over. In his past, he'd spent too much time scavenging these initial kills, scrounging for any advantage from an already-picked carcass. Not this time.

There was more to gain here, far more than just brute strength. As he knelt, something other than adrenaline thrummed through him – that eerie echo of System power. Motes drifted from the hound's body, but instead of being the almost passive specks from his previous life, these motes felt heavy, saturated with raw potential. The bite on his shoulder ached, a venomous counterpoint to this pulsing bounty.

His foreknowledge burned brighter than regret. It was all here: the first clue to how those pathetic classes worked, and perhaps, in this warped energy, even a hint to why he – out of millions – had been sent back. His eyes narrowed, focusing not on the beast's corpse, but on the very air around it. It shimmered, an acidic afterimage hinting at…

A path.

Crude, unstable, the motes fading quickly, but a direction nonetheless. It led not further into the chaos of the ruined streets, but toward an abandoned warehouse. Survival instincts clashed with ruthless curiosity. His body ached, the bite wound buzzing with ominous resonance. Every ounce of his former self begged for rest, for the safety of shadows.

“Safety is for the weak," his voice was a rasp, echoing the predator he would become. The time for hiding was over.

The warehouse gaped like a dying beast itself, rust devouring its steel skeleton. Yet, inside was where the air pulsed strongest, those heavy motes hanging close to a collapsed storage crate. Each step sent an answering flicker through his wound, not like poison, but… attunement.

Something had been here, leaving this lingering essence behind. Something powerful, perhaps summoned by the rift’s birth, then driven off… or worse. There was an intoxicating pull to the centre of the warehouse, where the energy thickened. Not an invitation, a challenge. This, he realised, was one thing about the apocalypse his memory hadn't prepared him for. It wasn't about knowing every monster, every class, but recognizing the echoes of an unseen system even those creatures failed to grasp.

A low growl made him pause. Not the hound's guttural snarl, but something heavier, deeper.

From the shadows, glowing crimson eyes opened.

Every nerve screamed to run, to utilise every dirty trick he knew from years of being hunted. Yet amidst the terror, an icy thrill shot through him. This… this was a deviation from what he remembered.

The beast moved in flashes, claws shimmering in the gloom, its teeth… wrong. Each was long, needle-like, dripping a luminescent fluid. Not acid, something even more potent. This was an early mutation, a glimpse into the twisted potential of the first wave. Jason had just discovered what made this first stage of the apocalypse terrifying – it wasn't a game following defined rules; it was raw entropy. Every new rift a cosmic lottery of horror, every mutated fiend a testament to unchecked chaos.

His blood roared a counterpoint. Here, at the source, there wouldn't simply be experience motes – if he survived, there would be raw power. Enough, potentially, to jumpstart his regression and even surpass his former self.

"Come forth then, creature," Jason snarled, a parody of a hero's bravado. His foreknowledge whispered that, if the beast had survived the hounds, he was already prey. This would not be a simple kill. Survive, and every drop of power would be his. Die, and his regression became meaningless. His past offered no solution here, no memory of this beast, its mutation. It was adapt, exploit, or perish.

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This, he realised with a terrifying clarity, was what rebirth truly meant. Not clinging to old tactics, but learning to see with the System's cold eyes. Every deviation from his remembered timeline was an evolutionary hurdle for both beast and hunter. He needed to become what this world – or whatever sick force lay beyond the rifts – demanded of him.

The beast lunged. With an agility unseen in regular hounds, it cleared half the warehouse in a single leap. Jason reacted on instinct, throwing himself sideways – claws ripped through hardened wax instead of flesh. Desperation fueled a counterattack, crude wax weapons raking a shallow wound along the creature's flank. But the blow felt wrong, almost insignificant, a scratch against a creature designed to maim.

As he scrambled up, something flickered in the wound. Not gore, but… System light. An answering resonance to the motes in the air, the beast's dripping fangs. This energy wasn't passive, it reacted to his aggression. This wasn't just about consuming motes - it was about dominance.

His grin became feral, shadowed by crimson eyes. In his past, he'd avoided stronger monstrosities – a futile quest, with power-hungry humans proving just as deadly in later rifts. This time, he couldn't afford that luxury. Regression had robbed him of a proper level display, of the numerical advantage he'd taken for granted. His old habits of precise strikes, counting cooldowns, felt like faded blueprints for a weapon he no longer possessed.

A low growl rattled the walls, vibrating into a sickening pulse. In his past, these sounds would have filled him with primal terror. Now, they became a counterpoint to the hum of power radiating from his wound.

The next attack caught him partially – claws raked his skin, burning poison seeping into his blood. In a flash of calculated frenzy, he slammed the remaining hardened wax – not at the beast, but at its dripping venom. The collision sparked a chain reaction; wax dissolving, venom sizzling, and in that explosive burst, a surge of motes erupted. His wound drank it in, pulsing brighter, as did a notification he could se:

Enemy Dominated: Energy Absorption +30%.

Warning: Volatile Essence Overload – Immediate Integration Required

It felt less like victory, more like a reprieve. This beast, the poison in his veins… it was all fuel.

The notification was his own executioner's call. In his former life, levelling was methodical. Even killing provided only fragments of potential; meditation and integration had been critical to avoid painful overloads. Now, the world demanded brutal adaptation. Each kill was a potential burst bomb, and weakness meant literal detonation.

Jason moved without conscious thought, the beast circling, dripping fangs gleaming in anticipation. Every inch of his body pulsed with searing energy – not pain, but an unstable pressure point ready to explode. It was a brutal gamble: harness the excess power now or it would destroy him. He needed a conduit.

Ignoring the beast, Jason stumbled to the collapsed shelves where the System energy pulsed strongest. As he knelt, fingers trembling with suppressed agony, his bite wound echoed the rhythm, flaring out to touch the motes hanging heavy in the air.

Integrate: Warning! Essence Alignment in Progress…

With a gasp, a vision seared into his mind: a field of dripping candles, some wicks bright, others sputtering under waves of suffocating wax. A pathetic analogy, his subconscious screaming for a familiar framework. His hand closed around a cold chunk of metal and his mind mapped the new data with brutal clarity.

In essence, levelling now was pouring unstable energy into his own pitifully dim candle. One that sputtered with the weak remnants of his former life. Wrong move, wrong alignment, and it would detonate instead of evolve. His focus became ruthless, fixating on the flickering wick, not just as metaphor, but as his target. He poured the stolen energy, a baptism not in holy water, but in monstrous power.

Skill Consolidation… Class Adjustment…

It wasn't pleasant. There was a phantom sensation of choking, a sense of losing his centre, and then it receded in a sudden burst.

Congratulations! Skill Adjustment Complete… Unique Skill Obtained: [Essence Theft]

Candle Mage Level 3. System Potential Unlocked. Progression Path Available.

The beast charged. Jason dodged clumsily, his body still adjusting to the raw surge of power. The creature miscalculated its leap, crashing into the rubble where moments ago it held absolute dominance. Yet, amidst the clumsiness, there was another change. Not in strength alone, but the very perception of the power coursing through him. He didn't simply see the lingering motes anymore – he felt their potential, a web of possibilities.

No longer was he a candle maker, pathetically casting meagre flames. This was about manipulation, control, becoming the architect of an entirely new form of power – one crafted from stolen essence.

This, he realised, was the key to surpassing his past. Not simply mimicking old paths, but creating something the System – perhaps its creators – hadn't anticipated.

His counterattack was brutal and unrefined. Wax hardened by instinct formed not into makeshift blades, but into tendrils that grasped at the beast as it tried to disengage. It jerked back, teeth finding purchase on the wax - it was devouring energy itself. He pulsed more in, letting it feed until a sickening snap filled the air. One dripping tendril was replaced by a crude hand – his control extending through the stolen essence directly into the monster's form.

Its howl curdled into a terrified gurgle. It was losing coherence, the stolen poison mixing with its own flesh. Then, in a burst of final struggle, it charged – seeking not prey, but the source of its mutation.

It collided with Jason, sending them both stumbling. Its teeth raked across his chest, opening a new wound that hissed and glowed as it drank in the raw essence.

Then, just as suddenly, it imploded – a cascade of putrid flesh, luminescent fluid, and raw motes saturating the air. It wasn't merely killed, it had broken down into constituent components. One of which now hummed within Jason.

This, Jason realised as he forced himself to a kneeling position, was the horrifying price of rapid growth. Power wasn't clean in this apocalypse. It wasn't about climbing a neat ladder, but becoming a creature capable of wielding its raw chaos.