Wren crouched behind the rusted barricade. Wind whipped grit against his goggles. The old city lay in pieces around him: broken towers, cracked roads, and layers of dust. No one was coming to help. No one ever did.

He checked his gear. A dull machete, a short crossbow, and a pouch of dried rations. He patted his coat pockets for spare bolts. Only three left. His stomach rumbled, but he forced the hunger aside.

A faint chime sounded in his head. He exhaled. The System had a habit of showing up at inconvenient times.

[System Notification: Survival Protocol Online] Status:

Name: Wren

Health: 32/50

Stamina: 25/40

Ash Reserve: 60%

Skills: Ash Manipulation (Basic)

He eyed the “Ash Reserve” reading. If it dropped too low, he couldn’t summon anything. If it hit zero, he’d probably collapse from overuse. Not a pleasant thought.

A guttural hiss came from the alley ahead. Wren peered over the barricade. A gangly, insect-like creature skittered across broken pavement. Chitinous plates covered its body. It smelled like stale chemicals, like rotting plastic. It was hunting for easy prey.

Wren set a crossbow bolt. He braced the weapon against the concrete. If he missed, the beast would close in fast. But he couldn’t sit here forever, waiting for it to wander off. Emerson’s meager outpost needed supplies, and he was one of the few who risked going into the dead zones to get them.

He aimed. Slow breath. Pulled the trigger.

The bolt struck the creature’s flank. It screeched. Ichory slime oozed from the wound. Instead of running, it spun with a jerky lunge. Wren cursed under his breath and scrambled backward.

He flicked his wrist, drawing on the ash in the air. The dust swirled around his palm, forming a rough, gray dagger. It wasn’t stable, but it might buy him a second or two. The creature sprang over the barricade, slamming into him. Teeth snapped at his face. The ash dagger barely held its shape as he stabbed at the thing’s leg.

[System Notification: Ash Manipulation Engaged] - Ash Dagger (Improvised Weapon) -

A chunk of chitin chipped away. The monster’s shriek flooded Wren’s ears. He jammed the dagger in deeper. The blade cracked, almost dissolving. One good push left.

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Wren gritted his teeth and drove the ash dagger into the creature’s soft underbelly. It gave one last twitch before collapsing in a heap. Panting, Wren kicked aside the limp body. Not much loot to salvage—just more acidic gore. At least it wouldn’t stalk him anymore.

He leaned against a half-buried car, checking the System:

[System Notification: Enemy Defeated] EXP +5 Ash Reserve: 45%

He wiped sweat from his forehead. The fight hadn’t been glorious. It never was. Surviving, not winning, was the real goal out here.

Wren searched the alley, hoping for anything worth bringing back: maybe a can of old food or a half-rusted tool. He found a dingy backpack with a cracked water bottle inside. Water was always a treasure, even if it might be foul. He poured a little on his skin. It stung but didn’t burn. Good enough for a quick sip.

Behind him, footsteps. Soft, cautious. Another scavenger? Or something else?

Wren spun, brandishing a new swirl of ash in his hand. But it was just a man wearing patched leathers. The guy held a crowbar at the ready.

“Easy,” Wren said, voice steady. “I’m not looking for a fight.”

The scavenger eyed the monster’s corpse and nodded. “You alone?” he asked.

Wren shrugged. “Does it matter?”

The man didn’t push. Here, people kept to themselves unless forced to cooperate. Partnerships could work, but trust was rare. Wren had more pressing things to do than debate territory with a stranger. He motioned at the half-blocked street. “I’m heading east. If you’re scavenging the same area, we can leave each other alone.”

The man grunted agreement. Wren slipped away, keeping a hand near his gear.

As he navigated deeper into the ruins, the System pulsed again, reminding him of his half-empty resources. He felt the fatigue creeping in. Summoning more ash weapons would cost him. But sometimes, that was the only edge he had.

He pressed on, hoping to find something better: a hidden stock of canned food, medical supplies, or anything the settlement could trade. Life in Emerson wasn’t easy. The place had walls, but not much else. People relied on scavengers like him to bring back whatever they could. Without that, they’d starve.

Hours later, Wren finally spotted the old grocery store he’d aimed for. Most of its roof had caved in. Broken glass littered the entrance. He slipped inside, quiet as possible. Rows of empty shelves greeted him, along with a faint stink of rot. If there was anything left, it’d be hidden behind debris or jammed in corners.

He pried open a locked storeroom door, using a small ash wedge. Inside, he found a single crate of expired meal pouches. Most were torn or chewed up. He salvaged a handful that might still be edible. It was meager, but better than nothing.

On his way out, the floor trembled. Something large moved in the back area. Wren tensed, crossing the half-collapsed checkout counters. Another monster? He was low on ash reserves, low on stamina. But running blindly might corner him.

He crouched behind a toppled vending machine. The noise stopped. His nerves buzzed. He gripped the handle of his worn machete, the crossbow slung useless at his side with only two bolts left. A single fight could wipe him out if it was big.

He waited, heartbeat steady. If he survived, he’d have a shot at leveling up more, unlocking deeper powers. He was sure the System could do more than track his status. But knowledge cost resources, time, or near-suicidal hunts.

Finally, the sound retreated. Maybe the beast had crawled elsewhere. Wren sighed in relief. He’d push his luck no further today.

He slipped out of the building, loaded with a few meal pouches. Not heroic, not glorious. But that was life. Survive another day. Keep the settlement alive. Keep leveling. Maybe one day, he’d find a better way to live in this ash-scorched world.

For now, he walked back through rubble-strewn streets, watching every corner. No one was coming to save him. He wouldn’t rely on luck. His only real ally was the System—and the piece of steel in his hand.