Primordial Awakening: I Breathe Skill Points!-Chapter 34: The Deal. (3)

Chapter 34: The Deal. (3)
Zeph’s mind raced through the implications.
’He’s not lying. He genuinely needs information about what happened to me—about how and why I reverted when the others didn’t.’
’Which means I actually do have leverage. He wants something I have that he can’t easily get elsewhere.’
’Information. Data. Understanding.’
"You want information about my transformation," Zeph said, organizing his thoughts. "About the process, the mechanics, whatever made me different from the others. Fine. But I’m not joining your organization."
"Non-negotiable." Marcus’s response was immediate and absolute. "I need long-term access, not a one-time debriefing. Anomaly development doesn’t happen in a single conversation—it takes months, years to see patterns emerge."
Zeph’s analytical mind saw the opening.
"You just told me I’m a unique data point. Which means forcing me into your organization defeats the entire purpose."
Marcus frowned. "Explain."
"You need to study how I develop naturally," Zeph continued, his voice taking on the calm logic of someone who’d spent hours alone thinking through problems.
"Not under controlled conditions where your training and structure influence the results. If you put me through your standard recruitment process, make me into one of your soldiers, you won’t know if my development is natural progression or artificial cultivation."
He could see Marcus processing that, the S-rank’s sharp mind following the logic to its conclusion.
"The data would be contaminated," Zeph finished. "Useless for understanding why I’m different."
Marcus was silent for a long moment, his expression unreadable.
’Shit,’ the S-rank thought with a mixture of frustration and grudging respect. ’The kid’s actually right. If I integrate him into Vanguard training protocols, I’ll never know if his development trajectory is unique to him or a product of our intervention. The entire scientific value of having an anomaly survivor depends on observing natural progression.’
"You’re smarter than I gave you credit for," Marcus admitted.
"You want to know why I reverted when the others didn’t," Zeph pressed, sensing the shift in negotiating position. "You won’t find that answer by making me into one of your soldiers. You’ll find it by watching me exist outside your control—seeing if patterns emerge, if the residue you mentioned develops or fades, if whatever made me different continues to manifest."
Marcus’s lips curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile but suggested he was enjoying the conversation more than he’d expected.
"Alright. You want freedom. I want data. Let’s find the middle ground."
"Here’s what I’m willing to do," Marcus said, his tone shifting to something more businesslike.
"One: I provide citizenship papers for Northern Bastion. Clean identity, no criminal record, age-appropriate registration. You’ll be officially documented as ’Kai Mercer,’ orphaned during the Seattle Sanctuary collapse, recently tested and classified as Level 35. Full legal status, access to all normal civilian services."
Zeph listened carefully, waiting for the catch.
"Two: I don’t monitor you. No surveillance, no handlers checking in weekly, no restrictions on your activities. You’re free to do whatever you want inside the Sanctuary—join guilds, take jobs, attend the Academy, make friends, make enemies. I don’t care. Your development is your own."
That sounded too good. There had to be—
"Three: I give you access to information. Dungeon intelligence s, faction movement assessments, threat analyses that normally take years of networking to acquire. Things that would be valuable to someone trying to level up efficiently and safely."
Marcus paused, making sure Zeph was following.
"What’s the catch?" Zeph asked flatly.
"One: Quarterly meetings. Four times a year, we sit down face-to-face and you tell me about your progression. Any System glitches you’ve noticed, unusual developments in your abilities, changes in how your skills or stats behave. Twenty-minute conversations, no obligations beyond honest ing. You talk, I listen, I take notes."
That seemed... minimal. Almost suspiciously so.
"Two: Emergency recall. If something catastrophic happens—major dimensional breach, S-rank or higher threat to the Sanctuary, another anomaly outbreak—I send you a signal and you respond within forty-eight hours. Non-combat support role only. I won’t throw you at enemies you can’t handle, but I might need your input on System behavior or anomaly-related phenomena."
Zeph’s mind cataloged the terms, looking for hidden obligations or vague wording that could be exploited later.
"Three: After three years, I make the recruitment offer again. By then you’ll be twenty-one, I’ll have three years of development data showing whether you’re a unique case or a reproducible phenomenon, and we can both make informed decisions about a permanent arrangement."
Marcus met his gaze steadily.
"If you refuse after three years, you walk away. No pursuit, no grudges, no retaliation. You keep the citizenship and clean record. We go our separate ways."
Zeph processed the offer systematically.
’Quarterly meetings—that’s minimal intrusion. Four conversations per year about my progression. He gets his data, I get three months of freedom between check-ins.’
’Emergency recall is vague but he specified non-combat support and forty-eight hour response time. That’s not immediate availability, and it’s limited to actual catastrophes, not routine missions.’
’Three years is... actually reasonable. I’ll be an adult. He’ll have his research data. Clean endpoint with no ongoing obligations if I refuse.’
’But there’s always a hidden cost. Nobody gives this much for this little.’
"What happens if I refuse the recruitment offer after three years?" Zeph asked, testing for the trap he knew had to exist somewhere.
"Then you walk away," Marcus repeated. "No strings attached. You’ll have citizenship under your new identity—that doesn’t change regardless of your decision. No retaliation, no blacklisting, no suddenly discovering your papers are ’invalid’ because you didn’t cooperate."
Marcus’s expression turned slightly wry.
"But I’ll be disappointed. And you’ll have passed up an opportunity to understand what you really are. Because that residue I mentioned? It’s not going away on its own. In three years, you’ll either have figured out how to control it, or it will have started controlling you. And you’ll want someone who’s studied anomaly development for three decades helping you with that problem."
Zeph’s eyes narrowed.
"This is too generous. Nobody gives three years of freedom, citizenship, and information access for just quarterly meetings and maybe showing up for an emergency."
Marcus smiled—genuine this time, not the professional recruiter’s expression but something closer to satisfaction.
"Smart. You’re right. There is a cost I haven’t mentioned yet."
He reached into his coat and pulled out a small crystal. It was deep crimson, roughly the size of Zeph’s thumb, and it pulsed with an internal light that seemed to beat in rhythm with a heartbeat that wasn’t there.
"This is a Soul Marker," Marcus said, holding it up between them. "I’m going to need you to bind your soul to this."
"Absolutely not." Zeph’s response was immediate and visceral.
Marcus held up a hand.
"It’s not a control mechanism. It doesn’t let me read your thoughts, track your location, or influence your decisions. It doesn’t your activities or monitor your conversations. It does exactly one thing: if you die, it records the spiritual signature of whatever killed you."
He rotated the crystal between his fingers, the light casting red shadows across the tunnel walls.
"That’s it. That’s the hidden cost. If something kills you in the next three years—dungeon monster, rival awakened, System malfunction, your own anomaly residue coming back and consuming you—I’ll know what it was. The marker captures the final moments, the signature of the killing blow, enough information to identify the threat."
Marcus met Zeph’s gaze directly.
"Because if you die, I need to know if it was a freak accident or if your anomaly status returned and finished what it started. That information is worth more to my research than your combat capability. It tells me whether reversion is stable or just a delayed execution."
Zeph’s internal conflict played out in the space of three seconds.
’He wants to attach something to my soul. That’s...’
’But he’s right. If the Soul Mark returns and kills me, that’s data he can’t get any other way. Data that might save the next anomaly survivor.’
’And if it’s really just a death recorder with no tracking or control functions...’
’But how do I verify that? How do I know he’s telling the truth about its limitations?’
"I want a System Contract," Zeph said, the words coming out harder than he’d intended. "Everything you just promised—every term, every limitation, every function of that marker—written down and enforced by the System itself. If you’re lying about what it does, you pay the penalty."
Marcus’s expression shifted to something that might have been approval.
"I was going to suggest that anyway."
He pulled a scroll from his coat—actual parchment, inscribed with glowing System text that hurt to look at directly. The kind of contract that couldn’t be broken without severe consequences enforced by reality itself.
"Standard Vanguard recruitment observation contract," Marcus explained, unrolling it. "I’ve used variations of this for other anomaly cases. The penalties are harsh enough that I can’t afford to violate terms, which is exactly why you should feel safe signing it."
The scroll unfurled between them, text materializing in glowing blue script. Zeph read through it three times, looking for loopholes, ambiguous wording, hidden clauses that could be exploited.
’The emergency protection clause wasn’t in his verbal offer. He added that.’
"The emergency protection," Zeph said, pointing to that section. "You didn’t mention it before."
Marcus nodded.
"Because I realized something while we’ve been talking. If I want clean data on your natural development, I can’t let someone else kill you before I get it. You represent a significant research investment now."
His expression was pragmatic, not altruistic.
"So if an S-rank or higher threat comes after you—something you genuinely can’t handle—I’ll intervene. Once, maybe twice if circumstances warrant it. Not out of kindness. Out of practical necessity. Dead subjects don’t generate data."
Zeph appreciated the honesty more than false compassion would have earned.
’He’s protecting his investment. Pure pragmatism. But it benefits me either way, and that’s what matters.’
The contract terms seemed... fair. Genuinely fair, in a way that made Zeph suspicious simply because fairness had been absent from his life for so long.
’Quarterly meetings. Non-combat emergency response. Soul marker that only activates on death. Three-year timeline with clean exit.’
’Marcus loses fifty levels if he violates terms. For an S-rank, that’s decades of progression. He’s serious about enforcement.’
’My penalty is harsh but survivable. Lose citizenship and become a wanted criminal—I’m basically already in that position now anyway.’
’And the independent verification clause for the Soul Marker means I can have someone check it’s actually doing what he claims.’
Zeph’s hand hesitated over the glowing signature line.
This was the first time in three years he’d made an actual agreement with another human being. The first time he’d trusted someone—even partially, even with System-enforced penalties backing it up.
’Is this a mistake?’
’But what choice do I have? Marcus is right—I can’t survive outside the Sanctuaries indefinitely. The owner of the storage ring is hunting me. The System might re-classify me. I need backing, resources, legal protection.’
’And this gives me three years. Three years to get strong enough that when Marcus does make that recruitment offer again...’
’I’m not joining as a subordinate who needs protection. I’m joining as someone he needs. Someone with value beyond being a research subject.’
Zeph pressed his hand to the signature line.
Energy flared—blue System light flooding through his veins for a moment as the contract bound itself to his soul at a level deeper than flesh and blood.
[CONTRACT SIGNED]
[BINDING ENFORCED]
_____
[END OF FLASHBACK]