Primordial Awakening: I Breathe Skill Points!-Chapter 41: Integration. (1)

Chapter 41: Integration. (1)
Zeph pulled off his hoodie, sat on his too-small bed, and pulled out the receipt from his pockets to confirm his new skills.
[Total Items Bought]
[Cleaving Momentum - Rank D]
[Wind Blade - Rank D]
[Predator’s Advance - Rank D]
[Iron Skin - Rank D]
[NEW TECHNIQUES ACQUIRED]
[Iron Woodsman’s Foundation]
[Foundation Breath]
Behind him, through the thin apartment walls, he could hear his new neighbor ranting to someone—probably on a phone call—about "the TALLEST, RUDEST, most IMPOSSIBLE person" she’d ever met.
Zeph smiled slightly, crumpling the paper in his palms. His life was getting interesting.
He had skills to learn. Techniques to master. Credits to earn. And apparently, a neighbor to accidentally antagonize every time they crossed paths.
’84 days until I squeeze Marcus for resources. Better make them count.’
’But first, I need to eat! I’m starving!’
_____
Clang!
The kitchen disaster started with good intentions.
Zeph had rice, vegetables, and what the package optimistically labeled as "premium protein substitute"—probably some kind of monster meat but processed enough that its origin was ambiguous. He had a pan. He had heat. He had confidence born from his awesome accomplishments.
Twenty minutes later, the smoke alarm was screaming, the protein substitute had achieved a consistency somewhere between rubber and concrete, and the vegetables had transformed into something that might qualify as a war crime under Sanctuary law.
The rice was somehow both burnt and raw. Zeph stared at it, genuinely mystified.
’How is this even possible? It’s rice. Literally one of humanity’s staple foods for thousands of years. Billions of people cook this successfully every single day.’
’And I’ve turned it into... this.’
He prodded the charred-yet-crunchy grain with a fork. It didn’t bend. It didn’t break. It just sat there, defying both culinary logic and the laws of thermodynamics.
’You know what? Fuck it.’
He ate it anyway. Every terrible bite. Because food was food, and wasting resources went against every survival instinct he’d developed.
The protein substitute tasted like regret. The vegetables tasted like he’d personally offended them. The rice tasted like he’d declared war on his own digestive system.
It was, objectively, worse than yesterday’s breakfast disaster.
Zeph finished the entire plate and decided that learning to cook properly was now on his priority list, right after "get stronger" and "make money" but before "fix social skills."
’Tomorrow I’m buying instant noodles. This is ridiculous.’
He cleared the plate—couldn’t just leave it there, the apartment was too small for mess—and sat on his too-short bed in his cramped apartment that smelled faintly of his culinary crimes.
The storage ring on his finger pulsed with that familiar weight of contained items. Six skill tomes and technique manuals that represented 44,000 credits and the majority of his liquid assets.
Time to see if they were worth it.
Zeph pulled the items out one by one, arranging them on his small fold-down table in careful order.
Six items. Six paths to greater strength. Six investments in a future where he was something more than just a survivor with good instincts.
But before he integrated anything, there was something else he needed to check.
Zeph pulled up his Primordial Architect interface.
The familiar System window materialized in his vision, but this one was different from the standard status screen everyone else saw. This one was his, unique, impossible, the cheat that had kept him alive and would make him powerful.
[PRIMORDIAL ARCHITECT]
[CORE STATUS: ACTIVE]
[PP GENERATION: 1 PP per breath]
[CURRENT BALANCE: 212,847 PP]
Zeph stared at the number.
212,847 Primordial Points.
His face split into a grin that would have looked completely out of place on his usually stoic features—the kind of genuine, unguarded smile that came from seeing impossible numbers become real.
’Two hundred and twelve thousand. That’s...’
He did the math automatically, his analytical mind processing the implications.
’It’s been six days since I made the deal with Marcus. Seven if I count today. Average breathing rate is about 21,600 breaths per day. Some days I breathe faster, some slower. Training and stress increase the rate, sleep decreases it. But the average works out to roughly 21-25 thousand PP per day.’
’Seven days times roughly 22,000 PP average... that’s 154,000. Plus the 40,000 I had remaining after upgrading Adaptive Resilience. That’s 194,000 expected.’
’Factoring in today’s breathing and the number is to be expected.’
’Either way, I have over two hundred thousand PP. That’s...’
He leaned back against the wall, his smile widening until it probably looked manic.
’I’m broke when it comes to credits. 4,460 to my name. Can’t afford the cool shit at the Union. Can barely afford food at this rate, especially with my cooking skills guaranteeing I’ll waste ingredients.’
’But in terms of Primordial Points? I’m rich. Filthy, stupidly, absurdly rich by any standard that actually matters for getting stronger.’
’Most awakened spend months grinding dungeons to earn enough Skill Points for a single upgrade. I generate that much by existing for a week!’
His storm-gray eyes gleamed with something that might have been satisfaction or vindication or just pure, undiluted joy at having an advantage nobody else could match.
’Compared to the geniuses from the large families with their ancient techniques and inherited bloodlines and private instructors? I’m not lagging behind. I’m going to overtake them. It’s just a matter of time and buying the right skills to upgrade.’
’All I need is money to buy better breathing techniques. Better manuals. Better equipment. The PP will handle the rest.’
The grin faded into something more calculating as he looked at his arranged purchases.
’But first, integration. Time to see what 44,000 credits bought me.’
Zeph picked up the Iron Woodsman’s Foundation manual first.
The decision was pragmatic. Skills were flashy, powerful, immediately useful. But this manual addressed something more fundamental: he didn’t actually know how to properly wield an axe.
He’d survived for three years using a sword. He’d barely killed those B-rank awakened with it. But "barely" and "mastered" were very different things, and he knew it.
’Everything else builds on fundamentals. Fix the foundation first. Then add the fancy shit.’
The manual was heavier than it looked. As he opened it, formation arrays worked into the pages began to glow softly, and he felt the System interface responding.
[TECHNIQUE MANUAL DETECTED]
[Iron Woodsman’s Foundation - Basic Axe Mastery]
[INTEGRATE KNOWLEDGE? Y/N]
[WARNING: Integration requires meditation period - do not disturb]
Zeph selected [YES] and felt the world drop away.
It wasn’t like skill integration, which was instantaneous knowledge download. This was different. Deeper. More organic.
Zeph’s consciousness expanded into a space that wasn’t quite real and wasn’t quite metaphysical. A training ground that existed only in the intersection between the manual’s recorded knowledge and his own mind’s interpretation.
He stood—or his mental projection stood—in an empty field. His hands held a training axe that felt more *real* than anything in his actual apartment.
And then the teaching began.
Form One: The Fundamental Stance.
His ’body’ moved without his conscious input, settling into a position that felt wrong at first—too open, too vulnerable, too different from the defensive crouch he’d used for years.
But as the knowledge flowed, he understood: this stance wasn’t for survival combat. It was for proper combat. It distributed weight evenly, allowed for explosive movement in any direction, kept the axe positioned for both offense and defense.
’I’ve been fighting like a cornered animal. This is fighting like a trained warrior!’
Form Two: The Basic Grip.
His hands adjusted on the axe handle. Thumb placement, finger pressure, wrist angle—dozens of micro-adjustments that he’d gotten wrong for three years without realizing.
The axe suddenly felt lighter. More responsive. Like it was an extension of his arm rather than a tool he wielded.
Form Three: The Fundamental Swing.
His body moved through the motion. Not a wild hack, not a desperate strike, but a proper swing that used momentum, leverage, weight transfer, and edge alignment to deliver maximum power with minimum effort.
’This is what I’ve been missing. Efficiency. Actual, genuine efficiency instead of just hitting things hard and hoping they died.’
The forms continued. Twelve of them, each one building on the previous. Defensive positions that protected vitals while maintaining offensive threat. Footwork patterns that kept balance while allowing rapid repositioning. Edge maintenance principles that would make his strikes sharper and more effective.
Hours passed. Or maybe seconds. Time was meaningless in this space.
His mental projection practiced. Failed. Corrected. Practiced again. The knowledge wasn’t just being given to him—it was being integrated, woven into his muscle memory and instinctive understanding until it became part of who he was as a fighter.
And gradually, piece by piece, his self-taught brawling style transformed into something that actually resembled proper technique.
Zeph’s eyes snapped open. His apartment materialized around him. He was sitting exactly where he’d been, the manual still open in his hands, but somehow different. Used. Its glow had faded slightly, the formation arrays dimmer now that they’d transferred their knowledge.
He blinked, orienting himself, and checked the time.
One hour had passed.
’An hour. It felt like days.’
His body knew things now that it hadn’t known before. His hands remembered grip adjustments. His stance wanted to settle into proper form. His mind understood principles that years of self-teaching had never revealed.
Zeph pulled up his System interface and navigated to the techniques section.
[TECHNIQUES]
[Iron Woodsman’s Foundation - Mastery: 58% (ADEPT)]
Fifty-eight percent. Adept rank. From a single integration session!
’I jumped straight past Novice (0-20%) and Apprentice (21-40%) and landed in Adept (41-60%). That’s... that’s months of normal training compressed into one hour.’
He stood up—had to hunch slightly to avoid hitting his head on the ceiling—and mimed an axe swing in the cramped space.
The movement was different. Smoother. More controlled. His weight transferred properly. His imaginary blade would have cut at the perfect angle for maximum damage.
’This is what proper training looks like. This is what I’ve been missing.’
The urge to grab his actual axe and test this immediately was almost overwhelming. But the apartment was too small, and his neighbors probably wouldn’t appreciate him swinging a weapon around at—he checked the time again—nine PM.
’Later. Proper practice tomorrow. Right now, more integration!’