SSS Ranked Awakening: All My Skills Are at Level 100 Chapter 3: Bread or Blood

Thick, clinging mud gripped the bare feet of a scruffy young boy, much like the very street sought to drag him down. Each step felt like a struggle against wet chains, yet he pressed onward, unable to stop. The shouts echoing behind him grew ever more insistent, forcing his pace.

Grayridge’s streets twisted, a labyrinth of sharp stones, uneven gutters, and puddles of stagnant water pooling between the cobbles. The foul odor was a familiar companion, as were the narrow alleys, the furtive glances from passersby, and the heavy burden of fleeing while others feigned ignorance.

He hugged the rough lump of bread to his chest—a misshapen, burnt, and bone-hard offering. Still, it was sustenance. And at this moment, it was his for the taking, regardless of the enraged man pursuing him.

"THIEF! Stop him!" The yell sliced through the morning clamor, quickly followed by a chorus of angry voices, stumbling in pursuit.

He refused to look back. Looking back was a sure path to hesitation, and hesitation meant pain. That was the cardinal rule.

Weaving between two carts, his hand brushed a wheel while his other arm clamped the bread, as if to prevent its escape through sheer force of will. A clatter to his left—a crate toppled. He swerved sharply, his shoulder grinding against brick, before plunging into a cramped alley. He dove behind a stack of pungent fish crates, the immediate stench of old brine and rancid guts assaulting his senses. He crouched nevertheless, drawing breath through gritted teeth.

A profound stillness enveloped him. Seconds stretched into an eternity, marked only by the steady drip of water from the eaves above and the faint groan of a loose sign swaying somewhere down the lane. No footsteps. No shouts. The pursuit had faltered.

His legs trembled uncontrollably. His lungs burned with each sharp, constricted inhale. Yet, no one emerged from the street.

Slowly, carefully, the boy slid down the rough brick wall, seeking solace against its cold surface. He drew his knees to his chest, the bread held close, his grip unyielding.

After a time, he released one hand and gazed at the salvaged loaf. Its top was scorched to a black crisp, its edges fractured. It had likely been discarded, deemed unfit for consumption. But it was solid, a tangible promise of survival. It was his. And that was enough.

He took a bite. The hardened crust rasped against his gums, the interior stale and resistant to chewing. Nevertheless, he tore it apart with his teeth, jaw clenched, masticating with dogged persistence. Each swallow was a trial, but he paid it no mind. He was eating.

His head fell back against the wall, his breathing gradually syncing with the soft patter of rain filtering through the alley’s entrance. Rivulets of water traced paths between the stones. His tunic, a patchwork of worn fabric and frayed threads, clung to him like wet paper, more holes than cloth. A chilling dampness seeped through, tracing cold patterns down his spine.

His ribs protruded sharply. His knees were covered in scabs. The ingrained dirt was a permanent feature of his skin. Yet, he was breathing. For now, that was sufficient.

His eyelids drifted shut.

And then, it happened.

A subtle sensation—neither light nor sound—stirred within him. It felt like a gentle tap at the very edge of his consciousness.

He opened his eyes. The alley remained unchanged. The rain persisted. The gnawing hunger and the pervasive cold were still present. But something else now vied for his attention—a faint, hollow tug, almost questioning.

He froze, the half-chewed crust of bread suspended in his mouth, the loaf resting in his lap. The peculiar sensation intensified, morphing from a soft whisper, like the shifting air before a storm atop a cliff, into something sharp, then agonizing.

Without warning, a blinding, raw pain lanced through his skull. His hands shot to his head as his body convulsed, legs flailing wildly. The bread tumbled from his grasp, landing with a soft splash in the mud beside him.

He collapsed onto his side, unable to scream, struggling for breath. This was not the chill of the alley, nor the shock of his fall. This was memory.

Visions flooded his mind, crashing against his consciousness like physical blows: rain on a rooftop. Devon’s smug voice, unnervingly close. A blinding flash of white. Lightning. Then, encroaching darkness, followed by an intense light. The void. An entity of unimaginable scale. A voice that transcended sound. A celestial wheel turning with impossible force.

Leon. The name reverberated through him. He was not merely a street urchin, not this starved shadow cowering behind fish crates. He was Leon. The boy who had faced death. The boy who had struck a bargain. And emerged victorious.

Seven treasures. Seven preposterous, divine rewards—

A spoon. A cloak. Boots. An orb. A dimension. A ring. A blade.

They surfaced in fragments, then coalesced into a sudden, overwhelming whole. These were not mere dreams; they were real. His name. His identity. Leon.

His breath hitched in his throat. Then, a whisper, clearer than any spoken word:

"Your treasures are sealed in a private pocket dimension tethered to your soul."

He had no recollection of hearing these words spoken, yet he *knew* them. The knowledge was innate.

Leon forced his convulsing body to stillness. He remained motionless, silent, merely closing his eyes once more. He reached inward, not toward thought, emotion, or fading memory, but toward a nascent space within himself.

And there it was. Cold. Silent. A vault residing within his very being. It possessed no discernible walls, no conventional locks, only the sheer force of his will.

His consciousness brushed against it, and a clear image materialized. Seven anchors. Seven immutable truths. Seven acts of defiance.

He focused on the one he needed most.

The spoon. He hadn't summoned it. He simply 'reached out' and it materialized in his grasp.

Unadorned. Metallic. Marred with scuffs. Almost comically mundane. Until it began to fill. Gentle tendrils of steam curled upward from the shallow basin. The aroma assailed his senses, striking directly at his core.

A warm broth. Rich. Piquant. Authentically real.

His stomach, a ravenous beast, roared so fiercely it caused him pain. He lifted the spoon to his parched lips. And sipped.

The initial taste shattered his composure. It was flawless. Velvety smooth. A subtle, sharp undertone—was that pepper? He scarcely registered. He didn't pause. He drank again. And then once more. As the exquisite flavor persisted, as the spoon miraculously replenished itself—

A laugh escaped him. It began as a choked gasp. Then a snort. It escalated into a profound, silent chuckle that convulsed his frame, rattling his bruised ribs.

This was not delirium. It wasn't ecstasy. It was liberation.

No longer would he plead. He would cease his groveling. Power was his now. For the first time within this grim reality, he was not passively awaiting further injury.

Found seated amidst a mire of degradation, with raindrops lacing through his matted hair, he directed laughter into a spoon that defied the gnawing of hunger. In that moment, he felt an aliveness previously unknown.

His gaze fell upon the spoon. A slow smile spread across his face.

"I suppose an endless supply of soup isn't the worst way to begin," he mumbled, the words raspy.

Then, with eyes narrowing and his tone dropping to a low growl: "...Let's discover what culinary creations I can manifest next."

He reclined against the damp wall, the eaves above weeping water, the warm soup a comforting presence in his hand.

For the very first time since his disorienting arrival in this world... he no longer perceived himself as mere prey.