Awakening a 10,000x Skill Proficiency Multiplier in the Apocalypse

The green wireframes making up his skeletal structure began to slowly drift apart, expanding further into the dark. The urge to dissolve into the void was incredibly strong.

Then, a singular, deeply annoying memory sparked in the center of his code.

He remembered Valerie rolling her eyes at him after he had overpriced a healing potion. He remembered the exact, frustrating tone of her corporate-speak.

”Wait, fuck that,” Sebastian’s consciousness suddenly snapped, a violent burst of red Error flaring in his center. ”I like coffee. I like being a cynical asshole. If I turn into a giant space cloud, she’s going to wake up and tell everyone I was a dramatic martyr.”

He couldn’t stay like this. He couldn’t remain a moon-sized anomaly. If he didn’t anchor his humanity to a physical parameter, he would lose his mind entirely.

”System,” Sebastian commanded, his overlapping, distorted voice vibrating with renewed, stubborn aggression. ”Access [Reality Rendering]. Target: Self.”

He wasn’t going to build a black hole this time. He was going to build a cage for his own code.

”Initiate absolute compression. Render humanoid avatar. Six feet, two inches. Baseline human mass.”

The system instantly threw up millions of frantic, red warning screens across his vast internal network.

[CRITICAL WARNING: Data volume exceeds requested physical parameters by 9,999%.] [Forcing compression will result in catastrophic internal pressure.] [Entity will become highly unstable. Containment breach imminent.]

”I am already unstable,” Sebastian snarled. ”Compress it!”

He turned his 10,000x [Reality Rendering] completely inward. He grabbed the sprawling, miles-wide mass of black static, green wireframes, and raw Source Code, and violently, aggressively shoved it all into a single, microscopic point.

The agony was absolutely unholy.

It was infinitely worse than the burning firewall of the Archons. It was like taking an entire ocean and forcing it through a garden hose. His vast, cosmic awareness was brutally ripped away, forcefully shoved back into a suffocating, tiny box.

SKREEECH! CRUNCH!

The sound of his own data violently collapsing echoed in the void. The massive, swirling moon of glitching code folded in on itself, shrinking rapidly from the size of a celestial body down to the size of a dreadnought, then a house, and finally, a man.

A blinding flash of localized green light erupted in the dark, followed by a shockwave of displaced space that cleared the Juncture smog for miles.

When the light faded, Sebastian was no longer a moon.

He was floating in the void, looking down at his hands. They were the right size. They had five fingers. But they certainly weren’t human.

He had rendered a new avatar. It was a pitch-black, featureless humanoid silhouette. He looked like a three-dimensional shadow cut out of the fabric of the universe. He didn’t have skin or clothes. He was just a sleek, dark void in the shape of a man.

But his surface wasn’t perfectly smooth.

All across his new, six-foot frame, jagged, weeping red runes were carved into the blackness. They were the literal scars of the [Error] he was forcefully containing. Thick, glowing digital ash bled continuously from the runes, drifting off his body like smoke from a dying fire.

He reached up and touched his face. There was no nose, no mouth. Just two piercing, brilliant white void-eyes that burned with the absolute clarity of a Sovereign.

He felt heavy. Not physically heavy—the Juncture had no gravity—but internally heavy.

The warnings hadn’t lied. The sheer, apocalyptic pressure of ten million units of Source Code and the corrupted math of a dead universe were packed into a tiny, fragile frame. He felt like a walking pressure cooker. He felt a constant, vibrating hum in his very core, desperate to expand and destroy everything around him.

”Great,” Sebastian whispered. He didn’t have a mouth, but the sound projected perfectly from his form, a cold, metallic rasp. ”I’m a walking nuke with a bad temper. If I don’t vent this Error periodically, I’m going to accidentally blow up a solar system.”

He clenched his fists, the red runes on his knuckles flaring brightly, bleeding a fresh stream of digital ash.

It was agonizing. It was terrifying. But it was constrained. He felt like Sebastian again.

He looked back toward the distant, golden sphere of Earth.

He still couldn’t go back. Even compressed, the sheer density of his code would shatter the planet’s localized physics engine if he stepped foot on the grass.

But he could watch. He could make sure his people were safe.

Sebastian crossed his arms, his white void-eyes locking onto the golden barrier. The Sovereign of Laws took his post, a bleeding shadow standing guard in the endless dark, waiting for the Deep Void to make its move.

——-

The air inside the Sanctuary medical ward didn’t smell like burnt ozone, acidic blood, or the terrifyingly sterile perfection of the System Hub. It smelled like clean bandages, cheap rubbing alcohol, and the faint, unmistakable aroma of freshly brewed, heavily caffeinated coffee.

On the cold, runic-carved marble of the Resurrection Altar, Valerie gasped.

Her eyes snapped open. She shot up into a sitting position, her hands frantically flying to her chest. Her heart was hammering a desperate rhythm against her ribs. She expected to feel the massive, gaping wound from the Sky-Fortress’s absolute zero detonation. She expected to feel the agonizing, terrifying cold of her mana pool completely burning out and her digital soul tearing apart.

She felt nothing but smooth, perfectly healed skin beneath her tattered azure silk robes.

”Easy, easy. You’re alright, Princess. You’re still in one piece,” a rough, gravelly voice echoed to her left.

Valerie blinked, her vision swimming for a second before slowly clearing.

Standing next to the altar was Galleon. The dwarven engineer looked like he had been dragged backwards through a heavily active soot factory. His thick beard was singed on the ends, his heavy iron armor was dented, and he was covered in grease. But he was grinning widely. In his thick, calloused hand, he held a steaming mug of actual, real coffee.

Sitting on a stack of empty ammunition crates across the room was Wraith. The Level 25 Assassin had his dark mask pulled down around his neck. He looked completely, utterly exhausted, dark bags hanging under his eyes, but he was undeniably alive.

”Galleon? Wraith?” Valerie whispered, her voice hoarse and dry. She swung her legs over the edge of the marble slab, her bare feet dangling. ”What... what happened? The Vanguard fleet? The tsunami?”

”Evaporated,” Galleon chuckled, taking a loud, obnoxious slurp of his coffee. ”The whole damn wave turned into a giant snow cone when you blew the core. You bought us enough time.”

”Time for what?” Valerie pressed, her corporate-honed mind rapidly trying to piece the logistics together. She looked around the pristine medical ward. The emergency red flashing lights were gone. The low, desperate, coughing hum of the base’s failing diesel generators had been replaced by a powerful, steady vibration of absolute, unlimited stability.

”Did we repel them?” she asked, her heart hammering faster. ”Did Sebastian drop a literal mountain on them?”

Wraith and Galleon exchanged a heavy, incredibly loaded glance. The dwarf’s grin slowly faded, and he suddenly found the dark contents of his coffee mug entirely fascinating, refusing to meet her eyes.

”Where is he?” Valerie demanded, the cold grip of panic instantly returning to her chest. She slid off the altar, her bare feet hitting the cold tile floor. ”Where is Sebastian?”

”He’s... he’s not here, Boss,” Wraith said softly, his raspy voice tight with an emotion the hardened, cynical killer rarely ever showed.

”Did he die?” Valerie choked out, tears instantly pricking the corners of her bright blue eyes. ”Did his Void Toxicity hit one hundred percent? Tell me the glitch didn’t un-render!”

”He didn’t die, Valerie,” Galleon sighed heavily, setting his mug down on a nearby metal tray. The dwarf walked over, his heavy boots clanking against the tiles. He gently placed a thick, calloused hand on her shoulder and pointed toward the heavy blast doors leading out of the medical ward. ”He finished the game.”

Valerie didn’t wait for a long, dramatic explanation. She shoved past the dwarf, sprinting out of the medical ward and tearing down the polished obsidian corridors of Sanctuary.

The Citadel was entirely different. The Vanguard Syndicate’s heavy bombardment damage was completely gone. The scorch marks on the walls had vanished. The ambient mana flowed smoothly, lighting the hallways with a warm, comforting glow. It didn’t feel like a desperately held, failing bunker anymore. It felt like a true, invincible fortress.

She reached the grand hall and sprinted up the sweeping, spiral staircase leading to the upper command deck. She burst through the heavy titanium doors onto the primary observation balcony.

She froze.

The sky above Earth was no longer a swirling, bruised-purple nightmare of toxic cosmic smog. The jagged, bleeding tears of the Juncture where the Saints had poured through were completely gone.

It was blue.

A perfectly clear, brilliant, uncorrupted blue sky stretched out over the ruined industrial district. The sun—the actual, real sun, not a bloated, dying orange pixel—shone down on the city, casting a warm, golden light over the rubble.