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

The server couldn’t render something that mathematically wasn’t allowed to be there.

Sebastian let his remaining hand fall to his lap. He stared at the static.

The terrifying, invincible Sovereign of Laws was gone. He couldn’t just casually edit away the damage. He couldn’t just punch the universe until it gave him what he wanted.

He was permanently, utterly crippled.

”Seattle,” Sebastian whispered into the comm-link, his voice dropping all of its usual sarcastic bravado. ”We have a massive problem.”

—-

Sebastian sat slumped against the cold, metal hull of the Rusthound, staring blankly at his right shoulder. Or rather, he stared at the exact spatial coordinates where his right arm was supposed to be.

It wasn’t a bloody stump. There was no jagged bone jutting out, no torn muscle fibers, and no frantic, green error codes desperately trying to stitch the wound back together. It was just a perfectly smooth, two-dimensional plane of gray television static.

He raised his left hand, the only one he had left, and cautiously poked the static.

BZZZT.

His fingers passed right through it. He felt absolutely nothing. No pain, no pressure, no temperature. It was just an empty void in the shape of a missing limb. The Cleaner hadn’t chopped his arm off. The faceless, six-winged freak had literally highlighted a chunk of Sebastian’s rendering code and hit the ’Delete’ key.

”Well, fuck,” Sebastian muttered, his voice a dry, exhausted rasp. ”There goes my dominant punching hand. That’s incredibly inconvenient.”

”Inconvenient?!” Corbin shrieked from the upper deck, his voice cracking violently. The rogue code-smith was practically hanging off the rusted railing, his eyes wide with absolute, unadulterated terror. ”You just lost twenty percent of your base file to a System Cleaner! That’s not a paper cut, Boss! That’s terminal deletion! We are so unbelievably dead!”

”I’m not dead yet, stubby,” Sebastian grunted, letting his head fall back against the vibrating wall with a heavy thud. ”And neither are you. So stop screaming before my migraine gets worse.”

The Rusthound violently shuddered. The heavy, patched-together smuggler’s skiff groaned in protest, its over-taxed anti-gravity engines screaming like a dying animal. Gwen was pushing the ship far past its absolute limits.

”Hold onto something!” Gwen yelled from the cockpit, her hands flying across the glowing control runes in a frantic blur. ”I’m ripping us out of the Juncture! We need to break their line of sight before they trace our vector!”

”Where are we going?” Sebastian yelled over the deafening roar of the plasma thrusters. ”Server 112 is gone! The Hub is compromised!”

”We’re going to the trash chute!” Gwen shot back, her teeth gritted. ”We’re going to the Dead Servers!”

WHOOOOSH!

The chaotic, dark purple smog of the Juncture outside the viewport suddenly, violently parted. It wasn’t a smooth transition. It felt like the ship had just been forcefully shoved through a thick, rubbery membrane.

Sebastian’s stomach completely flipped.

”Whoa, shit!” Sebastian yelled, his remaining hand scrambling to grab a welded pipe on the wall.

Gravity didn’t just fail; it threw a complete temper tantrum. The orientation of the Rusthound didn’t change, but the universal concept of ’down’ aggressively shifted ninety degrees to the left.

CRASH!

A stack of heavy, rusted metal crates violently slammed against the port-side wall, narrowly missing Sebastian’s head. Corbin let out a high-pitched yelp as he fell off the upper walkway, tumbling through the air and landing squarely on the side of a heavy plasma conduit.

”Adjusting the localized dampeners!” Gwen cursed loudly, her boots planted firmly against the side of her pilot’s chair as she wrestled with the controls. ”Just give it a second! The physics engine here is completely fucked!”

Slowly, the ship’s internal gravity plating compensated, violently jerking the concept of ’down’ back to the floorboards. Sebastian hit the grating with a heavy grunt, his breath rushing out of his lungs.

He pushed himself up onto his knees, his singular hand gripping the grating. He looked out the reinforced viewport.

The Dead Servers were a breathtaking, melancholic nightmare.

There was no sky. Instead, the ”heavens” above them were a horrifying patchwork quilt of shattered, deleted worlds. Sebastian could see chunks of a burning fantasy skybox stitched directly next to the neon-lit, polluted atmosphere of a cyberpunk city. Jagged tears in the environment revealed absolute, pitch-black nothingness underneath.

But it was what lay below them that truly demanded attention.

The Rusthound was gliding over a sprawling, endless ocean. But it wasn’t made of water, and it wasn’t the thick, highly corrosive blood of a World Core.

It was a sea of pure, glowing, liquid memory.

The ocean radiated a soft, sorrowful blue and silver light. Millions of tiny, translucent tendrils of data drifted through the fluid like luminescent jellyfish.

”Welcome to the recycle bin,” Gwen breathed, her voice completely devoid of its usual cynical bite. She pulled back on the throttle, letting the rusted skiff drift slowly over the glowing waves. ”The System dumps everything here. Every deleted NPC, every wiped player, every shattered server. It all just melts down into this.”

Sebastian stood up slowly, keeping his balance on the creaking floorboards. He walked over to the viewport, his silver-tinged eyes staring down at the endless expanse of liquefied souls.

”It’s a graveyard,” Sebastian whispered.

”It’s a holding cell before permanent formatting,” Corbin corrected, groaning as he pushed himself up from the floor. The code-smith rubbed his bruised back and limped over to the tactical console. ”The System breaks them down here. Then, slowly, the ambient void completely erases the data. But that’s not our biggest problem right now.”

Corbin pulled up a holographic projection of a System Cleaner. The faceless, six-winged Seraph slowly rotated in the blue light of the cabin.

”You tried to punch it,” Corbin stated, looking at Sebastian with a mixture of awe and absolute disbelief. ”You tried to punch a literal manifestation of the ’Delete’ key.”

”I hit it,” Sebastian defended himself, pointing his left thumb at his static-filled right shoulder. ”It just didn’t care.”

”Because it doesn’t have a health bar, Boss!” Corbin said, throwing his hands in the air. ”The Cleaners don’t exist within the standard parameters of the Ethereal Plane’s physics engine! You can’t crush them with your Gravity Domain. You can’t freeze them. You can’t cut them. They are pure, unadulterated anti-virus software.”

”Everything has a weakness, Corbin,” Sebastian said flatly, his dark, deadpan demeanor returning. ”If it has code, it can be broken. I just need to find the right hammer.”

”You can’t use brute force!” Corbin argued, tapping the holographic Seraph. ”Their logic is flawless. They are designed to identify corrupted data, isolate it, and overwrite it with [NULL]. They are perfect.”

Sebastian stared at the glowing white hologram. He crossed his remaining arm over his chest. His highly optimized, Demigod-tier brain rapidly spun through the problem, discarding useless combat strategies one by one.

”Perfect logic,” Sebastian murmured, a dark, terrifyingly unhinged smile slowly carving its way onto his face. ”You know what happens when you introduce a completely irrational, chaotic variable into a perfect mathematical equation?”

Gwen looked back from the pilot’s seat. ”It crashes.”

”Exactly,” Sebastian nodded, his silver eyes flashing. ”I can’t fight an anti-virus with a sword. That’s just throwing raw data at a wall. To destroy perfect logic, I need to engineer a custom, completely irrational malware. I need to infect the god of order with pure chaos.”

”And where exactly are you going to find pure chaos out here?” Gwen asked, gesturing out the window to the serene, glowing ocean of the dead.

Sebastian didn’t answer immediately. He looked down at the ocean of liquefied memories. He thought about what that water was actually made of. It wasn’t just numbers. It was the condensed, un-rendered grief of billions of people who had watched their worlds burn. It was the terror of players who had been thrown into the meat grinder and failed.

It was pure, unadulterated human suffering. And human emotion was the most chaotic, illogical force in the multiverse.

”I’m going fishing,” Sebastian said coldly. He turned away from the viewport and walked toward the heavy, iron doors of the airlock.

”Wait, what?!” Corbin panicked, rushing forward. ”You can’t go out there! That’s raw, uncompiled grief! If you touch that water, the sheer emotional weight will fry your digital nervous system! It will shatter your ego!”

”I’m already missing an arm, stubby,” Sebastian said, his hand resting on the heavy release lever of the airlock. ”I’m running out of things to lose.”

He pulled the lever.

HSSSSS!

The pressurized doors violently hissed open, revealing the sideways, chaotic gravity of the Dead Servers and the endless, glowing ocean waiting below.

Sebastian stood on the edge, the soft blue light washing over his scarred, battered face. He didn’t look back. He just bent his knees.

”Keep the engine running, Seattle,” Sebastian called out over his shoulder. ”I’ll be right back.”

He launched himself into the void.

Sebastian fell toward the glowing blue ocean, his black leather coat whipping wildly around his legs. The air was absolutely freezing, biting into his skin with a sharp, unnatural chill that his [Thermal Immunity] struggled to completely ignore.