It was quiet. It was heavy. Compared to the volatile chaos of before, this gray energy felt incredibly stable, almost solid. The cosmic violation feeling… that sense that he was holding a grenade with the pin pulled…was completely gone.

"Huh," Sol mused. "So the Chaos was the raw material... and this Gray stuff is the refined product? Or is that chaos the product? Or maybe it's just sleeping?"

He didn't have a manual, and there was no tutorial fairy popping up to explain the mechanics. He was clueless about the source or the rate of recovery. Was it passive? Did he need to mediate? Did he need to... ahem... conquer more territory?

"Gotta experiment later," he decided, opening his eyes. "But at least I'm back in business. I'm still the protagonist."

Feeling energized and ridiculously happy, hel pushed himself off the furs.

He didn't struggle to stand. In fact, he practically floated up. His body felt light…insanely light. The lingering aches in his joints were erased. He rolled his shoulders and felt a snap of power in his muscles that definitely hadn't been there yesterday.

He clenched his fist, looking at the calloused knuckles.

"I feel like I could punch a hole through a tree," he muttered, flexing his bicep.

He looked down at his arm. It was still lean, bordering on scrawny. There were no bulging veins or ripped muscles.

"Okay," he corrected himself, chuckling. "Maybe not a tree. Let's not get ahead of ourselves. I'm not One Punch Man yet."

But as he scanned his internal state, the difference was undeniable. This body was stronger than the frail vessel he had woken up in. Hell, it felt stronger than the original Sol had ever been, even on his best day. The prismatic energy seemed to have reinforced his foundation, repairing the hidden damage of malnutrition and abuse.

"Vurok," Sol grinned, the expression sharp and cold. "If you come for me again, you're in for a nasty surprise. I'm done being the punching bag."

He glanced toward the door. The light filtering through the cracks had shifted to a deep, bruised purple.

"Dusk," he realized. "Shit. People are coming back home."

He immediately scrambled to find his clothes. His loincloth was scattered in three different places…evidence of his earlier haste. He grabbed the pieces, wrapping the rough fabric around his waist and upper body, securing it with practiced efficiency.

Once dressed, he paused. He turned back to look at the woman sleeping on the furs.

She was still out cold, her chest rising and falling in a deep, restorative rhythm. Even in the dim light, she was stunning. The urge to climb back onto those furs, to wake her up and test this new "Ash Gray" durability, was strong.

"Damn," Sol sighed, scratching the back of his head. "There is so much more I wanted to try. I didn't even get to the..."

He stopped himself, shaking his head. His balls were completely empty. He was running on fumes. Staying here was just asking to be gutted by a jealous hunter with a spear.

He took a long, lingering look, memorizing the curve of her hip and the peaceful expression on her face.

"Later," he promised silently. "There will definitely be a next time. You're not going anywhere."

He turned resolutely toward the door. He cracked it open just an inch, peering out into the alleyway like a thief.

His heart hammered against his ribs…not from fear, but from the thrill. This feeling... the danger, the power, the secret... it was addicting. It was a rush better than any drug.

After observing for a solid minute and seeing no one coming or going yet, he quickly slipped out.

He closed the door behind him with his leg, catching the latch silently with his heel… smooth as silk.

He stepped into the alley, adjusted his tunic, and instantly shifted his demeanor. The predator vanished. In his place was Sol…the quiet, harmless outcast. He walked with a nonchalant, slightly bored gait, hands clasped behind his back as if he were just taking a leisurely evening stroll to admire the sunset.

"Just a nice evening walk," Sol thought, whistling a tune from a world long gone as he navigated the maze of mud huts. "Nothing to see here. Just an innocent, handsome boy minding his own business. Definitely not fucking someone's wife into a coma…especially the wife of an ugly hunter. Definitely not."

He touched his cheek, smoothing out his expression into one of benign confusion.

"Just look at this innocent, handsome face," he muttered to the darkening sky. "Does this look like the kind of person who would steal a man's wife and his dignity in one afternoon? Absolutely not."

He walked with a spring in his step that hadn't been there before. The Ash Gray energy coiled in his chest was quiet, but he could feel its passive influence. His legs didn't ache. His breath came easy. The world felt sharper, more vibrant, as if someone had turned up the contrast settings on reality.

However, as he approached the outskirts of the village, the high of his conquest began to fade, replaced by the grim reality of his station. The huts here were little more than lean-tos made of rotting wood and dried mud. The smell of roasting meat from the square didn't reach this far; here, the air smelled of damp earth and fruits.

He reached his home.. a dilapidated shack that looked like a strong wind might knock it over… and pushed the creaky door open.

Inside, the dim light of a small fire illuminated three figures. Lyra and the three girls were back.

Lyra was kneeling by the fire, scraping the dirt off a pile of gnarly, pitiful-looking tubers. Her hands were raw, her face smudged with soil and exhaustion. When the door opened, her head snapped up, fear flashing in her eyes before settling into relief.

"Sol!"

She dropped the tuber and hurried over to him, her eyes scanning him for injuries. The girls also looked at him curiously, as they huddled in the corner cleaning up a few sour berries, looking up with wide, anxious eyes.

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