Braden slid his clean blade back into its sheath. The metal clicked sharply in the quiet alley.

"The lower sector at night is a death zone," Braden warned, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "If you wander out here again, I won't waste a bolt saving you."

He crossed his arms over his broad chest, his eyes narrowing. He braced himself for the inevitable. He waited for the spoiled, toxic matriarch to start screaming, to throw a tantrum, to curse him for his insolence.

But she didn't.

Charity didn't frown. She didn't raise her voice.

Instead, she took a deep breath, stood as straight as her aching back allowed, and folded her hands neatly in front of her. She bowed to him. A deep, formal, and entirely respectful bow—a gesture a matriarch would never give to a male.

"Thank you, Captain Braden," Charity said. Her voice was calm, steady, and completely sincere. "Thank you for saving my life twice tonight."

Braden's pupils contracted sharply. The vicious insult he had prepared died instantly in his throat.

He stared at the woman standing before him. She was covered in mud, her face marred by scabs, yet her eyes were startlingly clear and resolute. It felt like he was looking at a complete stranger.

Braden shifted his weight awkwardly. His jaw tightened. He looked away, unable to hold her steady gaze. "No need," he muttered, the words forced and stiff.

He turned his back to her, eager to leave this bizarre, unsettling encounter behind.

He took one step.

"Wait," Charity called out.

Braden stopped, his shoulders tensing. Here it comes, he thought. The demand. The entitlement.

Charity pointed a trembling finger at the massive lynx corpse bleeding out on the concrete. "If you don't need that carcass," she asked, her voice tight with anticipation, "can I have it?"

Braden turned his head slowly, looking at her as if she had lost her mind. The meat of low-level, polluted beasts was toxic garbage. Even the military hounds refused to eat it.

He let out a cold, disbelieving laugh. "If you want to poison yourself eating that trash, be my guest."

Charity completely ignored his mockery. Her eyes lit up. "Thank you," she said again, her tone filled with genuine gratitude.

Braden stared at the look of pure joy on her face. She looked at the rotting beast like it was a pile of pure gold. His brow furrowed deeply, a strange, unnamable discomfort settling in his chest.

He didn't say another word. He turned and walked quickly into the dark street, his posture rigid.

The moment Braden's shadow disappeared, the system chimed in Charity's head.

"Ding! Emotional fluctuation detected in bond-mate Braden Dickson. Affection +20."

Charity blinked in shock. She pulled up the panel. Braden's affection had moved from -100 to -80. Just by saying thank you?

"Congratulations to the host for completing a hidden node: Shattering a bond-mate's inherent bias," the system announced.

"Reward distributed: [Top-Tier Beast Butchery and Culinary Arts]."

A massive, overwhelming flood of data crashed into Charity's brain. It wasn't just recipes. It was the complete anatomical knowledge of hundreds of mutated species, the precise methods to extract toxins from their glands, and the exact thermal techniques to break down tough muscle fibers.

Charity closed her eyes, letting the knowledge settle into her synapses. When she opened them, she wasn't just a starving woman anymore. She was a master cook and butcher, looking at raw ingredients.

She looked down at the terrifying lynx beast. She didn't see a monster. She saw a clear anatomical diagram. She knew exactly where the poison sacs were, which cuts of meat were the most tender, and which bones would make the richest broth.

Charity rolled up the sleeves of her oversized synthetic-fur cloak. She walked over to the beast and grabbed its thick, heavy hind leg.

She abandoned the idea of dragging the entire massive carcass. Instead, she gritted her teeth, her muscles screaming in protest as she hacked off one thick, heavy hind leg and a prime section of the backstrap. Driven by the pure, intoxicating promise of real food, she began the agonizingly slow process of dragging the heavy cuts of meat back to her shelter, having to stop and lean against the damp walls every few yards just to catch her breath.

Charity dragged the heavy cuts of lynx meat over the threshold of her shelter, her lungs burning. She slammed the iron door shut and locked it.

She hauled the bloody meat into the corner of the room that vaguely resembled a kitchen. The counters were covered in a thick layer of grime.

Charity closed her eyes for a second, actively calling upon the [Top-Tier Beast Butchery and Culinary Arts] resting in her mind.

When her eyes snapped open, her gaze was razor-sharp, entirely focused and professional.

She dug through the rusted drawers and pulled out a dull, heavy meat cleaver. She dragged the blade across the edge of the metal sink, the harsh scraping sound echoing in the small room until the edge caught a faint gleam.

Charity moved with liquid precision. The cleaver sliced down, bypassing the tough outer hide and sliding perfectly between the vertebrae. With a flick of her wrist, she cleanly extracted the dark, pulsing poison sac from the backstrap without spilling a single drop.

She followed the natural grain of the muscle, peeling back the thick, spiked hide to reveal the dense, ruby-red meat underneath.

In less than ten minutes, the terrifying monster parts had been perfectly dismantled. Prime cuts of meat were neatly separated and stacked on the wiped-down counter.

Charity stared at the beautiful ingredients, wiping a line of sweat from her forehead. Her stomach roared in response.

She turned to the stove, only to find the ancient induction burner completely dead. The power light was dark.

She tore through the cabinets, desperately searching for salt, pepper, or any basic seasoning. She found nothing but empty, dust-covered nutrient paste wrappers.

A master chef was nothing without fire and salt. Charity let out a heavy, frustrated sigh.

She had to go to the commercial district. She needed basic cooking gear and spices.

Charity found a relatively clean piece of cloth and tightly wrapped a premium cut of tenderloin. She shoved it into her backpack, planning to use it for barter or cash.

She scrubbed her hands clean, pulled her oversized cloak tightly around her to hide her scabs, and stepped back out into the lower sector.

The acid rain had washed the streets, and the outcast residents were beginning to scurry out of their holes.

Charity navigated the maze of alleys, heading toward the corridor that connected to the commercial sector.

As she passed a corner piled high with rusted metal scrap, a shrill, vicious voice cut through the air.

"You filthy rat! You're dirtying my storefront!"

A heavy-set, middle-aged woman named Brenda stood with her hands on her hips, screaming at a small, trembling figure in the mud.

It was Cletus, a young, emaciated scavenger. He was on his knees, desperately clutching a broken circuit board to his chest.

Brenda raised her heavy boot, aiming a vicious kick right at the boy's ribs.

Charity's eyes narrowed. She lunged forward and caught Brenda's ankle mid-air, her grip like a vice.

Brenda shrieked in surprise, losing her balance and stumbling backward. She glared furiously at the bloated, hooded woman who had dared to touch her.

Charity didn't even look at Brenda. Her face was a mask of cold indifference. She crouched down in the mud in front of Cletus.

The boy flinched, looking up at her with wide, terrified eyes, expecting another blow.

Charity's hand hovered in her bag for a second. Her stomach cramped, reminding her of her own desperate situation. But she knew she couldn't consume all the meat she had harvested before it spoiled in this humidity, and a small act of goodwill cost her little right now. She pulled out a smaller, uneven scrap of the perfectly cleaned, toxin-free lynx meat she had separated earlier.

She gently pressed the wrapped meat into Cletus's filthy hands. "I have extra, and it'll rot anyway," she said, her voice soft but firm. "Take it to the market. Trade it for some nutrient paste."

Cletus froze. He felt the heavy, dense weight of the meat. A look of absolute disbelief washed over his face. In this brutal, rotting district, no one had ever shown him an ounce of kindness.

Brenda scoffed loudly from behind them. "Look at the fat saint, giving away garbage!"

Charity stood up. She brushed the mud from her cloak, completely ignoring Brenda's existence, and walked straight toward the bright lights of the commercial corridor.

Charity stepped out of the damp, dark tunnel and into the blinding glare of the commercial corridor.

Neon lights flashed in aggressive colors, and massive holographic advertisements floated in the air, selling luxury goods to those who could actually afford them. The air here was thick with the cloying scent of cheap synthetic perfumes and processed street food.

Charity's oversized, bloated silhouette and her low-pulled hood made her stick out like a sore thumb among the relatively well-dressed crowd.

The locals—the gossiping masses of the corridor—immediately noticed her.

Whispers rippled through the crowd. Someone pointed a finger. A harsh, undisguised laugh echoed off the metal walls. They recognized the infamous, exiled matriarch, mocking her pathetic fall from grace.

Charity took a slow, deep breath, forcing the humiliation down. She locked her spine straight, kept her eyes fixed forward, and walked right through the center of the crowd.

She followed her memories to a large, brightly lit comprehensive supply station. The automatic glass doors slid open with a soft chime.

Charity bypassed the expensive tech aisles and headed straight for the basic kitchenware. She carefully inspected a durable alloy frying pan and picked out a few jars of cheap, synthetic spices.

She was holding two different jars of black pepper, comparing the prices, when the sharp, rhythmic clicking of expensive heels stopped right behind her.

"Oh my, if it isn't our esteemed High Priestess," a sickly-sweet, venomous voice chimed. "Have you really fallen so low that you have to buy this cheap garbage yourself?"

Charity turned around. Standing there was Alys Schultz, the daughter of a powerful rival matriarch, dressed in an immaculate, high-end silk dress.

Beside Alys stood Walter, a young, nervous-looking employee of the supply station, who was clearly one of Alys's desperate orbiters.

Alys intentionally raised her voice, ensuring every shopper in the vicinity turned to watch the spectacle. Their eyes were filled with eager malice.

Charity looked at Alys with a completely blank expression. She didn't scream. She didn't throw a punch like the old Charity would have.

"Excuse me," Charity said flatly, her voice devoid of any emotion.

The absolute dismissal in Charity's tone hit Alys like a slap to the face. Alys's fake smile shattered, replaced by a flash of pure, ugly spite.

Alys shot a highly subtle, sharp look at Walter. Walter gave a microscopic nod.

Charity turned her back on them, holding her frying pan and spices, and walked toward the checkout counter. Alys and Walter trailed closely behind her.

As Charity passed a brightly lit display case holding high-grade energy cores, Walter suddenly sped up. He slammed his shoulder hard into Charity's side.

Charity stumbled, her heavy body swaying, nearly dropping the frying pan.

"Oh! I'm so sorry!" Walter gasped, putting on a flawless act of panic. As he reached out as if to steady her, his hand darted out and brushed against the deep pocket of Charity's oversized cloak.

Charity regained her balance. She shot Walter a cold, piercing glare, completely unaware of the heavy object now resting in her pocket. She continued to the checkout.

She placed her items on the counter and handed over her nearly empty identification card.

The cashier eyed her with blatant disgust, swiped the card, and handed back the bag.

Charity grabbed the plastic handles and walked toward the exit gates.

The second her boot crossed the sensor line, a deafening, piercing red alarm blared through the entire supply station.

Heavy metal security shutters slammed down from the ceiling, sealing the exit and trapping Charity inside.

The station's lights flashed a violent warning red. Four massive, heavily armed security guards immediately rushed out from the back, forming a tight circle around her.

Alys stood in the crowd, a vicious, triumphant smirk twisting her lips. She pointed a manicured finger at Charity and screamed, "Oh my god! She's stealing!"

Charity stood perfectly still in the center of the hostile crowd. Her eyes swept over the guards, then locked onto Alys. Her gaze turned to absolute ice.