Primordial Awakening: I Breathe Skill Points!-Chapter 66: Countdown to the Ruins

The next three days passed in a blur of preparation, each hour meticulously planned and executed with the precision of someone who knew that survival depended on proper planning.

Day 4:

Zeph spent the majority of the day hunched over Marcus’s intelligence files about the ruins, his eyes scanning every detail, every notation, every warning scrawled in the margins . He memorized the floor layouts from the preliminary surveys, committing each corridor, each chamber, each potential chokepoint to memory with an intensity born of necessity. The architectural patterns suggested something ancient, something that predated modern understanding of dungeon formation, which only made the whole endeavor more dangerous and unpredictable.

He noted the reported hazard types with growing concern: autonomous defense systems that apparently responded to intruders with lethal efficiency, spatial anomalies that could disorient or trap even experienced awakened, and hostile entities of unknown origin that defied conventional classification. The reports were frustratingly vague on specifics, but the casualty rates spoke volumes about the threats that waited in those forgotten depths.

The afternoon was dedicated to practical application. Zeph tested his skills against varied enemy types—fast opponents that required precision timing, heavily armored foes that demanded strategic weak point exploitation, and swarm enemies that tested his area control capabilities. Each session revealed small inefficiencies in his technique, minor adjustments that could mean the difference between life and death when facing real threats.

He drilled emergency escape patterns obsessively, practicing the rapid decision-making required to recognize when a fight was unwinnable and retreat was the only option. Pride meant nothing if you were dead, and Zeph had no intention of joining the statistics of awakened who had died because they couldn’t admit defeat in time.

Throughout all of this, his Foundation Breath technique continued its steady work, generating PP passively at the rate he’d come to depend on: 32,400 per day, accumulating even while he focused on other preparations.

PP Balance: 72,529 → 104,929.

Day 5:

The morning brought the sobering reality of his financial situation crashing down. Zeph took stock of his remaining credits and made the hard decisions about what survival gear he could actually afford. Every purchase felt like a gamble—would he need the rope more than another healing potion? Would the rations matter if he encountered something that killed him before he had a chance to feel hungry?

He bought the basics with his remaining credits: reinforced rope rated for B-rank strength requirements (500 credits), a comprehensive emergency medical kit with supplies for treating everything from minor cuts to severe lacerations (800 credits), three mana regeneration potions of decent quality that could help in extended combat situations (600 credits), and emergency rations designed to provide maximum nutrition in minimal space (200 credits).

Credits remaining: 361.

’Completely broke again,’ he thought with a mixture of frustration and resignation. ’But at least I have the essentials. The bare minimum to maybe, possibly, survive what’s coming.’

The afternoon brought further disappointment when he tried to shop for protective equipment. He visited three different awakened equipment stores, and the story was the same at each one. The cheapest armor option that would actually provide meaningful protection against B-rank threats was priced at 25,000 credits—a fortune he simply didn’t have and couldn’t acquire in the remaining time before the expedition.

’Can’t afford it,’ he acknowledged grimly. ’Will have to survive on VIT and the Iron Skin passive. Not ideal, but better than nothing. Plenty of awakened have survived with less.’

The weapon situation was equally discouraging. Zeph tried to buy a real weapon, something that could actually be called professional equipment rather than the crude implement he currently carried. Anything better than the crude goblin axe would be an improvement, but even the most basic upgrade was beyond his means.

The cheapest C-rank weapon in any shop he visited was priced at 15,000 credits, and that was for a blade that the shopkeeper had described as "entry-level" with barely concealed disdain.

’Also can’t afford it,’ Zeph thought, trying not to feel too discouraged. ’Stuck with the axe that barely even qualifies as a weapon.

He forced himself to focus on the positive aspects of his situation, such as they were. ’At least my skills don’t depend on weapon quality. Calamity strike works regardless of what I’m holding. The system enhances whatever I’m using, even if it’s a piece of garbage. That’s something.’

Despite the financial setbacks, his PP continued its relentless accumulation. Generated PP passively: 32,400.

PP Balance: 104,929 → 137,329.

Day 6:

The final day before the expedition arrived with a weight of finality that Zeph felt in his bones. He conducted a comprehensive final skill check, reviewing all his combat abilities with the methodical attention to detail that had kept him alive this long. He ran through each skill mentally, visualizing their applications, their combinations, their limitations.

’Solid kit,’ he assessed objectively. ’Not perfect—far from it, actually—but versatile enough to handle most situations. Adaptability might be more valuable than raw power in an unknown environment like the ruins.’

Mid-afternoon, his phone buzzed with an incoming message. It was from Marcus: "Expedition briefing at Gate 7, 0600 hours. Don’t be late. Bring the egg."

The message was characteristically terse, offering no additional details or encouragement. Just the facts: where, when, what to bring. Zeph appreciated the directness even as he felt his anxiety about the expedition ratchet up another notch.

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The evening of Day 6 found Zeph sitting in his apartment, surrounded by his meager supplies, reviewing everything one final time in a ritual that was part preparation and part meditation.

Stats: Optimized to the best of his current ability. A balanced build with S-rank and some A rank skills that gave him options in combat—the ability to strike hard, move fast, and survive hits that would kill most awakened of his level. S-rank Calamity Strike as his trump card, the ace up his sleeve that he was grateful to have. The skill represented a level of destructive potential that still surprised him when he really thought about it.

Equipment: Minimal but functional. Better than nothing, even if only barely in some cases. He had what he needed to survive, even if he didn’t have what he wanted.

Intelligence: Marcus’s files were memorized, every detail committed to memory. Known hazards catalogued and categorized, contingency plans formulated for each type of threat mentioned in the reports.

Survival gear: His basic kit was assembled and organized for quick access. Medical supplies within easy reach, rations stored efficiently, rope coiled properly for rapid deployment.

PP Reserve: 169,729 points available for emergency upgrades if the situation demanded it. A reserve of potential that could be converted into immediate power if survival required it.

’Everything I can control, I’ve optimized,’ Zeph thought, allowing himself a moment of satisfaction at his thoroughness. ’Every variable I can influence, I’ve accounted for.’

’The rest is luck, skill, and not dying. The holy trinity of dungeon delving.’

His moment of contemplation was interrupted by his phone buzzing with an incoming message.

The number wasn’t saved in his contacts, but he didn’t need caller ID to know who had sent it. The content made the sender’s identity abundantly clear:

"Psst, still holding my tongue like a pro 🤑. Don’t forget: my silence is worth 2,000 credits 👀"

Sarah Chen. Still shameless. Still extorting him with the enthusiasm of someone who had discovered a reliable income stream and intended to milk it for all it was worth.

’If I survive the ruins,’ Zeph thought with weary resignation, ’first priority is moving to a building where she doesn’t live. Somewhere far away. Possibly on a different continent.’

’Second priority is figuring out how someone that small has that much strength. It defies conventional understanding of how stats and physical size correlate.’

’Third priority is never speaking of the Stat Redistribution Incident again. To anyone. Ever. Taking that secret to my grave.’

He set his alarm for 4:30 AM, giving himself enough time to prepare properly without rushing. Rushing led to mistakes, and mistakes in his line of work led to funerals.

Zeph laid out his gear for tomorrow with military precision: basic combat clothes that offered mobility over protection, his crude goblin axe, and his storage ring loaded with emergency supplies and the mysterious egg that Marcus seemed so interested in.

He checked his System one last time before attempting to sleep, pulling up his status screen.

He muttered’Level 35. S-rank skill. Balanced build. Mysterious artifacts that may or may not actually be useful. Six months until soul instability becomes a critical problem.’

’And tomorrow, I walk into ruins that killed thirty B-rank awakened—experienced professionals who had training, equipment, and team support that I lack.’

’Either I survive and get answers about this whole situation, or I die and none of this matters anyway. Simple as that.’

’No pressure. Just life or death.’

Zeph lay down on his too-short bed—a constant reminder that his apartment was designed for people of average height rather than someone exceeding six feet—and closed his eyes, trying to will himself into the rest he would desperately need tomorrow.

Sleep came slowly and reluctantly, his mind racing through combat scenarios and survival strategies, playing out possibilities and contingencies in an endless loop of preparation and anxiety. Every potential threat from Marcus’s files paraded through his imagination, each one more dangerous than the last.

But eventually, mercifully, exhaustion won the battle against anxiety.

His breathing settled into the Foundation Breath rhythm automatically, the technique so ingrained now that it continued even in sleep, his body maintaining the pattern without conscious direction.

1.5 PP per breath, flowing into his reserve like water filling a reservoir.

32,400 per day, the steady accumulation that had become the foundation of his power.

169,729 total reserve, a number that represented countless hours of breathing, training, and incremental growth.

Building power one breath at a time, even in sleep, even in rest, the endless cycle of cultivation that separated awakened from ordinary humans.

Tomorrow, it would all matter. All the preparation, all the planning, all the accumulated power would be put to the test.

Tomorrow, the real test began. The ruins awaited, ancient and deadly, filled with secrets and dangers that had claimed the lives of better-prepared awakened than himself.

But Zeph had survived this long by being careful, by being thorough, by preparing for every contingency he could imagine.

Now he would discover if it was enough.​