[YEAR 18 Post-Surge]New York Ruins – Sector 9, Lower East Block
Morning in Sector 9 was never peaceful.
The storm had passed, but the clouds still clung to the sky like a scab over a wound that refused to heal. Gray, heavy, and waiting to break again.
Ezra sat cross-legged beside a cold firepit, gnawing on a half-stale protein bar he'd bartered for last week. It tasted like wet chalk. But food was food. Hunger didn't care about flavor.
Across from him, Gloom stood motionless. Even now, in daylight, the thing was a horror to look at—sinew-wrapped bone, armor fused to rotted flesh, and a gaze devoid of life. Ezra hadn't figured out if the hollow stare was unnerving or comforting yet.
Probably both.
"You ever eat?" he asked through a mouthful of crumbs. "Or is chewing beneath you now?"
No response, naturally.
Ezra smirked, though it didn't quite reach his eyes.
His ribs still ached. His cheek was swollen, and every limb felt like it had been run over by a truck, but the ache was becoming background noise.
What mattered now… was moving forward.
[System Notification]
Class: Hollowborn
Level: 1 (0%)
Active Skill Unlocked: "Grave Pulse"
Sends a pulse of necrotic energy in a small radius. Can momentarily disorient low-level enemies or reanimate partial remains.
Cooldown: 5 minutes
Passive Skill Upgrade: "Bonebound" (1/10)
You may now raise 2 undead. Current slots used: 1
Strength Affinity Detected.
Unlocking Physical Talent Tree...
Passive: Endure I – Minor resistance to physical pain and fatigue.
Ezra's heart beat faster as the system notifications scrolled across his vision.
Everything was finally beginning to move. Not fast. Not in leaps. But step by step.
He had one undead minion and room for another. He could defend himself now—even if only barely. And most importantly, he was no longer prey.
Later That Day
Sector 9's scavenger hub was called "The Yard" — not because it was spacious or safe, but because that's where bodies got dumped when they weren't worth looting. Over time, traders, fence-men, and sketchy low-tier guilds moved in.
Everything could be found in The Yard. If you were stupid enough to look hard enough.
Ezra wore a low hood and a frayed scarf, keeping his face hidden. Gloom followed at a distance, wrapped in a stained brown cloak with the hood drawn far over its hollow skull.
The only rule in The Yard was simple: if no one notices what you are, you survive.
He made his way to a stall run by a woman known only as "Spindle." Thin, pale, and always chewing licorice. Her eyes were like razors, taking in too much detail too fast.
"Ezra Vale," she drawled, not looking up from her datapad. "Thought you were dead."
"I was," he replied. "Didn't stick."
Spindle flicked her gaze to him. Her eyes narrowed. "You smell like death."
Ezra didn't respond. She tapped her pad again.
"You selling?"
"Looking," he said. "I need gear. Cheap. Doesn't need to be new. Just functional."
Her tongue slid over her teeth.
"You're not affiliated. No guild. No badge. No license."
"No money, either."
She laughed—short, sharp. "And yet here you are, asking favors."
Ezra reached into his pocket and pulled out a cracked monster core. Dull and weak, probably from a low-level breach beast, but still useful.
Spindle's fingers twitched.
"You scavenged that yourself?"
He nodded.
She whistled, impressed.
"Lucky bastard. There's a new gate opening tonight. Butcher's Gate. E-rank, they say. Everyone with teeth is going after it."
Ezra's brow creased. "Butcher's?"
"Named after the thing that tore apart the last squad that poked it," she said with a grin. "You want gear? You'll earn it the same way everyone else does. Dive and survive."
Ezra hesitated. His gut clenched. He barely made it out of his last breach alive.
But hesitation never put food on the table.
"I'll do it."
She grinned wider and tossed him a bundle wrapped in faded synth-cloth.
Inside: a short iron-bladed machete, a basic scavenger's vest, and a cracked armband with an old, flickering tracker beacon.
"Return with anything valuable, and I'll forget the debt. Die in there? I'll sell the corpse. Fair?"
"Fair," Ezra said.
As he turned to leave, Spindle called out after him, "Keep your pet on a leash, Hollowborn."
Ezra froze.
He didn't turn around.
He just said, quietly, "You didn't see anything."
Spindle's voice dropped to a whisper. "Didn't say I did. But I do see potential. Just… don't burn out too fast. The world eats those like you."
That Night – Butcher's Gate, Outer Perimeter
The gate shimmered like a tear in the air—vertical, pulsing with a sickly red glow. Around it stood half a dozen armed scavenger groups, some in proper armor, others just patchwork thugs with too much confidence and not enough experience.
Ezra stood at the edge, near the shadow of a broken overpass. Gloom stood behind him like a sentinel.
The smell of ozone thickened the closer they got. A sharp, metallic scent that made Ezra's skin crawl.
He inhaled.
Held it.
Then stepped through.
[System Alert: Entered E-Rank Breach Zone – "Butcher's Gate"]
Warning: Non-affiliated User Detected.
Mortality Chance: 87%
Objectives: Unknown.
Biometric Map Unavailable.
Proceed at your own risk.
The world twisted.
The light bent sideways.
And then—
He was inside.
Butcher's Gate was not a place. It was a nightmare made real.
Cracked stone paths lined with bone-laced trees stretched out in unnatural symmetry. The air was heavy with decay. Distant howls echoed from unseen valleys.
It was a world caught in rot.
Ezra clenched the machete in his hand and kept Gloom close. They weren't alone—he saw other scavenger teams entering from different angles, all spreading out like ants on a corpse.
But the gate… shifted.
The path in front of him began to ripple.
From the stone floor rose something twisted: a creature made of stitched flesh and bone, its face stretched in a permanent scream. Bladed fingers. Multiple legs. A crawling nightmare.
[Enemy Identified: Gorewretch – Rank: F+]
Status: Aggressive
Combat Rating: 3.5x your current level
Recommendation: Flee
Ezra didn't run.
He couldn't.
Behind him, the breach shimmered and sealed. No escape.
"Gloom," he said softly, "kill it."
The Bonebound lurched forward with a hiss of bone against stone.
The Gorewretch screamed and charged.
They met like hammer and anvil—Gloom's rusted armor denting under the weight of the Gorewretch's blow, but its skeletal hands wrapped around the creature's neck.
Ezra moved, circling wide, waiting for an opening. The Gorewretch was fast, too fast for a corpse, but Gloom held on, driven by unnatural will.
[Combat Engaged: Undead Companion vs. Gorewretch]
Success Chance: 19%
Skill Ready: Grave Pulse
Ezra focused.
The air around him shimmered with sickly light. He raised a hand and whispered, "Grave Pulse."
A thrum of necrotic energy pulsed outward from his chest, hitting the Gorewretch like a sledgehammer of rot. The creature spasmed. Its legs buckled for a second.
That was enough.
Ezra charged, machete raised.
One strike. Two. He slammed the blade down into the creature's shoulder, then again across its face. Gloom followed with a crushing blow that cracked bone.
The Gorewretch shrieked—and fell.
[Enemy Defeated: Gorewretch]
You have gained 32 EXP
Level Up: Hollowborn Lvl 1 → Lvl 2
You may now raise a second Bonebound
Corpse Available: Gorewretch
Skill Learned: Rotted Grasp – Your undead can now apply a slowing debuff with melee attacks.
Ezra stood panting over the body, covered in sweat and blood.
He looked at the torn corpse.
"Rise," he whispered again.
This time, something different happened.
The body twitched, but not like Gloom.
It morphed.
Flesh receded. Bone reshaped. The twisted monster form collapsed inward, and what rose instead was leaner, faster, more controlled. Its jaw hung loose, and its arms ended in bladed stumps. It let out a low, chittering groan.
New Bonebound Raised: Skulk
Class: Gorewretch Variant
Status: Controlled (1/2)
Ezra stared at his two undead.
One, a tank. Slow, durable, relentless.
The other, a predator.
He exhaled.
For once, something had gone right.
But deeper in the gate… the howling began again.
And this time, it wasn't just one creature.
Ezra gripped his machete tighter.
"One step at a time," he muttered.
"We keep moving."