The pain didn't stop.
Even as Ezra stumbled out of the cathedral, half-limping and clutching his dislocated shoulder, the ache in his bones and the burn in his muscles only grew worse. His breath came ragged, his skin clammy with sweat. The system said he'd leveled up—twice—but it sure as hell didn't feel like power.
It felt like punishment.
The twisted trees of the forest had changed again. The color had leeched from the bark, and the vines now pulsed faintly, as if alive. Ezra glanced up at the breach meter in the upper corner of his vision.
[Breach Synchronization: 38%]
Too fast.
He'd been told gates evolved slowly. This one was accelerating. Whether that was because of him… or something else… he didn't know.
Behind him, the twisted cathedral loomed, silent once more. The boss's corpse had already begun to decay into shadow, taking the secrets of its existence with it. Ezra's thoughts flickered back to the Warden's mask, now in his inventory. Obsidian. Cracked. Corrupted. And… warm.
[New Item Acquired: Corrupted Warden's Mask]
Type: Unknown
Rank: ???
Effect: ???
Warning: Binding process incomplete.
Ezra didn't dare equip it. Not yet.
A sharp hiss snapped his attention sideways.
Gloom and Skulk—separated again—followed several paces behind, limping and cracked. They hadn't died, but the binding had nearly shredded their cores. He could feel it in the connection. Dimmer than before. More fragile.
They needed rest. Or whatever passed for it.
But there was no time for that.
Because the moment he crossed the barrier into the edge of the gate—the real world—everything changed.
The air shimmered.
And then came the light.
A blinding beam shot from the gate's crest, rising like a flare into the night sky. It split the clouds in two, casting eerie shadows over the ruined skyline.
[Gate Completion Detected]
Status: Butcher's Cathedral – Claimed
Ownership Registered: Ezra Vale (Unranked)
System Announcement: Unknown-Class Gate forcibly stabilized by unregistered Awakened.
Local District notified.
Regional Authority alerted.
Initiating Lockdown Protocol.
Ezra's stomach dropped.
He hadn't just survived.
He'd made a scene.
Upper Sectors – Central Command
"This is impossible."
The woman's voice was calm, clipped. Her name was Riven Cade—Head of Gate Oversight for the Eastern Seaboard. And right now, her holo-screen showed something she didn't want to believe.
A live feed of the Butcher's Gate. Stable. Emitting faint green light. Cleared.
A gate rated for a full F-rank party. Stabilized.
By one person.
One unranked person.
"Who is he?" she asked.
The analyst beside her scrambled through files. "No official awakening record. No faction affiliation. No family registry. Name's Ezra Vale. Orphan. Raised in Sector Twelve. No criminal record. Prior infractions for food theft and unauthorized border movement."
"Street rat."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And now a gate clearer?"
The analyst hesitated. "System confirms he holds the claim. Loot registry matches a first-clear bonus. Even got the Warden Shard."
Riven stared at the image of Ezra—half-bloodied, eyes wide, undead limping behind him—and tapped her nail against the screen.
"Send a team."
"But—ma'am, he's only—"
She turned.
"I said send a team. I want him alive. And I want to know what the hell awakened in that gate."
Sector Twelve – Four Hours Later
Ezra was barely conscious by the time he reached the underground tram station. The healing gel had stopped the bleeding, but his shoulder still throbbed, and every step was agony. Gloom had all but collapsed. Skulk's arm dragged behind it like a broken twig.
The few people that wandered the station didn't look twice at him.
In this part of the world, blood was just part of the dress code.
He slumped onto a bench, gasping.
He'd done it. He should feel proud. Should feel… something.
Instead, all he felt was watched.
A flicker in his vision made him blink.
Then a message appeared—smaller, fainter than before.
[Reputation Notice]
Title Unlocked: "Marked"
Your actions have drawn the attention of higher entities.
Beware: All factions are now aware of your name.
New Trait: Echo of the Hollow – Passive
Undead summoned by you retain fragments of their previous lives. Expect anomalies in behavior, evolution, and memory.
Ezra frowned.
"Echo… of the Hollow?"
He looked at Gloom.
The creature was staring back.
Its eye sockets—once empty—now shimmered faintly with blue.
And… something else.
Recognition?
Ezra shook his head. "I'm losing it."
But he couldn't shake the feeling that whatever bond he'd just forged with death—it wasn't as one-sided as he thought.
He wasn't just calling the dead.
They were answering.
The tram shuddered as it came to a halt at
Tower Cross Station.
The upper districts.
Ezra had never been here before. Too clean. Too armored. Too many guns pointed at people like him.
He stepped off the platform and was immediately greeted by a line of armored suits.
Six men and women in dark-blue riot gear stood in a half-circle, weapons lowered but ready.
And in the center—an older man in a tailored coat and a badge with a silver phoenix pin.
"Ezra Vale?" the man asked.
Ezra didn't answer.
The man continued, unfazed. "My name is Commander Harlan of the Eastern Defense Council. You've been summoned for debriefing. You're not under arrest, but refusal will escalate the situation."
Ezra eyed the weapons.
"I don't have a choice, do I?"
"Everyone has choices. Yours just have… consequences."
Gloom hissed.
Skulk clicked.
Ezra raised a hand. "Stand down."
The undead stilled.
Commander Harlan gave him a curt nod. "Let's talk."
Eastern Defense Headquarters – Briefing Room
It felt like an interrogation chamber.
One table. One chair. Glass walls that weren't glass. The air smelled like bleach and old power.
Ezra sat across from Riven Cade.
Her presence was sharp. Surgical. Like a blade hidden in a smile.
She slid a file across the table.
"Your record's thin. Barely more than a whisper. You don't exist in any meaningful way, Ezra Vale."
He didn't reply.
She smiled faintly. "Until today."
She tapped the folder. "You cleared an unstable gate solo. Claimed the core. Acquired a shard. And summoned undead that shouldn't be possible at your level."
Ezra kept his face blank.
"I didn't ask to be noticed."
"No one does. But you were."
She leaned forward. "Do you know what the Warden Shard is?"
He shook his head.
"It's a tether," she said. "A binding artifact that connects your essence to the gate you cleared. And with it—comes ownership. That cathedral is yours now."
Ezra blinked.
"Mine?"
She nodded. "Meaning its energy, any resources within, and the right to access its evolving dungeon. You're a Gateholder now. And Gateholders… are rare."
He stared.
"Why tell me all this?"
"Because the world's changed, Ezra. And whether you want it or not—you're now a part of it."
She rose.
"Think carefully. You can stay in the shadows. Keep scraping by. Or…"
She turned back with a sly smirk.
"You can rise."
Later That Night
Ezra stood alone atop a rooftop overlooking the city.
The lights of the upper sectors glowed like stars fallen to earth. Down below, the slums stretched endlessly—choked in smog, noise, and firelight.
He reached into his inventory and pulled out the Obsidian Mask.
It pulsed in his hand.
A memory flickered.
The Warden's final scream.
The look on Gloom's face—if it had a face—as it absorbed the blow that saved Ezra's life.
He wasn't strong.
Not yet.
But strength wasn't just about power.
It was about choice.
And he was done running.
He slipped the mask into his coat.
Then turned his gaze to the distant skyline, where another gate shimmered—its red light barely visible through the haze.
He would climb.
He would fall.
He would earn every step.
And the world would remember the name...
Hollowborn.