Ezra's fingers curled tightly around the small piece of paper, the four words still burning in his mind: "The Dead Remember You." The note was as cold and enigmatic as the underground arena itself, the ink smudged slightly but the message clear. No signature. No guild emblem. Just a whisper from the shadows.
He folded the note carefully and slipped it into his coat pocket, heart pounding beneath layers of grit and determination. The roar of the Slaughterhold faded into a distant hum, replaced by the relentless beating of his own thoughts.
Who was watching him?
And more importantly, what did they want?
Outside the Slaughterhold, the neon-lit streets of Sector 5 bled into the restless night. Rain slicked the cracked pavement, reflecting the kaleidoscope of glowing advertisements and holo-ads flickering above. The city never truly slept. Somewhere, a siren wailed. Somewhere else, a distant explosion rattled a cracked window.
Ezra moved with purpose, shadows clinging to his form like a second skin. Ash and Skulk followed silently, their presence a comforting weight at his side.
Riven's words echoed in his mind: "The Dead Remember You." It was a warning. A promise. Or maybe a curse.
His fingers brushed the bone shard hanging from his neck — the only relic of the family he never had.
He had been an orphan born into chaos, but now, something was stirring in the darkness. Something older than the Surge. Something ancient.
The next morning was unforgiving.
Ezra awoke in his cramped room beneath the crumbling tenements of the Lower Sectors. The thin mattress offered little comfort, the walls stained with years of neglect and graffiti. The hum of distant drones filled the stale air.
His eyes, sharp and restless, scanned the dim light filtering through the grimy window.
The weight of yesterday's victory was heavy. The taste of triumph was bitter-sweet — sweet because he had won, bitter because of the price paid.
He wasn't naïve enough to think the path ahead would be easy.
After a quick meal — a meager ration of synthetic protein and stale bread — Ezra made his way through the narrow alleyways toward the only place that had ever offered him answers: The Hollowed Library.
The Library wasn't a place for comfort or warmth. It was a sanctuary of forgotten knowledge, a graveyard of secrets buried beneath layers of dust and silence.
The building loomed between two collapsed high-rises, a fortress of rusted metal and shattered glass. The entrance was guarded by a pair of rusted security drones, their sensors dim but still functional.
Ezra stepped carefully past the gates, the crunch of debris underfoot the only sound breaking the eerie stillness.
Inside, the Library was cavernous and cold, lit only by scattered holo-projectors flickering intermittently along the walls. Rows upon rows of data-slates, archaic books, and relics lined the shelves.
Ezra's boots echoed on the concrete as he made his way toward the back chamber — a secluded corner where an old man known as Keeper Vhal awaited.
The Keeper was a relic himself, a man who'd seen the world before and after The Surge, his face carved with deep lines, eyes sharp as obsidian.
"Ezra Vale," Vhal greeted without looking up. "You're not easy to find these days."
Ezra nodded, keeping his voice low. "I have questions."
The Keeper's eyes finally met his. "The kind that can get you killed."
"I'm not afraid."
Vhal chuckled, a dry rasp. "Good. Because the answers you seek will cost more than you think."
Ezra produced the note, placing it gently on the table between them.
"The Dead Remember Me," he said.
The Keeper's gaze darkened. "A phrase older than the Surge itself. It's tied to a forgotten pact between necromancers and the restless spirits that wander the world."
Ezra's brow furrowed. "You mean the undead?"
Vhal nodded gravely. "Not just the undead. The whispers you hear — the shadows that cling to your summons — they are echoes of a power older than your system ranks. They remember the betrayal of blood and the debt of souls."
Ezra clenched his fists. "What kind of debt?"
"The kind that demands sacrifice."
For hours, the Keeper unraveled tales of ancient necromantic lineages, of blood magic intertwined with strength, of wars waged between clans hidden in the shadows of the modern world.
Ezra listened, absorbing every word.
He learned that his power was rare — even among necromancers — because he was a Hollowborn. One born of death's edge and rebirth, destined to walk between life and undeath.
But with that destiny came a price: the spirits of the dead were watching. Waiting. Judging.
And sometimes, they reached out.
As the first light of dawn crept through the cracked windows, Ezra stood, resolve hardening like forged steel.
"I have to get stronger," he said.
Vhal nodded. "Then you must find the Lost Sanctum."
"The Lost Sanctum?"
"A hidden shrine buried beneath the ruins of Old Manhattan. It's a place where the veil between worlds is thin, and power seeps like water."
"Is it dangerous?"
"Only if you're unprepared."
Ezra's eyes gleamed. "I'm ready."
The Keeper handed him an old map — a holographic projection flickering with ancient runes.
"Be warned," Vhal said quietly, "you will not be alone in seeking it. Others crave what lies buried there."
Ezra took the map, the weight of the journey ahead settling in.
That night, Ezra returned to his room and sat by the window, staring out at the sprawling city beneath a sky that no longer felt quite human.
Ash curled at his feet, and Skulk rested its head on his knee.
He thought of the woman he would one day meet, the family he hoped to protect.
And of the dark road that awaited him, winding through loss and vengeance.
The dead remembered him.
And soon, the living would too.