A single candle burned in the corner of the safehouse, its flickering glow casting long shadows across the cracked walls. Ezra sat silently at the edge of a cot, bloodied hands outstretched before him, watching as flakes of dried crimson flaked from his knuckles like ash.
It had been hours since the Rite.
Kael had dozed off in the chair nearby, her shotgun still across her lap. Galen was passed out with a half-finished schematic open on the table. Vesper meditated in the corner, whispering incantations in a language even Ezra's system couldn't translate.
The silence was suffocating.
Ezra's mind wasn't in the room. It was back on the rooftop, in the moment he'd held Varuun's soul core in his palm. The sheer weight of it—of millennia's worth of loss, vengeance, and failed kingships—still echoed through his bones.
He had won.
But something about it felt more like a funeral than a victory.
A soft knock tapped against the warped wooden door.
Ezra's head snapped up.
Three knocks. A pause. Two knocks. The signal.
He stood and opened it to reveal a young girl wrapped in a patched cloak far too big for her. Her face was streaked with soot, her eyes wide.
"They're back," she whispered. "The blue-eyes. They're marching through Midtown again. Only this time..."
Ezra crouched, meeting her gaze. "This time?"
Her lips trembled.
"They're looking for you."
[System Alert]⟢ New Quest Available⟢ Shadow of the Architects⟢ An unknown faction has entered New York's neutral zone, displaying control over advanced undead constructs. Their origin is unknown. Their purpose is you.
Primary Objective: Investigate the source of the blue-eyed undead.Optional Objective: Protect civilians from casualties (10+).Reward: ???Failure Consequences: ???
Status: Timed Event – Begins in 1 hour.
"What do you mean they're looking for him?" Kael asked, now fully awake, boots halfway on as she loaded slugs into her gun.
"They weren't subtle," Ezra replied, pulling his coat over his shoulders. "Broadcasted a message across three districts. 'We seek the Hollowborn. Step forward and be recognized.'"
Galen paled. "That's a direct challenge. They're not hunting. They're calling you out."
Ezra nodded. "And that means they're not afraid of me."
"Or worse," Vesper added softly, "they already know you."
Ezra's silence confirmed her fear.
"I felt something when I absorbed Varuun's soul core. A thread. Not just of memories—but of connection. Like someone—or something—was watching through him. Not in real time, but like…"
"Like a remote channel," Galen said grimly. "Passive surveillance through a soul-mark. Shit."
Kael stood. "So what's the move? Fight? Hide? Evacuate?"
"We can't evacuate this whole sector," Ezra said. "There are too many people, too little time. And if they want me, hiding will only make them hurt others."
Vesper narrowed her eyes. "You're planning to go."
Ezra nodded once.
Galen cursed. "We'll go with you—"
"No," Ezra interrupted. "Not this time. I go alone. Keep the others safe. If I'm not back in two hours... assume the worst."
Kael stepped forward, grabbed his arm. "We just started winning, Ezra. Don't die now."
"I don't plan to."
But his voice lacked conviction.
Ezra stepped into the streets of Midtown South like a man walking into a grave.
The world felt different—quieter. As if the city itself was holding its breath.
A thick fog crept between the ruined buildings, unnaturally dense, clinging to his boots as he walked. Streetlights flickered erratically. Power was unreliable out here, even more so since the last dungeon break.
And then he saw them.
Blue eyes in the dark.
Rows of undead, perfectly aligned, standing as still as statues. Not hollow. Not feral. Controlled. Each one bore armor crafted not of bone or rusted iron—but sleek, silver-like plating that shimmered in the gloom.
Ezra's eyes narrowed.
Constructs. But not System-made.
Something else was behind this.
A figure stepped from the fog.
Not undead. Not quite alive either.
Clad in ceremonial robes laced with silver thread and arcane symbols, her face was pale, angular, and painted with ritualistic ink.
Her eyes glowed—not blue, not white—but silver.
Ezra stopped.
She smiled faintly. "Ezra Vale. Or should I say... Hollowborn?"
His fists clenched. "Who are you?"
"I am called Lysithea. One of the Architects."
"Of what?"
"Of the future. Of death as it should be. You—" she gestured to him, almost fondly, "—are the wrong kind of death."
Ezra tilted his head. "Funny. I was thinking the same about you."
Lysithea's expression didn't change. "We're not enemies, Ezra. Not yet. But you've taken something that doesn't belong to you."
She gestured behind her. A construct stepped forward carrying a blackened urn.
"I believe you're familiar with this?"
Ezra's stomach dropped.
It was Varuun's core.
But not the one he'd absorbed.
"Impossible," he said.
Lysithea nodded. "There are many Varuun. Many Trials. Many Hollowborn... across many strands."
Ezra felt a chill crawl down his spine.
"This world," she continued, "is just one crucible. One version. One experiment."
"You're lying."
"No," she said softly. "I'm telling you that you were chosen. Just not by us. And your benefactors… are reckless."
Ezra summoned a bone dagger to his hand. "If this is a recruitment speech, you're doing a piss-poor job."
Lysithea sighed. "So unfortunate."
She raised her hand.
The constructs moved forward.
Ezra didn't hesitate.
"Gravecall!"
The earth split. Skeletal hands erupted from the pavement, gripping ankles, tearing asphalt. His risen swarmed upward—ghouls, bonewalkers, and feral ghosts. Not controlled. Not uniform. But free.
Ezra charged forward.
The first construct struck with machine precision—its limbs extending unnaturally, slicing the air. Ezra dodged low, parried with a bone-plate shield, and drove his dagger into the gap at its hip joint.
The blade snapped.
"Shit—"
The construct countered with an elbow to his gut. Ezra gasped as his ribs shuddered.
He fell back.
[Warning: Damage Sustained – Moderate Internal Bleeding]
More constructs moved in.
Ezra raised both arms.
"Ash Wreathe!"
A black fog surged from his body, spiraling around him, blinding the constructs. Through the mist, his undead found gaps, overwhelmed precision with chaos.
Ezra focused.
Called deeper.
Reached into the well inside him—the place Varuun's memory had opened.
A new skill surged.
[Skill Unlocked: Hollow Dominion – Lesser Form]
Effect: For 30 seconds, exert full control over all lesser undead and create a zone of corrupted authority. Allies empowered. Enemies suppressed.
He activated it.
The world shuddered.
A ripple passed through his army. His undead moved faster, struck harder. Constructs faltered, slowed.
Lysithea frowned for the first time. "So you've learned to command. But do you know what you are?"
Ezra didn't answer.
He was too busy fighting.
He broke a construct's neck. Dodged a spear. Called two bonewalkers to slam into another's chest. Bit by bit, they fell.
But they adapted. Began learning, moving in new formations.
These weren't mindless.
They were piloted.
Ezra knew he was running out of time.
The last one fell in a heap of crushed steel and shattered ribs. Ezra dropped to a knee, coughing blood.
Lysithea stood untouched.
Not a wrinkle in her robe.
She tilted her head. "You fight like a sovereign, but think like a child."
Ezra stood. Wobbled. "You think I care about your approval?"
"No. But you should care about the truth."
She stepped forward and placed the urn at his feet.
"This isn't a war you started. It's one you were born into. Ask yourself, Ezra Vale—why did the Surge choose you? Why necromancy? Why strength?"
He said nothing.
But the question burned.
Lysithea smiled.
"When you're ready to understand who you really are—come find me. Before they do."
She vanished into smoke.
Ezra dropped to a knee.
The city was quiet again.
Too quiet.
But his world was louder than ever.
[Quest Complete]⟢ Primary Objective: Complete⟢ Optional Objective: Failed (Casualties: 17)⟢ Hidden Objective Discovered: The Architects⟢ Reward: New Skill – Hollow Dominion (Lesser)
System Alert:⟢ New Title Available: Enemy of the Architects⟢ You have been marked by a higher faction. Expect retaliation.
Ezra returned to the safehouse bleeding, broken, and carrying the urn.
Kael met him at the door.
"What the hell happened out there?"
Ezra dropped the urn on the table. Sat. Stared.
"They said I was chosen."
Kael frowned. "By who?"
He looked up.
And for the first time in a long time—
He didn't know.