The storm over New York hadn't ended in weeks.
Mana-rich thunderclouds churned above the shattered skyline, crackling with ghostlight and raw arcane discharge. Every bolt lit up the city's fractured veins—streets lined with burned-out cars, collapsed buildings, and flickering holograms of a world long dead.
Ezra Vale stood atop a half-collapsed tower, cloak snapping behind him.
Below, his undead patrols swept through the ruins. Bonehounds sniffed for arcane traces. Crows born from smoke and ash fluttered between the rooftops, calling out with dry, rattling screeches. His army was growing—not just in number, but in function. They weren't just tools now. They were his people.
But something was wrong.
The air felt too still. The streets too quiet.
"Movement," Vesper's voice crackled over the comm-bead embedded in Ezra's neck. "North quadrant. Four life signs. Fast."
Ezra's jaw tightened. "Guild or mercs?"
"Neither. These ones are clean—no tags, no surge signatures. Civilians or new Awakened."
Kael's voice cut in. "Or bait."
Ezra leapt from the tower, gravity clutching at him for half a second before his skeletal wings flared from his back and glided him into the wind. Not true wings—more like extensions of his Gravecall, bone-lattice constructs reinforced with shadow and spectral sinew.
He landed silently on a nearby rooftop, eyes scanning the street below.
There.
Four figures—two male, two female. Mid-teens, dressed in mismatched scavenger gear. All of them huddled near a wrecked APC, trying to pry open its hatch. One of them had a makeshift blade. Another held what looked like a flare gun.
No armor. No signs of corruption. No glowing eyes. No madness.
Just scared kids.
Ezra dropped down, landing with a controlled crunch of glass.
They all turned, weapons raised.
"Easy," he said, hands out. "Not here to hurt you."
The tallest of the four, a boy with messy dreadlocks and a cracked mask hanging from his belt, narrowed his eyes.
"You're him."
Ezra blinked. "Him who?"
"The Hollowborn. We saw your bone-walkers patrolling. Thought you were another cult. Didn't expect... you."
The girl beside him, younger and with a mangled left arm bound in glowing blue thread, stepped forward.
"Are you really Ezra Vale?"
He didn't answer. Just gave a small nod.
They exchanged glances—half hope, half fear.
"We've been walking for two weeks," she said. "Came from the Shardbelts. Our shelter was overrun by pulse-beasts. Everyone else died."
Ezra frowned. "The Shardbelts are two hundred miles west. How did you survive?"
"Ran. Hid. Killed a few. Found a map, followed the signal beacons." She held up a cracked wristband. "Yours."
Ezra looked closer. It was one of his patrol tags. He'd had Vesper and Galen distribute them weeks ago. Beacons of safety. A call to survivors.
And they'd worked.
That should've been comforting.
It wasn't.
Because thirty seconds later, all hell broke loose.
[System Alert]
⟢ You are being targeted by a High-Affinity Soul Signature.
⟢ Estimated Threat Level: A+
Ezra barely had time to shove the kids down before the street exploded in flame.
A rippling arc of golden fire cut through the APC like paper. The air screamed. Ezra raised his arm, bone shield flaring up just in time to deflect the second strike.
From the smoke stepped a man.
Tall, thin, and dressed in a tailored coat made of woven iron thread and stitched glyphs. His face was half-burned—one side skeletal, the other too smooth. His eyes glowed with unnatural calm.
And at his back hovered a strange construct: a giant, ticking gear suspended in flame, surrounded by floating cubes that clicked and rotated in slow, deliberate rhythm.
"Target confirmed," the man said, voice crisp. "Ezra Vale. Hollowborn. Aberrant Class."
Ezra pushed to his feet. "Who the hell are you?"
The man bowed slightly. "Dros. Veylin Dros. Ascendant of the Clockwork Flame. Prophet of Entropy. And..."
He smiled.
"Your shadow."
Ezra's instincts screamed.
He dove forward as one of the cubes snapped toward him, glowing with heat. It detonated mid-air, showering the area in shards of molten glass. The kids screamed, diving for cover. Ezra summoned a bone tower under their position, forcing it to rise like a spire to shield them.
"You followed the signal," Ezra growled. "You used them as bait."
Veylin didn't deny it.
"I wanted a conversation, Ezra. But I also needed a metric. A test. You passed."
Ezra drew his blade—a jagged piece of reformed necrotic steel fused with soul-glass. "You want to talk, let's talk. You're the one behind the silver-eyed cult?"
Veylin chuckled. "No. Just an investor. Though I admired Lysithea's artistry. Crude, but effective."
Another cube fired.
Ezra redirected it with a burst of strength-enhanced Gravecall. The force cracked the street.
"You're stalling," Ezra said.
"Am I?" Veylin stepped back, fingers dancing. "Or are you simply catching up to a conversation I began three years ago?"
Ezra rushed him—fast.
But Veylin was faster.
He spun, cloak flaring, and the gear behind him roared. Time twisted. Ezra felt his muscles slow—just enough—and Veylin's open palm struck his chest with a burning glyph.
[System Alert: Curse Imprint Detected]
Effect: Recursive Burn. Every spell cast now costs triple until countered.
Ezra staggered.
"You're too... young," Veylin said calmly. "Too emotional. Too human."
He leaned in.
"Catch up, Hollowborn. I'll be waiting."
And then—he vanished in a burst of orange-gold flame.
Kael arrived seconds later with half a battalion of bonewalkers and bloodknights. She looked around at the scorched ruins, the shellshocked teens, and Ezra bleeding on one knee.
"What the hell just happened?"
Ezra growled, burning glyph still pulsing on his chest.
"I met the man I need to kill."
That night, Ezra stood before his war table in the bunker.
Around him, his core team had gathered: Kael, Galen, Vesper, Nox (his stealth-type wight), and now the four survivors who had come from the Shardbelts—whom Kael had provisionally dubbed "The Strays."
Ezra pointed at the holographic projection of the city.
"This world's bigger than I thought," he said. "And we've been playing defense."
Galen nodded. "Veylin Dros is from the outer belts. Somewhere near the Iron Comet Zone. There's no official map beyond that—only rumors."
"Then we make a new map."
Ezra turned to the group.
"We start a campaign. We expand east. We clear a corridor from the ruins to the Spine of Eltarra. Every survivor we find, we bring in. Every faction we meet—we vet, negotiate, or eliminate."
Kael smirked. "You're finally thinking like a warlord."
Ezra's voice was ice.
"No. I'm thinking like a father."
They all turned.
He stared at the four kids now sitting on the edge of the room—frightened, exhausted, but alive.
"I couldn't save my family once," Ezra said. "I won't make that mistake again."
[System Alert: Path Unlocked – Vanguard of the Hollow]
⟢ Title Gained: Protector of the Lost
⟢ New Feature Available: Hollow Banner
⟢ Effect: Survivors within your dominion gain passive resistance to Fear, Curse, and Madness. +10% loyalty from non-hostile NPCs.
Far to the east, on a mountain that breathed like a beast, a figure watched the stars flicker unnaturally.
Veylin Dros sipped from a chalice of molten copper and smiled.
"Good," he whispered. "Now chase me."