Darkness.
It wasn't mere absence of light. It was thick, pulsating, and alive, wrapping itself around Ronan Kessler like the embrace of a starved predator. The air was damp, laced with the scent of something ancient—like ink mixed with rot.
Ronan's breath hitched as his senses flared awake. He could hear them—whispers that slithered against his skin, words he didn't understand yet somehow knew.
He was kneeling within a chamber unlike anything he had ever seen. The walls—if they could even be called that—were breathing, undulating like the flesh of some unfathomable beast. Strange symbols, writhing and ever-shifting, pulsed with an eerie violet glow beneath him, forming a massive summoning circle.
And then, there was it.
The thing upon the throne.
It was neither man nor monster, neither alive nor dead. Its form twisted constantly, shifting between hundreds—no, thousands—of shapes. One moment, it resembled a skeletal king with hollow, burning eyes. The next, a mass of shadow, limbs branching out endlessly like a grotesque tree.
But the eyes remained.
Countless eyes. Some human, some not, all of them focused solely on him.
"You are unworthy… and yet you stand before me."
The voice wasn't spoken. It invaded his mind, weaving through his thoughts like silk and steel. It was layered—deep and hollow, yet carrying an unbearable weight, as though it had existed long before the stars were born.
Ronan's pulse pounded against his ribs.
Where… am I?
The last thing he remembered was standing inside the Grand Awakening Hall of Ashenford, staring at the Awakening Altar.
Every year, hopefuls from the city and beyond gathered in that grand cathedral to undergo their Awakening, a sacred process dictated by the System—the omnipresent force that governed reality itself. It was the System that chose who became a Hunter—the warriors of humanity, gifted with supernatural abilities to combat the horrors that seeped through the Rifts.
Those who Awakened gained a Class, a Path, and Skills bestowed by the System.
The strong became legends. The weak became nothing.
Ronan had prepared his entire life for this moment.
Yet, when his turn came… nothing had happened.
No class. No skills. No status window. Just an empty void where his destiny should have been.
The System had rejected him.
But something else had answered.
Pain. Unbearable, mind-shattering pain. Then—darkness. And now… this.
"Ronan Kessler." The entity spoke his name as though it had always known it. "Your Awakening was rejected by the System. But you were not abandoned."
Ronan's breath came in ragged gasps. His body ached, his skin feverish, but worse than that—something was inside him. He could feel it, coiling around his soul like a parasite, burrowing deeper with every beat of his heart.
"You bear the Mark of the Devourer."
The words sent a chill down his spine.
He had heard the legends. The Devourer was a myth, a forbidden tale whispered in the dead of night. It was said to be an anomaly—a force outside the System's grasp. A curse so vile that even the Gods of the Awakened feared it.
"The System will reject you. Hunters will hunt you. The world will despise you."
Ronan clenched his teeth. He wanted to scream, to deny it. But deep down… he already knew it was true.
The System had abandoned him.
But he was still alive.
"And yet," the entity continued, "you will wield power beyond comprehension."
The throne of shadows pulsed, its endless limbs shifting in a slow, deliberate motion. It was watching him, studying his reaction.
Ronan looked down at his hands. They were shaking. Not with fear—but with something else.
Why?
Why was he still here? Why was he still alive when the System itself had deemed him worthless?
"Choose, Ronan Kessler." The entity leaned forward, its countless eyes burning into his very soul. "Will you cling to your humanity and die as nothing? Or will you cast it aside… and become something more?"
Ronan's breath came slow and steady.
For twenty years, he had been nothing. A gutter rat in the slums of Ashenford. A nameless orphan struggling to survive in a city where only the strong thrived.
For twenty years, he had fought, clawed, and bled, chasing after the dream of becoming a Hunter—only for the world to spit in his face.
And now, when everything had been taken from him…
He was given a choice.
Slowly, he raised his head. His gaze met the countless eyes before him.
He was done waiting. Done begging. Done being powerless.
"I accept."
Silence fell.
Then—
Pain.
Agony unlike anything he had ever known tore through his very soul.
Ronan's scream was swallowed by the void as something vast and primordial surged into him, wrapping around his existence and breaking him apart. His flesh burned, his veins twisted, his bones cracked as he changed.
His vision blurred. Symbols carved themselves into his skin, glowing with an ominous violet light. His heart pounded. His blood turned black.
And within the depths of the abyss, something laughed.
A new Status Window appeared before him, but unlike the golden letters of the System, this one was ink-black, written in a language no human should understand.
—----------------------------------------
Name: Ronan Kessler
Title: Bearer of the Devourer's Mark
Class: ??? (ERROR: SYSTEM REJECTION)
Authority: [Devourer's Right] (??? Rank)
Skills Unlocked:
→ Abyssal Assimilation (Passive) – Devour and assimilate the essence of slain beings. Strength is no longer dictated by levels.
→ Null Status (Passive) – Immune to System interference. Cannot be classified as Hunter, Monster, or Human.
→ ??? – Locked.
—----------------------------------------
Ronan gasped for air, collapsing to the ground as his mind barely clung to reality.
His vision swam, but through the haze, he saw something new.
A door.
Massive, ancient, wreathed in chains. It loomed before him, engraved with symbols that whispered of truths long buried.
And it was opening.