The golden light flickered in the dark.
It wasn't fire, not truly. It moved like fire, swaying, pulsing gently as if breathing, but there was something unnatural about it—too steady, too controlled. It was beautiful in the way a dying sun was beautiful.
And Ethan didn't trust it.
His breath was still ragged, his body still trembling from the fight. The kill.
The Wretched Stalker lay in a pool of its own black ichor, its grotesque frame twitching in death. But Ethan didn't feel triumphant. His stomach was still twisting itself into knots, his hands still slick with blood—his or the monster's, he wasn't sure.
Because he could still feel it.
The deaths.
Like splinters wedged deep into his mind, refusing to leave.
Every single one.
He could remember the exact moment his body had failed him. The pressure of his skull shattering, the suffocating silence before his consciousness snapped. The way his own heartbeat had stopped.
And yet, here he was. Whole. Again.
And now, that golden light was waiting.
Not just waiting—calling to him.
A whisper curled at the edge of his mind, distant yet urgent:
[You may rest at the Site of Grace.]
The words weren't spoken. They simply existed in his thoughts, as natural as his own memories. As if they had always been there.
Ethan swallowed hard. His body was screaming for rest, every muscle torn and aching, but a deeper part of him knew—there was a price for survival in this place. There had to be.
But he had no choice.
He stepped forward.
THE SITE OF GRACE
The moment Ethan reached the golden light, warmth rushed through his body.
Not just warmth—relief.
The pain in his limbs faded, the exhaustion seeped away as if it had never been there. His mind, still raw from the trauma of dying—again and again and again—felt momentarily lighter.
And then—
Something cracked open inside him.
[Runes Acquired: 4000]
[Would you like to allocate Runes?]
Ethan flinched. The words formed in his mind, sudden and intrusive, like a voice whispering directly into his skull. But there was no voice. No presence.
Just knowledge.
Like he had always understood what they meant.
Runes.
The numbers meant something. He didn't know how, but his gut told him that they were more than just a meaningless tally.
They were power.
His vision swam—more symbols, more words. A list formed in his mind, as clear as if it had been carved into stone:
[Attributes Available:]
VIGOUR – 10 (The strength of life. Endurance of flesh.)
MIND – 9 (The clarity of thought. Resistance to madness.)
ENDURANCE – 11 (The will to stand. The power to persist.)
STRENGTH – 12 (The force behind the blade. The weight of a fist.)
DEXTERITY – 10 (The swiftness of movement. The precision of a strike.)
[UNSPENT RUNES: 4000]
Ethan's breath hitched.
It was a leveling system.
It felt like a game. Like something he had seen before in another life, sitting behind a screen, watching numbers tick upward as his character became stronger.
But this wasn't a game.
The pain had been real. The deaths had been real.
And this… this was something else.
The power was right there, waiting to be grasped. If he used it—if he accepted it—he would become stronger.
Stronger meant surviving.
Stronger meant not dying again.
His fingers twitched. He knew what to do, as if the knowledge had been burned into his mind along with everything else.
He focused.
The moment he did, warmth rushed through his limbs, burning, like molten light coursing through his veins. His body changed, shifting, strengthening.
Numbers shifted:
[VIGOUR +1]
[ENDURANCE +1]
[STRENGTH +1]
Ethan exhaled sharply, stumbling back from the glowing light. The warmth faded, leaving only a deep, steady certainty in his bones.
He felt different. Stronger. A fraction more real.
And that terrified him.
THE CITY OF ASH
When Ethan stepped beyond the chamber, he expected more darkness.
Instead—
Ruins.
A city stretched before him, bathed in a sickly, reddish glow. Shattered towers clawed at the sky like broken fingers, their spires jagged and uneven. The streets were cracked, littered with the bones of things that had long since perished.
But the worst part?
The sky.
It wasn't the sun casting the red glow. There was no sun. No stars. No sky. Just ash, swirling in thick, suffocating waves, moving like dying embers in the wind.
The air was heavy with the scent of something old. Something wrong.
And Ethan wasn't alone.
Shadows moved in the distance. Not human. Not alive.
Figures stood motionless in the ruined streets, draped in tattered cloaks, their faces hidden beneath metal masks that had long since rusted. Their bodies were wrong—too thin, too elongated, as if something had stretched them beyond their natural limits.
One of them turned its head.
A whisper skittered through Ethan's thoughts.
[Ashen Remnant detected.]
[Hostile.]
Ethan's muscles tensed. The figures didn't move—not yet—but he could feel their attention.
Watching. Waiting.
His grip tightened around the broken bone still clutched in his fist. His only weapon.
He had leveled up. He was stronger now.
But was it enough?
A deep, guttural sound echoed from somewhere deeper in the city. Not a growl. Not a roar. Something worse.
The figures moved.
Not walking. Not running.
Gliding.
A sudden, jerking lurch forward, like puppets being yanked by unseen strings.
Ethan's pulse slammed against his ribs.
He wasn't ready.
He knew he wasn't ready.
But this place—this city—didn't care.
It was going to kill him.
Again.
And again.
And again.
Until he learned how to survive.