Malachai lay in a pool of blood—his, theirs, the dungeon’s. He couldn’t tell anymore.
The concrete beneath him was cold, fractured, soaked in old blood and fresh ash. The sky above churned with clouds the color of bone dust. No stars. No sun. Just a dull, endless bruise hanging over a dead town.
The fusion had ended.
But the pain hadn’t.
His body trembled. Not from fear, not from cold, but from something new. Something other. The Core hadn’t just joined him. It had rewritten him.
He rolled onto his side with a guttural sound, one hand pressed against his chest where the Essence Core had sunk into his flesh. The skin there was scorched black and veined with silver lines, pulsing with dim light beneath the surface.
And then the system flared.
> Class Update Complete.
You have become: Reaperborn — Awakened Aspect of Death.
New Passive: Deathbrand
Every wound you inflict leaves a soul-mark. Marked targets are weakened, and upon death, grant bonus essence.
Skill Upgrade: Feast of Flesh > Feast of the Slain
Devour the soul and body of a fresh kill. Rapid regeneration. If the enemy was marked, gain temporary stat boost.
Skill Gained: Shade Step
A refined evolution of Veilwalk. Teleport through shadow. Can chain-step once. Causes disorientation to nearby enemies.
Passive Gained: Gravecall
Dead bodies near you whisper warnings. Gain danger sense and minor insight from recent deaths.
New Trait: Core-Fused – Singular
Your essence has bonded with a Core. Growth potential vastly increased. Unknown effects may manifest.
Class Evolution Progress: 58%
Malachai wiped blood from his mouth with the back of his clawed hand.
He pushed to his feet.
The Hungering Veil clung tighter to him now, as if part of him. His silhouette flickered at the edges, unnatural. His heartbeat echoed with something that didn’t belong to a man.
He wasn’t just alive.
He was Reaperborn.
And the monsters hadn’t stopped.
The first shriek came from the street.
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Three Wendigo Spawn skittered into view—juvenile horrors, malformed and dripping with ichor. Their ribcages were exposed, organs twitching. Their skulls were too large for their thin necks, and their eyes glowed with pale, feverish hunger.
Malachai stood.
Still aching. Still broken.
But smiling.
They charged.
He vanished.
Shade Step.
He reappeared behind the lead spawn, claws already descending.
The first strike shredded its spine, vertebrae popping like beads on a string. It collapsed, shrieking, limbs flailing blindly.
The second spawn turned, just in time to see him ram a claw through its open mouth and out the back of its skull. Its body convulsed. Black foam spewed from its throat.
The third leapt.
He caught it mid-air.
Drove both claws into its abdomen, then ripped outward. Entrails hit the ground in wet slaps. Blood sprayed across his face.
He stepped over the twitching carcasses.
> Feast of the Slain activated.
Black essence leaked from the corpses like smoke being inhaled by unseen lungs. His wounds sealed, skin reknitting with sizzling hisses. His arms flexed with renewed strength.
>Trait Fragment Acquired: Wendigo Spawn (1) +1 Strength
He turned down the next alley.
A Rattler Pack—five of them. Bone-bladed tails. No eyes. No mercy.
They charged in a pack.
He didn't retreat.
He ran into them.
The first one lunged. He ducked, then slammed his claws into its underbelly and lifted. The creature shrieked as its guts spilled across its brethren.
The second bit his leg.
He stabbed downward until its skull caved in.
Another slashed across his chest, leaving ribbons of torn flesh.
He grinned through the pain.
The next swipe severed its leg. It collapsed, howling. He straddled it and buried both claws into its head, twisting until brain matter bubbled out through its ears.
The last two tried to flank him.
Shade Step. Chain.
He blinked between them, afterimages of black smoke dancing in his wake. They turned too late.
He tore through one’s spine and yanked the other’s jaw clean off. Blood rained.
The air stank of burnt meat and copper.
> Rattler Fragment (2) Reflex +1
He moved block to block, butcher to butcher.
Ghoul Screechers lurked near a ruined petrol station. Mouths opened vertically. Screamed until bone shook. He didn’t care.
He leapt from above, slammed both claws down into one’s neck, then kicked the second into the pump rack. Fire engulfed it. The last one grabbed him from behind.
He bent backward, dragging it over his shoulder, and drove it face-first into rebar.
The rebar stuck.
It twitched for too long.
When he finally stopped, the world was quiet again.
He found a burned-out library. Still, safe—barely.
He barricaded the door with a shelf. Pulled a tarp over the windows. Laid his weapons down.
Sat on the cold floor, still coated in blood, every joint aching.
The Veil pulsed. The whispers of the Gravecall sang lullabies of death.
More Gates would open.
But he was no longer a man caught in the storm.
He was the storm.
And Malachai—the Reaperborn—would not be caught unaware again.
