Five figures. Unnamed. Unrecorded. Sovereigns, once—but long past that now. Their presence made the air hum. Their silhouettes shifted in unnatural ways, as if reality bent slightly just to accommodate them.
One of them spoke.
"He survived. That part we understand. What we don't is how he went from Zero to this."
Another’s eyes gleamed behind a cracked mask of ivory. "No. He adapted. There's a difference."
Silence. Heavy.
A projection flickered in the center of the room. Static. Then an image: a scorched field. Predator-ranked corpses. Lightning-burned stone. Residual energy still humming.
The image changed again. This time, city surveillance footage—grainy, corrupted. A figure blurred in motion. Lightning in human shape. A burst of blood and power. Just enough for them to know who it was, and that he wasn’t hiding. Not really.
He just didn’t care to be seen.
""He killed everyone we sent after him," the tallest said flatly. "And then he vanished."
"They were enough for any Zero," a voice rasped from the side. "He wasn’t Zero anymore."
The masked one turned slowly. "What did you see?"
A pause.
Then the reply, quiet and brittle.
"The surveillance... it showed something fast. Violent. I couldn’t make out his face. But the movement... the timing... it reminded me of the stories."
A long silence followed.
Then another spoke—calm, almost amused.
"You sent him to die. But now I'm wondering... could he be the one from the fringe records?"
The fifth voice was sharper. Younger. Almost angry.
"It’s not just the lightning. It’s how quickly he adapted. How precise it was."
The image changed again.
Jarek. Standing over a corpse. Blood drawn into him. Lightning curling like it belonged to him—not summoned. Instructed.
"He’s moving in a pattern we’ve seen before. Once. Long ago. And if it’s the same… we buried that information for a reason."
"It shouldn’t be possible," the sharp voice snapped.
"Neither were we."
Silence returned.
Then the tall one stepped forward. The floor hummed beneath his boots.
"Wherever he is now—Gravemarch, the Fringe, it doesn’t matter—they won’t understand what they’re looking at. They’ll think it’s an anomaly. A powerful outsider. But they’ve heard the stories too. The ones we buried.
The masked one turned to him.
"Until we’re sure it isn’t him."
Another flicker of static. A final frame.
Jarek. Lightning spiraling around his shoulders. The corpse of the Sovereign collapsed beneath him.
"Do we interfere?"
The response was instant.
"No. We watch."
"For how long?"
The masked one smiled beneath bone.
"Until he stops evolving, or until he finds us"
They turned back to the dark.
And the room sealed shut.
The pit wasn’t silent. It breathed.
Stone cracked underfoot, faint tremors pulsing through the obsidian walls like the place remembered every kill. No cheers. No war drums. Just weight.
Jarek stepped into the ring. The door sealed behind him.
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He was alone.
Not a whisper of Reiner. Not a glimpse of Cyrille. No confirmation they were even alive. They had separated them, led them into different places, without explanation or ceremony.
He hated not knowing. Reiner could take care of himself—sure—but not against whatever Gravemarch considered worthy of a trial. And Cyrille… she’d followed him out of Halvark, knowing the cost. That stayed with him more than he wanted to admit.
Just a wide obsidian arena carved into the bones of Gravemarch. Circular. Featureless. Stained with old blood that never quite dried.
Across from him, shackles clanged.
The figure they unchained was massive. Seven feet tall, at least. Shoulders wide enough to carry a small warband. Shirtless. Scarred. His skin was callused like stone, knotted with old damage. And across his back—a faint mark, burned into flesh and long faded.
Jarek narrowed his eyes. His breath caught.
A Halvark insignia.
Branded into his skin. But not one Jarek recognized. Not from the soldiers. Not even the Apex tiers. It was older. Something no one was supposed to carry anymore.
What the hell were you before they buried you down here?
The man didn’t speak. Just cracked his neck. Exhaled. The sound was slow and hollow, like air leaving a corpse.
He’s done this before.
Jarek didn’t raise his sword. Not yet.
Above, somewhere behind shadowed balconies, a voice echoed.
"Begin."
The prisoner moved.
Fast. For something his size, impossibly so. A single step shattered stone. A second turned the air to pressure.
Jarek shifted.
Umbral Veil blurred his body left—barely in time. The man’s punch slammed down where he’d stood. The entire platform beneath cracked like dropped glass. Dust rose. A shockwave rippled out. The room groaned with the impact.
Jarek landed in a crouch, boots sliding from the force. That punch alone could’ve flattened someone untrained. Lightning crackled along his coat before dissipating.
He drew his blade, and the storm answered. Not wild, not raw—focused. Violet arcs trailed from the blade like it wanted release.
The man didn’t pause. He pivoted, threw another strike.
Jarek blocked—and nearly dropped his weapon. The impact rattled through his arms, bones creaking. The stone beneath his feet fractured.
He blurred back with Veil again, sucking wind. The man didn’t follow.
Just stood. Watching. Calm.
And that’s when it clicked.
This wasn’t just another prisoner. This wasn’t just another brute.
The Halvark mark. The hardened skin. The power in each blow.
He wasn’t just strong.
He was a Sovereign.
Jarek felt it in his spine. The presence. The sheer, terrifying pressure.
And Gravemarch had locked him in here with it.
Fine.
Lightning exploded around him—controlled. He surged forward, using the discharge to amplify his speed. A burst of acceleration that blurred the world.
He came in fast—sword raised, feet sliding.
He slashed—a curve of violet lightning trailing behind the blade, moving not straight but with intent, bending mid-air toward the Sovereign's flank.
The Sovereign stepped into it.
Lightning collided with his skin—and dispersed.
Stone-skin.
Not armor. Flesh. Hardened by evolution or experimentation. It cracked slightly, but didn’t break. The electricity fizzled.
Jarek's eyes widened—too late.
The Sovereign's hand closed around his throat.
He was lifted—one-handed.
Then thrown. Hard.
Jarek hit a pillar. Cracked it in half. Dust rained. His ribs shrieked in protest.
The lightning flared again, steady pulses trying to stabilize him. He forced himself up.
Set a trap.
A flick of his hand dropped a node into the stone, subtle.
The Sovereign charged.
Jarek raised his blade and snapped his fingers.
Lightning burst—a short-range burst, mid-arc. It didn’t aim for the Sovereign’s chest.
It pushed Jarek.
Backward.
He skated across the floor, dodging the incoming strike by fractions.
Then he looped around a fallen block—another flick.
A node embedded.
The Sovereign turned to follow—and Jarek hurled a hail of lightning arcs. Five, six, all curving, dancing through the air, speeding toward him from the front.
The Sovereign raised his arms—blocking.
That was the mistake.
Jarek snapped his fingers again.
The trap behind him erupted.
Lightning surged up from the back. A perfect ambush.
Front and rear.
The Sovereign screamed—first sound he’d made.
Staggered. Dropped to one knee.
Jarek dashed forward with enhanced speed—the lightning wrapped around his legs now, launching him like a missile.
Sword aimed low.
It drove into the Sovereign’s ribs.
Blood sprayed.
And some of it—landed on Jarek.
Everything stopped.
The air rippled.
Then the world cracked open.
[GENETIC INTEGRATION COMPLETE]
Mutation Enhancement: Bloodborne Strength
- Physical Strength increased by 300%
Jarek gasped.
His body tightened. His limbs surged with power. His frame compressed like a spring waiting to snap. The pain in his ribs vanished—replaced with brutal, unnatural force.
The Sovereign had just started to rise—and Jarek slammed a kick into his chest that sent him crashing backward through a wall.
Stone shattered.
The walls trembled.
Dust rained from above.
The pit had changed.
And the Gravemarch watchers—knew it.
Above, the elders leaned forward.
No vision.
No prophecy.
No storm.
But something ancient had moved.
Something in the blood.
Above the pit, murmurs turned to chants. Low, strange syllables. Not reverent. Not ceremonial.
Just acknowledgment.
Like they’d seen this before. Not recently. Long ago.
Jarek didn’t flinch.
This wasn’t a revelation.
It was just more of what he was already becoming.
Jarek dropped to one knee, breathing hard. Lightning pulsed across his shoulders like serpents of light.
The Sovereign groaned, half-buried in rubble.
Jarek stared down at him, flexed his fist—and the ground beneath him cracked from sheer pressure.
The blood didn’t cling to his skin. It was absorbed—drawn into him the second it touched. He’d felt it before.
But they hadn’t. Or maybe they had, once—so long ago the story forgot itself. The pit went silent.
Then the murmurs began.
Low at first. Confused. Unsettled.
Then they layered. Voice over voice. No rhythm. No chant. Just a flood of words from watchers who didn’t understand what they’d seen—or did, and wished they hadn’t.
He didn’t flinch. He didn’t beg. He took Sovereign blood—and kept going.
A final voice:
"He’s not Halvark. He’s not ours."
"He’s something else."
Jarek stood alone.
Lightning spiraled slowly across his blade. His hand flexed. Power rippled through his frame—not loud, but anchored. Real.
And deep in his chest, the Hunger purred.
Not because he was feeding.
Because he had become something worth feeding more.
He stared at the Halvark mark burned into the dead man’s back.
Still fresh. Still alive.
His fingers curled.
This wasn't new. He'd felt it before—the way the blood welcomed him. The way the storm sharpened. He wasn’t shaken by what he’d done.
He was shaken by how they were reacting.
What the hell are they chanting for?