The damp chill of the cellar clung to Ethan Kane’s skin like a second coat of grease. High above, a narrow vent-slit barely wider than a handbreadth let in a single, pale shaft of afternoon light—a pathetic excuse for warmth in a room that smelled of mold and slow starvation.
"Are you really going, Ethan?"
Chloe's voice was barely a whisper. She was huddled on a crate, her knees pulled tight to her chest, her wide, frightened eyes locked on him.
"Yes," Ethan said, his voice flat, hard with a certainty he didn't entirely feel. He scrubbed a hand over his soot-stained face, feeling the grit of the coal-yards beneath his fingernails. "We can't afford the Lumcore anymore. Scavenging the scrap heaps isn't enough."
"But the Nightharvest..." Chloe's eyes welled, bright with unshed tears. "Old Mr. Henderson from next door... he went out last month. They said the Voidstriders got him. There wasn't even a body to bury."
Ethan ground his teeth, the silence stretching thick and heavy between them.
He had spent three sleepless nights chewing on the decision before finding the nerve to sign up. The deal was simple: venture into the dark, gather what the city needed, and get paid. It was the only job available to a gutter-born kid that offered anything close to a decent wage.
But the premium came with a death warrant.
In this world, humanity only owned half the clock. The sunlit hours belonged to them, but the moment the horizon swallowed the light, the world belonged to the Voidstriders.
To those things, humans weren't apex predators; they were cattle. Worse, they were playthings. Voidstriders didn't just hunt to fill their bellies; they hunted for the sport of watching a cornered animal scream.
The only shield against them was light. Human settlements relied on Lumcores—glowing crystalline cores that projected a localized dome of artificial daylight, keeping the terrors of the dark at bay. Air was free, but light had a price tag. A steep one. And it kept going up.
A week ago, the market had broken.
The meager Lumcore keeping their cellar safe used to cost four hundred and twenty credits a week. Now, the landlords were demanding six hundred and eighty.
Ethan and the others had tried cutting back on food. You could survive on one meal every two days; you couldn't survive a single second in the dark without light. If the barrier failed, the Voidstriders would sniff them out in their sleep. It wasn't a gamble anyone with a grain of sanity would take.
The only saving grace of the Nightharvest was the escort. Every run was protected by the Duskwardens—elite warriors who fought the dark. In the propaganda broadcasts and the minds of the desperate, they were holy crusaders, the last shield of humanity. It was their presence alone that coaxed ordinary citizens out into the black.
"Hey," Ethan muttered, reaching over to ruffle Chloe’s messy hair. "Stop crying. I'm not dead yet. The Duskwardens will be there. I’ll be perfectly safe."
Chloe didn't let go, her small, dirty fingers clutching the hem of his faded jacket as if he might vanish the moment she released him.
Across the small wooden table, Ryan Cross stared down at his own calloused hands. "If I were just a year older, Ethan... I’d go with you. You shouldn't have to do this alone."
Ethan offered a thin, tired smile. "Don't worry about it. Keep your head down, study when you can, and watch the house. I need you here."
Ryan was only a year younger, but in the slums, a year was a lifetime. They weren't blood, the three of them. Just three stray dogs who had crawled into the same corner after their families were taken by the cold, the hunger, or the dark. This cellar was the only legacy Ryan’s parents had left behind, and it had become their sanctuary. Being the oldest, the weight of keeping the door locked and the stove warm fell squarely on Ethan's shoulders.
"I'll take care of Chloe," Ryan promised, his jaw tightening with a fragile resolve. "I won't let anything happen to her."
"I know." Ethan checked the cracked watch on his wrist. One o'clock. "I need to head out."
Check-in wasn't until three, but Ethan wanted to be early. It was his first run; maybe he could pick up a trick or two from the veterans before they left the safety of the walls.
Twenty minutes later, Ethan stood in the central plaza of Northridge City.
A few other harvesters had already arrived, scattered across the wide cobblestone square like statues. When Ethan approached, they offered him nothing more than a fleeting, dismissive glance before looking away. Ethan half-raised a hand in greeting, but the cold indifference in their eyes made him drop it back to his side, his face burning with a sudden prick of embarrassment.
Stepping back into a shadow beneath a dead-leafed oak, he pulled a loaf of cheap, gray bread from his pack. He pinched off the fuzzy blue-green patches of mold on the crust, threw them onto the stones, and forced himself to chew the dry, throat-scraping starch.
"First time?"
Ethan nearly choked on his bite. He looked up to find a man leaning against the oak trunk, a cigarette unlit between his lips. He looked to be in his late forty’s, wearing grease-stained mechanic overalls and a faded cap.
"Is it that obvious?" Ethan asked, dusting crumbs off his chest.
"Might as well have it tattooed on your forehead," the man scoffed, pushing himself off the rough bark. He started to walk past Ethan, his boots clicking softly on the stones. "Name's Flint Voss. If you're still breathing when the sun comes up tomorrow, come find me. I'll teach you how to survive a second night."
Before Ethan could ask what he meant, Flint was already gone, blending into the small crowd. The realization hit Ethan like cold water: in this business, veterans didn't waste breath on dead men walking. If you couldn't survive your first night, you weren't worth the introduction.
Promptly at three, a heavy engine roared in the distance.
The crowd went dead silent as two pristine, bone-white vehicles rolled into the plaza: an open-topped utility jeep and a massive armored transport truck. Their polished plating seemed to catch the sunlight, reflecting a blinding, almost holy glare.
Four Duskwardens stepped out.
They wore stark white, high-collared tactical armor. Embroidered on the left breast in glittering gold thread was the character for Light, while the back of their coats bore the heavy, black-inked block letters of their division: Oblivion's Veil. On their right hips hung heavy, unsheathed broadswords; strapped to their left thighs were sleek, oversized silver handguns.
The atmosphere in the plaza instantly turned freezing. Though there were only four of them, they carried the weight of an invading army.
The harvesters fell into two neat rows with practiced ease. Ethan quickly slipped into the line, mimicking the posture of the man next to him. Counting the newcomers, there were twenty-five people in total.
"First-timers, step forward," commanded the leader of the squad. He was a tall man with a shock of bright, golden hair—the Goldlock—his voice booming across the stone plaza.
Ethan and four others stepped out of the line, their boots shuffling nervously.
The Goldlock's gaze swept over the five anxious faces. He tapped the face of an oversized, complex wrist-chronometer. "We have just under two hours before sunset. Plenty of time for you to tuck tail and run home."
None of them moved, though Ethan could feel the nervous sweat pooling under his collar.
"Good," the Goldlock said, his tone dropping to a chilling pitch. He rested his palm on the hilt of his broadsword. "This blade is for keeping the Voidstriders off your back."
Then, his hand drifted to the silver pistol strapped to his thigh. "And this is for putting a bullet in your skull."
A collective shiver ran through the five recruits.
"The rules of the Nightharvest are simple," the Goldlock continued. "But if any of you panics, breaks formation, or does something stupid that puts my squad or the harvest at risk... well, these bullets might not do much to a high-tier Voidstrider, but they work wonders on human flesh."
The words hit Ethan like a physical blow. To a slum kid raised on propaganda, the Duskwardens were supposed to be paragons of humanity. But a glance back at the veterans showed only flat, indifferent expressions. They had heard this speech before. They knew the truth: in the dark, a liability was worse than a monster.
"I'll ask one more time," the Goldlock said, chin tilted up. "Any cowards want out?"
Two of the recruits slowly raised their hands, their faces pale. "I... I can't do this," one stammered.
The Goldlock didn't mock them. He simply gestured for them to leave, his eyes already looking past them as they scrambled out of the square.
"The rest of you, get back in line."
Ethan stepped back into the ranks, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. For a split second, his legs had screamed at him to run with the other two. But then he pictured the dark basement, Chloe's tear-stained face, and Ryan’s desperate attempt to look strong.
They had saved him when he was starving. He was the eldest. This was his burden to bear.
The Goldlock gestured toward the white military transport. "Listen up, rookies. There are three rules tonight.
"First, once you're in that truck, you can talk all you want, but whatever you see or hear tonight stays between us. We can't legally sew your lips shut, but we have plenty of ways to ensure you never speak again.
"Second, when we arrive at the harvesting site, you will be given a specific task. Do it. Don't look around, don't ask questions, and for the love of God, don't get curious. You're here to earn eight hundred credits. That's enough to keep your families fed and lit for a month. Focus on the money, not the mystery.
"Third, if things go sideways in the dark, ignore it. Keep your heads down and keep working. If something crawls out of the black..." He patted his sword hilt. "We handle it. You don't.
"Move out!"
The veterans immediately scrambled into the back of the transport. Ethan followed them, hoisting himself over the tailgate. As the heavy canvas cover was tied down, plunging the cabin into shadow, his panic began to subside, replaced by a cold, survival-focused clarity. Fear wouldn't save him. Only focus would.
The truck jolted to a start, rumbling over broken asphalt. Nobody spoke. The air inside the cabin was thick with the scent of sweat, stale bread, and quiet desperation. These weren't men looking to make friends; they were desperate souls carrying the survival of their households on their backs. Ethan copied the veterans, closing his eyes and focusing on slow, even breaths.
When the truck finally ground to a halt, the canvas flap was thrown open, letting in the dim, blood-orange light of dusk.
It was 5:40 PM. Twenty minutes before the world died.
"I need eight men to assemble the Glowrigs!" the Goldlock shouted from the ground. "Fifty credits extra!"
A scramble ensued as the veterans fought to get off the truck. Ethan stayed back, knowing he didn't have the skills yet, but he watched like a hawk. He needed to learn everything if he wanted to survive.
The selected eight hauled four massive, bone-white pillars from the roof of the transport. Each was about two meters tall and thick as a man's thigh. Working in pairs, they planted the pillars at four corners of a rough square, roughly a hundred meters apart, before returning to the Goldlock to collect their extra pay.
Easy enough, Ethan noted, memorizing the steps. If I make it to tomorrow, I'm signing up for that.
Stepping out of the truck, Ethan took in his surroundings. They were in the middle of a vast, desolate wasteland. No trees, no ruined buildings—just cracked, gray earth stretching to the horizon. They were hours outside Northridge City.
The Goldlock clapped his hands, drawing the group into a tight circle. "Listen up. Before the light fades, here is your target for tonight."
"Gloomcrawlers," a young veteran next to Ethan muttered under his breath, shifting his weight casually.
"We are harvesting Gloomcrawlers," the Goldlock confirmed.
Ethan looked at the young veteran, wishing he could ask what that meant, but he kept his mouth shut.
"Excuse me..." a trembling voice spoke up. It was the only remaining female rookie. She raised a hesitant hand. "What... what are Gloomcrawlers? And where are they? There's nothing out here..."
The Goldlock didn't answer.
At that exact moment, the final sliver of the sun dipped below the horizon.
Six o'clock. Night fell like a dropped curtain.
Thrum!
The four white pillars suddenly roared to life, casting a harsh, artificial white glare across the hundred-meter square.
"Ah!"
The woman shrieked, stumbling backward as the ground beneath her feet began to heave and crack.
Ethan’s eyes widened, his breath catching in his throat as he watched the dark earth split open. Pushing up through the dirt right where the woman had been standing was a fleshy, bulbous growth—a palm-sized mushroom, its cap a deep, abyssal black that seemed to swallow the very light keeping them alive.