The sterile, white glare of the Lumcore cut through the basement's gloom.
The Voidstrider was dead—a crumpled heap of shadow-flesh slain by Ethan Kane’s bare hands.
Yet, a wet, dragging sound ruined the silence.
Ryan Cross was crawling across the concrete, leaving a thick, smeary trail of blood in his wake.
He had always been a coward—the kind of boy who shrieked at a splinter and wept at the thought of pain. Yet now, despite his mangled legs and shredded flesh, he didn't make a sound. He was dragging himself toward the kitchen knife.
Ethan stared at the water-stained ceiling. He wanted to find some innocent explanation for the dragging noise, but there was none.
A faint clink echoed through the room. Metal scraping against concrete. Ryan had reached the blade.
Ethan closed his eyes. He knew exactly what Ryan was. He knew the depth of the betrayal that had nearly cost him and Chloe their lives. But knowing didn't stop a stupid, stubborn wave of pity from rising in his chest. If he hadn't been soft, he wouldn't have clicked the Lumcore on so early.
They had spent years together. They weren't blood, just three discarded orphans huddled together for warmth in a freezing world, scraping by on grit and sheer desperation. That kind of bond wasn't something you could just cut away.
He couldn't bring himself to kill Ryan.
But human nature is a fractured, ugly thing. Ethan's hesitation didn't mean Ryan shared a single shred of his mercy.
"Ryan," Ethan whispered, his throat tight, his voice thick with a choked sob. "You know... I feel like I'm losing my humanity. Every day, I get closer to becoming... some kind of monster."
A glint of light flashed in the corner of his eye. The polished steel of the kitchen knife. Ryan had dragged himself all the way over, his breath rattling as he hovered above Ethan, the blade poised directly over his throat.
Ethan didn't flinch. He just looked at the desperate, sweating face of his friend. "But looking at you now... I realize something. You're far more of a monster than I'll ever be."
"Ethan..." Ryan rasped, his eyes bloodshot and wild with a manic frenzy. "If you had just said you forgave me, I wouldn't have done this! But you wouldn't! I saw it in your eyes—you wanted to kill me! Chloe's death wasn't my fault! Why does everyone lay it on me? I just wanted to survive! What did I do wrong?!"
Ethan stared into those crimson, crazed eyes, and a slow, mocking smile touched his lips. He didn't answer. He couldn't.
The brutal toll of the fight and the sheer exhaustion of his failing body finally crashed over him. Darkness rushed in, and Ethan drifted into unconsciousness.
But the moment his mind slipped away, the black sphere rolling in the corner didn't stay still. It lunged.
Sliding across the floor with impossible speed, it bolted toward Ethan's limp body.
Snap. Snap. Snap.
The phantom chewing motion warped Ethan's jaw as his mouth fell open, and the black orb shot straight down his throat. Instantly, a suffocating, pitch-black mist erupted from his pores, pooling over his skin in heavy, crushing waves.
Ryan froze, startled by the sudden eruption of dark mist. But panic quickly curdled into murderous resolve. Screaming in rage, he drove the kitchen knife downward, aiming straight for Ethan's throat.
Before the blade could bite, the churning black mist coalesced, hardening into a single, razor-thin line—just like the sharp, unnatural geometry of the Voidstrider's attacks.
Zip.
The line whipped through the air. Ryan's arm was severed instantly at the shoulder, leaving a perfectly smooth, cauterized cut. The detached limb, still clutching the knife, flew across the room and clattered into the far corner.
The knife bounced away with a metallic ring.
The delay was only a second before the agonizing shock registered. Ryan opened his mouth to scream, a guttural, soul-shredding shriek of pure torment. But the sound was cut short.
The black line flicked across his neck.
His head slid from his shoulders, taking the life he had fought so desperately to preserve with it.
When Ethan opened his eyes again, pale gray light was filtering through the dirty basement window. Morning had broken.
He stared at the water-stained ceiling, realizing he was still in the Calloway brothers' semi-basement. He was alive. He didn't feel a rush of relief, only a dull numbness.
Pushing himself up, he checked his body. The deep, agonizing wounds from the night before were completely gone. If his clothes weren't shredded to ruined rags, he would have believed the entire ordeal was a nightmare.
This time, there had been no bizarre dreamscape during his blackout. Even so, despite only experiencing those surreal dreams twice before, he woke up with the phantom exhaustion of someone who hadn't slept properly in years.
Since he had already resigned himself to the fact that his body was mutating, he didn't bother questioning the unnatural speed of his recovery. Instead, his thoughts turned to Ryan.
He was alive, which meant Ryan had to be dead. He clearly remembered the kid raising the knife. The Voidseep must have protected him.
A bitter, ironic laugh caught in his throat. The boy he had bled to protect had tried to butcher him like cattle, while the terrifying black sludge he feared had acted as his guardian.
He couldn't muster any real grief for Ryan. Perhaps it was better this way—Ryan dying while Ethan was unconscious spared him from having to pull the trigger himself.
There was no body left, only a dark, sticky pool of blood on the floor. Remembering how Hayes Calloway's corpse had been dragged into the shadows the night before, Ethan didn't find the absence of a body strange. It was just how the dark operated.
Ethan dragged himself to the corner, leaning his back against the damp brick. His wounds had closed, but a deep, systemic fatigue clung to his bones, making him break out in a cold sweat. He closed his eyes, forcing his mind to process the events of the night.
He needed to organize what he knew.
First, the Voidseep was actively protecting him. That was a fact now.
Second, Voidstriders could be killed, and the only viable weapon he had was a Lumcore.
Third, whether they could phase through solid walls remained unproven, but they definitely preferred using doors when available.
Fourth, their offensive capabilities were highly lethal, easily tearing through human flesh.
Finally, they lacked traditional senses but were incredibly sensitive to sound.
But there was one more thing. When he had crushed the Voidstrider, a small black sphere had dropped from its remains. He scanned the corners of the room, but the floor was empty. The orb was gone.
Do they dissolve when the sun rises? he wondered.
It made sense. It was just like harvesting Gloomcrawlers. During the day, you could dig ten feet deep in their spawning grounds and find absolutely nothing. But the moment night fell, they sprouted from the soil like mushrooms after rain.
Which begged the question: where did they go during the day? Where did the Gloomcrawlers and Voidstriders hide?
Ethan was certain the authorities—or those with actual power—had studied this and knew the answers. He was just too low on the food chain to access that kind of knowledge.
Then, there was Chloe.
Cold logic told him her chances of survival were practically zero. The Voidstrider had appeared almost immediately after he opened the front door and had instantly mauled Ryan. Believing Chloe had somehow evaded those things all night in the pitch black was pure self-delusion.
Yet, Ethan could never have guessed that at this very moment, Chloe was standing in the bright morning sun.
Beside her stood a young man, only a few years older than Ethan. He wore a pristine, snow-white uniform that bore no resemblance to the dark armor of the Duskwardens. A long, knee-length cloak flowed from his shoulders, devoid of any writing. Instead, it was embroidered with a single, elegant emblem.
A burning candle-flame.
Ethan spent the next few hours sitting quietly in the basement, letting his body recover from its hollow weakness. He found a small stash of expired food Warren Calloway had hoarded.
For scavengers like Ethan, who spent nearly every cent of their hard-earned scrap on Lumcore fuel, food was just fuel. Taste and freshness were luxuries they couldn't afford.
The Calloway brothers, however, had lived far more "luxuriously" than Ethan's crew. Warren always boasted that a scavenger needed to stay physically dominant to bully others for resources, which meant they bought the premium, meat-heavy expired canned goods.
After forcing down a few cold cans, Ethan finally let himself think about the future.
His first priority was to go home. Logic said Chloe was dead, but he had to see for himself. If she had somehow survived the night, home was the only place she would go to wait for him. Besides, Flint Voss had borrowed their place for his friend, which meant there would have been an active Lumcore running all night. It was a one-in-a-million chance, but it was a shred of hope.
Finding Chloe was everything.
But what if she was gone?
The crushing weight of that thought made him hollow. For years, his entire existence had been defined by protecting Ryan and Chloe. If they were both dead, what was he supposed to do?
He had gained a terrifying, unnatural power, but it was entirely passive. He had no idea how to call upon it at will, let alone what price he would have to pay for harboring such darkness.
He already knew his mind was changing. He hadn't lost his emotions entirely—he could still feel anger and relief—but they were muted, buried beneath a cold, detached layer of glass. He felt like an audience member watching his own life play out on a screen.
And he knew this emotional decay was only the beginning. Eventually, the assimilation would be total.
The thought didn't terrify him; instead, a strange resolve took root. If he was going to turn into a monster anyway, he might as well use this borrowed power to do something meaningful before he lost himself.
What that "something" was, though, he had no idea. He was just a gutter-born scavenger. His worldview didn't stretch far enough to conceptualize grand purposes.
Shaking off the heavy thoughts, he stood up. His body felt functional again. He grabbed one of Warren's discarded, oversized shirts to cover his shredded clothes and stepped out of the basement into the street.
The moment his boots hit the pavement, a wave of agony struck him like a physical blow.
It wasn't just weakness; it was a white-hot, stabbing pain that seized his muscles. He couldn't pinpoint where it hurt—it was everywhere, a searing fire beneath his flesh. His knees buckled, and within seconds, cold sweat drenched Warren's oversized shirt.
The sun, which had always been a rare, comforting warmth in Northridge, felt like a magnifying glass burning a crawling insect.
"Agh!"
A strangled cry ripped from his throat as he collapsed onto the dirt, curling into a tight ball. A few passersby slowed down, staring at him with cold, idle curiosity.
Flash.
Images flickered behind his eyelids like a broken projector. Swirling black waves. Pale, twitching fingers. A writhing sphere. Teeth snapping shut.
The Voidseep.
Through the haze of pain, Ethan understood. The power that made him strong belonged to the night. Light and shadow had been locked in an eternal war since the dawn of time, and right now, the entity nesting inside him was screaming. It was the same agony the Voidstrider had suffered under the Lumcore's glare.
The Voidseep was stronger than a common Voidstrider—it could tolerate Lumcores and weak, filtered light—but the direct, unshielded morning sun was too much.
Was it evaporating? Would its destruction kill him too? He didn't know, and he didn't want to find out.
I can't die here, he snarled internally. He hadn't found his purpose yet, and he sure as hell wasn't going to dissolve into ash in some gutter. He still had to find Chloe. He had spent his entire life scraping by in the dirt, never knowing what it felt like to live a decent, human life. To die now, sizzling like a stray beast under the sun... it was unacceptable.
Gritting his teeth until they threatened to crack, Ethan dragged his convulsing body toward the shadow of a nearby alley. To the onlookers, he was just another pathetic, twitching junkie writhing in the dirt. Ethan didn't care. He focused every shred of his fading consciousness on that blessed, dark sliver of shade.
His fingers clawed at the cobblestones, pulling his heavy limbs forward until his head finally crossed the threshold into the darkness.
The relief was instantaneous. The searing fire beneath his skin receded to a dull, manageable throb.
Slumping against the damp brick wall, Ethan let out a ragged, wheezing breath, his lungs working like a busted pair of bellows. Slowly, his breathing steadied.
And then, he laughed.
It started as a low chuckle, then erupted into a loud, mocking roar that echoed off the alley walls.
He had gained a power most scavengers could only dream of. A terrifying, absolute power. And the price? He could never walk in the sun again.
Was it worth it? Two days ago, he would have said yes without hesitation. He could have used this curse to keep his family safe. But now...
Thud. Thud. Thud.
The rhythmic, synchronized march of heavy boots echoed down the street.
Huddled in his dark corner, smelling of sweat, blood, and the sour stench of Warren's old clothes, Ethan watched as a massive column of Duskwardens paraded past.
There were at least forty of them. During his Nightharvest runs, there had only ever been four guards assigned to the entire crew. He had never seen so many Duskwardens gathered in one place. Northridge rarely deployed such force unless something massive was brewing.
In the ranks, he spotted two familiar faces. One was the arrogant, golden-haired commander—the Goldlock—who had led his first harvest. The other was Felix Grayson, the young Duskwarden who had coldly reminded him to say thank you just that morning.
The crowd that had just stared at Ethan with disgust instantly shifted their gazes, their eyes filling with reverence and awe as the soldiers marched by. And why wouldn't they? The Duskwardens were tall, immaculate, and bathed in the radiant morning light. They looked like gods.
As the column marched past his alley, Ethan kept his head up, watching them.
None of them spared him a glance. To them, he was just part of the gutter. Only a few who marched closest to the curb wrinkled their noses at his stench, discreetly covering their nostrils as they passed.
Ethan saw it all. He didn't feel small. He didn't feel angry. He just smiled.
"Freak," one of the trailing guards muttered, startled by Ethan's quiet, raspy chuckle.
But Ethan's smile only widened. He was genuinely happy. For the first time, he knew exactly what he was going to do with this stolen, monstrous power. He had found a goal—simple, clear, and utterly ironic.
He wanted to live like a human being.