The air was sharp that morning—crisp, laced with the metallic scent of dew on stone and something colder, something closer to blood.
Sunlight bled weakly over the rooftops of Black Hollow, its dying warmth doing little to pierce the haze that clung to the slanted alleys and crooked lantern poles. Everything here was rusted, bent, or forgotten. A graveyard disguised as a city.
Kael Solhart didn't remember falling asleep.
When his eyes opened, he was met with the sight of a cracked ceiling—aged wood, stained with soot and spiderwebs. He could smell oil, dust, the ghost of something burnt. A lantern flickered beside the warped door, its flame stuttering every time the wind slipped through the gaps in the walls.
His back… it ached like hell.
I sat up slowly, the weight of exhaustion pulling at my limbs like chains. My cloak clung to my shoulders, damp and wrinkled, wrapped around me like a forgotten skin.
"This place again..." I muttered, dragging fingers through my hair. My voice cracked like dry bark. "How long was I out?"
Fragments. That's all I got.
A blur of yesterday's chaos—blood, steel, the weight of the Facility bearing down on me like a god's boot. The mercenaries. The madman with the hollow grin and the sword I'd driven through his chest.
And the card.
That cursed, black card tucked in the hidden lining of my coat. I could still feel it—cold, almost pulsing, as if alive. Its gold-etched symbol throbbed with something ancient. Every time I touched it, it felt like it remembered more than I did.
I stood and walked toward the crooked mirror leaning against the wall. What stared back… wasn't quite me.
Eyes sunken. Jaw clenched. Pale skin that looked half-drained of life.
I looked like someone running out of time.
I closed my eyes. Just for a second.
Breathe.
Then, the knock.
Not gentle. Not cautious.
It was urgent. Impatient. Like someone hitting the wall between life and death, hoping it would answer.
My hand was already on the hilt of the blade I'd taken last night.
The second I touched it, something inside me sharpened. My senses narrowed like a blade being honed.
That stranger's words echoed again.
"There's more to you than what you remember."
Whatever he'd done to me… awakened something. It hadn't left.
I cracked the door open.
A man stood there, rain dripping from the hem of his long, gray coat. His hood was pulled low, a half-mask covering his face. Only his silver eyes showed beneath the shadow.
"Kael Solhart?" he asked, voice low and steady.
I didn't answer.
"I'm the one who kept the Facility from dragging your corpse back to their labs," he said.
Straightforward. Cold. The kind of man who didn't waste time with pleasantries.
I narrowed my gaze. "Who the hell are you?"
"The one who's giving you a choice."
He glanced over his shoulder. The street behind him was empty—but tense. Too quiet.
"You stay here, the Black Dogs will be on you by nightfall. After your little stunt yesterday, they're already sniffing. Or... you come with me. Learn what that card in your pocket actually means."
The card. Always the card.
My fingers twitched.
I didn't trust him. Not even close. But my instincts—whatever they'd become—told me one thing:
Staying here was suicide.
We moved fast. Down alleys twisted like spider legs. Through rusted archways and beneath broken bridges.
He didn't speak much.
But I watched him.
He never took the same street twice. Never crossed open ground without a pause. This wasn't someone who'd lived here. This was someone trained for places like this.
Soldier? Spy? Or something worse?
It wasn't until we slipped through a half-collapsed stairwell that I spoke.
"What do they want from me?"
He glanced back, shadows flickering across his mask. Then, just as we passed under a flickering streetlight, he replied.
"You're marked."
I stopped walking. "What does that mean?"
"Not in the curse kind of way. Not like a brand. It's deeper than that." His voice lowered. "The Facility… they don't just run experiments. They search. For catalysts."
"Catalysts?" I echoed.
He nodded. "People who resonate with systems no one remembers. Lost tech. Relics from before our time. Sometimes before this world's time."
That chilled me more than the wind.
"I didn't ask for any of this."
"No one ever does." He looked at me, and something in his eyes softened. "But something responded to you. That sword. That place. The moment you touched it, your name was engraved onto a list you'll never see."
I didn't speak again.
Not until we reached the base of the stairwell.
A heavy door waited there—metal, rusted, reinforced with runes I didn't recognize.
I looked down at the card in my hand.
Its symbol was glowing faintly. Almost breathing.
"What is this thing?" I whispered.
He turned. Slowly. Calmly.
"That card is your first invitation into the real world, Kael."
Real world?
"The hell does that mean?"
He stepped closer. Close enough that I could see the lines in his silver eyes.
"You think this world runs on rules. On science. On logic." He leaned in. "It doesn't. It runs on stories. On secrets. This world is a stage—and people like you…"
He tapped the card in my hand.
"You're the lead role."
The door creaked open.
Beyond it—light. Screens. Movement. Maps stretched across walls. Holograms flickered. People in coats, armor, and silence moved with deadly purpose.
And on the wall above them… the same symbol.
The same damn symbol.
The card's emblem.
I stepped forward, and the room hushed.
Not in fear.
In expectation.
Like they'd been waiting.
Someone whispered my name.
Kael Solhart.
I felt eyes. Too many. Watching, calculating, remembering.
And I realized something.
I wasn't supposed to be here.
I was supposed to be dead.
"Every story begins with a question," someone said from the far end. A woman's voice. Sharp, clear. "But not yours."
"Your story begins with a name."
"Kael Solhart. The swordsman who died."
A pause. Then:
"But in this world… heroes are irrelevant. Survivors shape the future."