《Dark Entry: Rise of the Gates》 The Sickness Beneath the Skin It began in the year 2020. The world watched in horror as a strange illness swept across continents, its symptoms deceptively mundane: fevers, aching limbs, shortness of breath. They called it COVID¡ªgrappled with masks, lockdowns, and whispered panic¡ªbut they were wrong. It wasn¡¯t a virus. It was mana. And it was only the beginning. Mana sickness crept into the world like a poison in the air¡ªsilent, invisible, alive. At first, it mimicked a common flu. But those who were most sensitive, most attuned to the shift in the world''s energy, began to rot from the inside out. Livers blackened. Hearts withered. Lungs filled with something not quite fluid, not quite flesh. Their eyes burned with unseen light, their skin blistered, their screams peeled the paint from the walls. There was no cure. Only death... or silence. Within a year, 20% of the world¡¯s population was dead. Some died choking. Others clawed at their skin, trying to tear the burning magic from their blood. Hospitals became morgues. Streets ran red beneath flickering streetlights. No one knew what was happening¡ªuntil it was far too late. And then came the portals. They did not open with thunder or glory. They tore. Like wet paper splitting at the seams of reality, they appeared in forests, oceans, the deepest deserts. Massive gashes in the sky that bled darkness and whispered in tongues no man should understand. They pulsed with a nauseating hum, a lullaby for the damned, drawing animals mad and killing plant life within miles. From them came more mana¡ªthick, cloying, ever-churning. The air around them shimmered like oil on water. Sometimes, people who got too close simply evaporated, their forms unraveling thread by thread into the howling void. As the flood of magic rose, so too did the world twist. With enough exposure, some did not die. Some awakened. They called these people ¡°The Hollowed¡±. The world, desperate to understand, began to categorize it. Each individual who survived mana saturation began to develop Classes¡ªpredetermined, unchanging paths etched into their very souls. These weren¡¯t skills learned through practice. They were branded into the body and mind. Some awakened with the power to manipulate fire. Others could move without sound, strike with unnatural precision, or command the bones of the dead. No one chose their Class. It chose them. Their powers were ranked by intensity: D Grade ¨C Barely above normal. Useful. Dangerous. Disposable. C Grade ¨C Capable. Survivable. B Grade ¨C Powerful. Military grade. Often watched. A Grade ¨C Terrifying. Controlled. Heavily regulated. S Grade ¨C Unknown. Unreadable. Gods in human skin. Only a handful ever reached S Grade. These were not heroes. They were anomalies¡ªwalking calamities with unique abilities that defied classification, reshaping the battlefield, and sometimes¡­ reality. The world had changed. The age of man had ended. The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. This was the rise of something else. Something born from mana, death, and the abyss beyond the gates. The world was no longer sick. It was transforming. The first portal was a curiosity. The tenth, a pattern. The hundredth¡­ a sentence. Scientists failed to understand them. Priests failed to banish them. Governments failed to hide them. The gates¡ªthose pulsing, jagged rends in the fabric of the world¡ªcould not be closed by will, prayer, or science. But there was a way. An instinct buried deep in the soul of the awakened whispered of it: Raid the gate. Kill the horror that sleeps within. Seal the wound with blood. Inside each gate was a pocket of twisted reality¡ªnightmarish dungeons stitched from madness and memory, where time bent and light fled. The deeper one ventured, the worse it became. And at the center, always, was the source. A boss¡ªa thing that did not belong on Earth. Something wrong. Those who failed to close the gates in time... paid. After a set time¡ªseven days, thirteen, sometimes less¡ªthe gate would begin to pulse. Like a heartbeat. Fast. Loud. Furious. Then, without warning, the wound split wide. And the monsters came through. Not beasts. Not animals. But nightmares given flesh. Vampires with glowing eyes and wet, red mouths that whispered names they had no right to know. Kitsune, their illusions perfect, smiling with a thousand faces stitched from the corpses of loved ones. Shapeshifters who tore themselves apart and rebuilt from writhing bone and shadow. Werewolves, massive and gaunt, their howls warping glass, their claws dragging souls behind them like toys. Skinwalkers, wearing the skin of the dead like cloaks, grinning with stolen voices. Djinn, made of fire and salt and spite, granting twisted wishes before incinerating the beggar. Wendigos, emaciated horrors with eyes that wept hunger, gnawing the bones of screaming prey. Ghouls, bloated and pale, who ate children whole beneath the floorboards. Khan Worms, massive and eyeless, their segments pulsing as they burst from the earth, coating everything in acidic bile. Wraiths, silent and formless, draining heat, light, and hope. They came howling from the gates, drowning the world in screams and smoke. Cities burned in the span of a breath. Streets slicked with blood. Survivors were torn limb from limb, or worse¡ªtaken alive. These were not mindless beasts. They hunted. They remembered. Some spoke. They would spill out, wave after wave, until someone¡ªanyone¡ªrose to stop them. And only death could seal the gate once it opened. Sometimes, heroes emerged. Awakened warriors in bloodied armor. Mages who had bartered their sanity for power. Assassins who moved like shadows, leaving trails of mutilated corpses. They fought. They burned their lives away to push back the tide. But they were never in time to save everyone. Only to avenge. And for every gate that was closed, two more would open somewhere else. The world, once bright and arrogant in its ignorance, now lived in fear of the pulse. Of the flickering shimmer in the air. Of the silence before the scream. It wasn¡¯t an invasion. It was evolution, written in blood. This was no longer Earth. It was a hunting ground. Hervey Bay is Dying Seven days. That¡¯s how long the portal had been bleeding into the world. It didn¡¯t arrive with warning¡ªno flash of light, no thunderclap of power¡ªjust a tearing. Like wet canvas being slowly, agonizingly ripped open in the middle of town square. The sky above it didn¡¯t crack; it peeled back, revealing nothing behind it but swirling, infinite black. A cold, sucking void that breathed like a living thing. The gate stood three stories tall, its edges jagged and twitching like muscle spasm under skin. It didn¡¯t shimmer¡ªit throbbed. Pulsing with a lightless aura that sent a constant droning into the bones of anyone within miles. The sound wasn¡¯t a sound, not truly. It was a pressure. A vibration in the meat of your mind that made teeth ache and noses bleed. The land around it began to die. First the plants¡ªshriveling into blackened husks that crumbled at a touch. Then the animals¡ªrats vomiting tar, birds falling mid-flight with wings twisted backward. Dogs howled for hours before turning on their owners, fur falling off in patches as their eyes turned pale and unblinking. The humans were next. Not all. Just those with mana sensitivity. But there was no way to tell who was cursed until they started coughing blood. Their eyes turned glassy, pupils dilating until there was no white left. Veins bulged black beneath their skin, pulsing with alien light. Organs failed. Brains hemorrhaged. And some¡­ didn¡¯t die. They changed. The government sealed Hervey Bay within two days. By then, it was already too late. Those left inside were called collateral. Protocol Blackwater. No rescue. No relief. Only a slow, screaming end. Malachai stepped over a bloated corpse, the air so thick with decay it clung to the back of his throat like oil. The remains had once been human. Now, it was just a sack of torn flesh filled with maggots that hadn¡¯t stopped writhing. Even the bugs were changing. He was twenty, barefoot, bloodstained, hoodie torn and heavy with filth and rain. His breath came in short, sharp gasps. Not from exertion¡ªhe hadn¡¯t run in hours¡ªbut because breathing was getting harder. The mana in the air was thick now. Chewable. Rain hissed softly from the sky. It didn¡¯t clean anything. It burned. The town was silent now. Except for them. This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. The Ghoul that dragged itself through the parking lot behind him was once a man. Now it had no lips¡ªjust an endless grin of broken teeth, slick with dark sludge. Its legs were shattered at the knees, but it didn¡¯t crawl¡ªit slid, belly grinding over broken glass, dragging entrails like wet ropes behind it. It sang as it moved. Low. Soft. Children¡¯s lullabies¡ªoff key. Choked. Bubbled through rot. Malachai ducked into a shattered storefront. A chemist¡¯s. Shelves overturned. Blood handprints smeared across the walls in looping spirals, like someone had tried to draw wheels. Or maybe sigils. Behind the counter, something twitched. He held still. Perfectly still. Then he saw the eyes. A Skinwalker hunched there, bones too long for its flesh, face stolen from someone else. A girl, maybe seventeen. Pretty, once. Now her smile was too wide. Teeth too sharp. She wore her own flayed skin like a scarf, peeling in strips down her neck, revealing a slick, blackened body beneath. Her hands ended in long, wet claws¡ªnot bone, not flesh, but something in between. She whispered his name. ¡°Malachai¡­¡± He didn¡¯t wait. He bolted. She screeched, all pretense abandoned, chasing on reverse-jointed legs that cracked with every step. He barely made it back to the alley. Tripped. Rolled. Came up with a length of rusted steel he kept in his belt¡ªhis only weapon. His fingers were numb. Vision swimming. She leapt for him¡ªmouth stretching open like a dislocated snake¡¯s, tongue flailing with hooked barbs¡ª CRACK! The pipe caught her across the face. The sound wasn¡¯t bone breaking¡ªit was glass shattering. Her head twisted full around, but her body kept moving, claws raking his chest. Blood sprayed. His blood. He screamed and struck again. And again. And again. Until her skull caved in and the twitching stopped. Until the System came. You Have Awakened. Class: Reaper Grade: S (Unique) Your soul has absorbed death. You evolve through slaughter. Trait Gained: Deathbound ¨C Ingest the essence of your kill. Traits are yours. +1 Trait Fragment: Skinwalker Passive Ability Unlocked: Voice Mimicry (Minor). He dropped the pipe, his hand trembling. Then he laughed. A broken, wheezing sound. It didn¡¯t matter that he was bleeding. That he was alone. That the sky above Hervey Bay had turned black and alive. Because now¡­ he had a chance. He looked back toward the gate, far in the distance. It pulsed once. And the creatures inside screamed back. Malachai was the last one left. But something new had been born. Not a hero. Not a monster. A Reaper. And death would follow him. The Feast of the Gate The screams had become a constant¡ªlike wind, like the buzz of insects. They layered over the ruined streets of Hervey Bay like a skin of noise, thin but suffocating. Somewhere behind the old cinema, a man cried out, a wailing crescendo that ended in wet gurgling and the heavy crack of something being split open. Malachai crouched low in the shell of a burned-out car, his breath shallow and pain coiling through his ribs like coals under skin. The Skinwalker¡¯s slash had cut deep; the blood wouldn¡¯t stop leaking, and the ache had settled into his bones like frost. His chest burned with every breath. But worse than the pain was the knowledge clawing at the back of his skull¡ªhe was utterly alone. The city was no longer a city. It was a carcass¡ªsprawling and bloated, reeking of death and rot. Glass lay like snow across the ground, jagged teeth waiting for flesh. Smoke rose from hundreds of quiet fires, curling against the black sky above the gate. That was the worst part¡ªthe sky. It hadn¡¯t turned dark from nightfall. It had turned dark because something was standing on the other side of the gate, looking in. And it was breathing. Malachai had heard it the night before. Felt it in his spine. A slow, grinding inhale that dragged the mist into the sky, rattled windows, and left the world still in its wake. They were coming through faster now. In the beginning, the monsters had spilled out in chaotic waves, but now it was hunting. Purposeful. A swarm with direction. The creatures knew where to go. Where the people were hiding. Where the meat was. He peered through the shattered glass of the windshield. Across the parking lot of the Coles supermarket, a group of survivors were running¡ªsix of them, stumbling over debris, dragging a seventh between them. A boy. Limp. Maybe dead already. From the rooftops, Wendigos screamed and leapt. They were tall, skeletal things, coated in frost and black, greasy hair. Their mouths unhinged like snakes, lined with teeth that weren¡¯t made for chewing¡ªjust tearing. As they dropped onto the fleeing group, the sound of impact was flesh meeting cement. Bones cracked. Blood sprayed in a great arc. One woman tried to scream. A Wendigo tore out her throat before she could. Another survivor¡ªa man in a torn flannel shirt¡ªpulled a knife, but it wasn¡¯t a weapon. It was a last wish. The creature ripped off his arm with one jerk of its jaw, the limb dangling from its maw like a prize. Malachai shut his eyes. He didn¡¯t want to watch. But he had to. Because this was real. And because he needed to know if anyone ever survived long enough to matter. One of the Wendigos crouched over a twitching body and began to eat. It didn¡¯t chew¡ªit burrowed, long fingers punching into soft stomach, cracking ribs like twigs to reach organs still steaming with life. It devoured heart, liver, lungs, licking bone clean as its head twitched side to side, blood painting its chest in smears. Another creature pulled intestines free, dragging them across the ground like festive ribbon. They feasted like it was holy. The others dragged the last survivor¡ªa young girl¡ªinto the supermarket. The doors had been broken for days, the entryway coated in flies and gore. Malachai heard her screaming, heard her begging. Then he heard nothing at all. Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation. He didn¡¯t move for nearly an hour. Not until the creatures wandered off, their bellies full and their heads raised to scent the air again. Searching. Always searching. Malachai crawled from the car, fingers slipping on blood-slick steel, pain flaring in his side. The wound throbbed, hot and wet, but not fatal. Not yet. He pressed a filthy rag against it and kept moving. He couldn¡¯t stay in the open¡ªnot during a dungeon break. They hadn¡¯t taught them that term in school. No one had. But now it was everywhere, scrawled in blood and spray paint across fallen walls: GATE = DUNGEON IF IT BREAKS, YOU DIE RAID OR RUN He¡¯d heard rumors, months ago, of how the gates could be closed. Enter, fight, kill the boss. Simple words, but they didn¡¯t mean anything anymore. This one had been open too long. No raid had come. No heroes. No elites. Just silence, then screams, then death. Now it was too late. The monsters were loose. The dungeon had ruptured. The gate was no longer a cage. It was a throat, and the world was sliding down it. He ducked into a service tunnel beneath the shopping center. The concrete steps were soaked, the walls slick with condensation and something darker¡ªhandprints. Dozens. Child-sized. Claw-sized. Something had been dragged down. Malachai lit a small candle from his pocket¡ªa leftover from a raided home¡ªand kept it shielded as he moved. The air was thick with mildew and copper. He stepped over three bodies. One was a teenager with her face gone, like it had been carved off with a spoon. The others were older, curled in fetal positions, eyes wide and staring. They¡¯d died screaming. He tried not to think about how recently. He found shelter in a janitor¡¯s closet, wedging the door shut with a bent pipe and huddling behind overturned buckets and dusty bottles of bleach. He could still hear movement above. The creatures never slept. They wandered, whispered, sniffed the air like hounds that had learned to mimic voices. Once, hours ago, he¡¯d heard his mother calling him from the dark. But she¡¯d died the first day. He clenched his teeth. Gripped the pipe. And stared at his bleeding hand. Then the system pulsed again¡ªunbidden, silent, but there. Trait Fragment Accumulated: Wendigo +2 Strength, +1 Vitality New Ability: Feast of Flesh (Locked) Class Evolution Path Progressing¡­ He shook his head slowly. He didn¡¯t understand it. No one else he¡¯d met¡ªbefore they died¡ªhad spoken of these windows. This system. This¡­ game. They awakened powers. Sure. But they felt them. They didn¡¯t see them. Why him? Was it the kills? The blood? The class? The word whispered itself again, soft as a breath: Reaper. Something thumped against the door. A slow, deliberate knock. Not a crash. Not a claw. A knock. Three times. Then silence. Malachai didn¡¯t breathe. The thing on the other side whispered, voice high and lilting: ¡°Malachaaaaai¡­ open up. We found you.¡± It was the girl from the parking lot. The one who¡¯d screamed. The one who¡¯d been dragged inside. Her voice was full of broken teeth. He did not open the door. Not yet. But he would. Because the only way out of this hell was to go through it. And the Reaper was awakening. The Echo That Wears Flesh The knock came again. Three sharp raps. Then silence. Malachai stared at the door. The girl¡¯s voice still lingered in the air like a sour note, half-sung and broken. It was wrong. Just wrong. There was no breath behind it, no human cadence. Like a recording made of wet meat and dying memories. ¡°Malachaaaai,¡± she called again. He pressed tighter against the janitor''s closet wall, breath ragged. The pipe in his grip felt heavier now, sticky with old blood and rust. He didn''t want to open that door. Every cell in his body screamed not to. And then he did. The door swung open with a creak, revealing a slender silhouette in the flickering tunnel light. She stood crookedly, as if bones inside her had been assembled in the wrong order. Her limbs twitched, like a puppet trying to mimic grace. Skin that once belonged to a girl was stretched too thin across her skull, lips pulled back in a smile that didn¡¯t move. Her eyes blinked independently, pupils too large, the whites jaundiced and swimming with red veins. Her mouth opened wider than it should have. The jaw cracked audibly. ¡°You left me, Malachai,¡± she whispered. He didn''t reply. He just swung. The pipe connected with her shoulder, and the sound it made was like hitting raw steak dropped on stone. She stumbled, letting out a shriek that distorted mid-way into a growl, and lunged. They tumbled backward into the hallway. She slashed with hands tipped in black claws, raking down his chest, but Malachai twisted, jamming the pipe under her chin and shoving upward. Her body spasmed, head jerking back. She screamed again, and it was his voice this time. "Get off me! Please! Help!" It wasn¡¯t her anymore. It was him. It was everyone. He drove the pipe through her eye. There was a wet pop. She twitched once, then slumped, her stolen skin unraveling like wet cloth, falling to the floor in folds. Underneath, the real creature revealed itself¡ªtall, lanky, starved. A Skinwalker. Its face a mask of stretched cartilage, its mouth sewn into a permanent sneer. It convulsed one final time before going still. Blood pooled beneath it. Dark, syrup-thick, stinking of rot and sulfur. > Trait Fragment Accumulated: Skinwalker (2) Voice Mimicry (Minor) Strengthened. Duration Increased. Malachai staggered back, chest heaving. Then the screen opened. It was like a pulse behind his eyes, a second set of thoughts projected into reality. Translucent. Pale gray letters etched in bone-white font. Love what you''re reading? Discover and support the author on the platform they originally published on. Name: Malachai Class: Reaper (Unique) Level: 3 HP: 72/110 MP: 40/40 Strength: 12 (+2 Wendigo) Agility: 14 Vitality: 11 (+1 Wendigo) Intelligence: 9 Willpower: 13 Traits: Death-Touched (Unique) Wendigo Fragment (2) Skinwalker Fragment (2) Abilities: Consume Essence Voice Mimicry (Minor) [Enhanced] Feast of Flesh (Locked) Class Evolution Path: Reaper Ascendant - Progress: 10% He touched the name of the ability. > Feast of Flesh (Locked): A manifestation of death and hunger. Grants the Reaper regenerative consumption when feeding on a fresh kill. Unlocks at 3 Wendigo Fragments. > Voice Mimicry (Minor) [Enhanced]: Mimic the last voice heard upon a kill. Duration: 10 minutes > 15 minutes. Slight improvements to vocal accuracy. > Class Evolution Path: Your class is not static. It is alive. Every kill, every essence absorbed, progresses a hidden evolution tree unique to you. More fragments, more abilities, more death¡ªyou ascend. He closed the screen. And the world screamed again. A new shriek ripped through the service tunnel¡ªdeeper, louder. He heard stone cracking. Pipes bursting. Something massive was coming. He ran. Up the stairs. Through the shattered supermarket entrance. Past the ribbons of viscera and bone. His boots slipped in blood, knees buckling, but he didn¡¯t stop. A Wendigo dropped from a light fixture behind him, claws grazing his shoulder. He rolled into a shelf and grabbed the first thing he could: a crowbar. The Wendigo snarled. Its maw opened to its ribs. Malachai swung. Again. And again. Steel met bone. Teeth clattered to the floor. But it wasn¡¯t enough. The Wendigo lunged¡ªand was met with a voice. His voice. ¡°Back off!¡± he screamed. The mimicry worked. The creature froze. Just long enough for Malachai to jab the crowbar through its throat. It thrashed, clawing at its own neck, blood gurgling down its chest like hot tar. Another kill. > Trait Fragment Accumulated: Wendigo (3) Feast of Flesh: Unlocked He dropped to his knees beside it, panting. A new hunger bloomed in him. Not for food. Not even for survival. But for power. > Activate Feast of Flesh? Y/N He stared. Then tapped yes. Black veins spread from his hands as he pressed them to the Wendigo¡¯s chest. Its essence was not a color or light, but a writhing, screaming thing that poured into him like smoke into lungs. His wounds knitted. His mind sharpened. His muscles trembled with new strength. And the sky outside howled in response. More creatures were coming. The city was overrun. And Malachai could feel it¡ªmore gates opening across Australia, bleeding monsters into the earth like pus from a wound. But here, in this ruin, a boy with blood on his hands and death in his eyes rose to his feet. The Reaper had fed. And he was just getting started. Through the Maw The sky above Hervey Bay boiled. Storms without rain. Thunder with no sound. The portal pulsed, dragging in clouds like lungs filling with smoke, casting long, trembling shadows across the city¡¯s skeleton. Beneath it, the ground cracked and festered, bleeding black moss and rotting light. The air churned with a pressure that made ears ring and bones ache. Malachai stood in the parking lot of the shattered supermarket, breath steaming, body trembling from the last kill. His clothes hung in bloodied strips, soaked to the marrow. But his eyes¡ªhis eyes were burning. Each breath he took stoked the cold fire in his chest. Behind him, something wailed. The Wendigos had returned. Three of them. Their limbs hung like ropes of skin and sinew, skeletal chests heaving with anticipation. Icy mist trailed from their mouths as they spread apart in a hunting arc, encircling him. One dropped to all fours, tongue dragging against the pavement. Another scraped claws across the side of a scorched van, drawing sparks and whimpers from the metal. Malachai didn¡¯t run. He gripped the crowbar. His hands were raw, knuckles split open. His wounds ached. But the Reaper within him stirred. Feast of Flesh still churned in his blood, muscles twitching with unnatural strength. The first Wendigo charged. He pivoted, crowbar raised, and met it mid-leap. Bone and iron collided with a sickening crunch. The crowbar shattered its cheekbone, but it kept moving, jaws snapping, teeth raking his forearm. He screamed and twisted, stabbing the bar through its neck, driving it into the concrete. The Wendigo writhed, gurgled¡ªthen stopped. The second was already on him. It leapt from a van roof, crashing into him like a falling tree. Malachai went down hard, the air torn from his lungs. It slashed for his throat¡ªand he jammed his hand into its mouth. Fingers plunged past cracked teeth. It bit down, snapping bone, but he didn¡¯t stop. Consume Essence. He activated it through sheer rage. The creature¡¯s body convulsed, light bursting from its eyes as the essence drained into him like molten glass. It shrieked, spine arching¡ªand then collapsed atop him, steaming. If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Trait Fragment Accumulated: Wendigo (4) +2 Strength, +1 Vitality New Ability Acquired: Hunter¡¯s Frenzy (Passive) The third Wendigo didn¡¯t attack. It watched. It was larger. Twice the size of the others. Its ribs protruded like daggers. One antler jutted from its skull, cracked and blackened. Its eyes glowed with a hate that felt personal. Malachai stood slowly, chest heaving, blood dripping from his shattered hand. The monster tilted its head. Then it charged. He barely dodged. Claws sliced through the air where his face had been. The pavement exploded behind him. He rolled, grabbed a piece of twisted rebar, and drove it into the thing¡¯s thigh. It didn¡¯t flinch. It grabbed him, lifted him like a rag doll, and slammed him into a wall. Something cracked in his back. Pain flared white. Malachai screamed, kicking, clawing, biting. The Wendigo bellowed, dragging him across the ground toward the portal¡¯s edge. Whether by accident or ritual, it carried him there like an offering. Behind him, the gate loomed. It pulsed once. Twice. And then it opened wide. The city behind him disappeared. The last thing he saw before the portal devoured him was the monster¡¯s face, twisted in a permanent scream. Then came the fall. He landed hard. Not on pavement. Not on stone. On flesh. He coughed, gagged. The ground squelched beneath him, wet and warm. It writhed. Pulsed. Living tissue stretched for miles, veins the size of rivers glowing with cursed light. The air smelled of copper, bile, and rot. Pulsing towers of bone and cartilage rose in every direction, and in the sky¡ªif it could be called that¡ªsomething watched. Entering Dungeon: Maw of the Hollow King Environmental Threat: Extreme Warning: All exits sealed until boss is slain The Reaper stood. He was broken. Bleeding. But alive. The gate hadn¡¯t killed him. It had claimed him. From the twitching walls came shapes. Crawling, skittering, dragging themselves forward with too many limbs and no faces. Chitin clicked. Jaws unhinged. Malachai gripped his weapon tighter. The screams had followed him into the gate. And now, there was no escape. The Belly of the World The moment Malachai stepped through the Gate, the world forgot how to be real. It was as if he¡¯d fallen into the throat of something vast and ancient¡ªa creature that had never learned how to die. The walls pulsed with breath. Not air. Breath. Damp and heaving, like lungs that had never known clean wind. Everything around him was wet, but not with water. The floor beneath his boots squelched with every step, layers of viscera shifting beneath thin membranes of muscle and blood-slick stone. The deeper he went, the more the dungeon warped. Ceilings stretched too high and too low. Corridors twisted on themselves like intestines. The light came from nowhere, and yet everything was dim¡ªas if the place swallowed brightness, devoured it like it did everything else. He moved slowly, crowbar raised, one foot dragging from an injury he hadn¡¯t stopped to bandage. Blood had dried on his thigh, caking the wound shut, but it cracked with every movement. And then the walls screamed. They didn¡¯t echo. They bled. A mouth opened along the wall¡ªvertical and toothless, like a shark split down the middle¡ªand from it spilled a creature like a skinned cat with six legs, ribs exposed, eyes glassy and too wide. Malachai didn¡¯t think. He smashed its head into the floor until bone gave way to pulp. Blood splattered up his arms, mixing with his own. He didn¡¯t stop swinging until the creature twitched no more. Trait Fragment Acquired: Mawling +1 Agility No time to process. No time to rest. He limped forward. The next chamber was darker¡ªsmaller¡ªand the stench hit first. Sulfur. Copper. Shit. He stepped over a ribcage that wasn¡¯t human. Something slithered above him, too fast to see. Something else moved behind the walls, just out of reach, watching. He turned a corner and walked into a nest of Corpse Leeches. Dozens of them. Each the size of a cat, their mouths lined with ringed teeth, black tongues flicking. They dropped from the ceiling in waves. He screamed. One landed on his back, another on his arm. Teeth dug in. He thrashed, rolled, slammed himself into the wall. Ripped one off with both hands and hurled it, only for three more to latch on. Their blood burned like acid. His skin blistered. This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it HP: 51/110 He activated Feast of Flesh and ripped one of the leeches open, absorbing its vile energy. It tasted like bile and rot. His vision blurred. Another bite. Another scream. He grabbed a rusted pipe off the wall and beat them back. Flesh splattered the walls. One burst beneath his heel. He lost count of how many he killed before the last of them fled back into the cracks. Trait Fragment Acquired: Corpse Leech New Passive: Toxic Resistance (Minor) He collapsed against the wall, panting, blood dripping from a dozen new wounds. His skin felt like it was melting. His head swam. This place was not meant to be survived. It was a crucible. He pulled himself to his feet and kept walking. The dungeon narrowed into a spiral tunnel that descended, walls turning from meat to something darker¡ªa kind of obsidian flesh, glossy and whispering. Words crawled across it. Names. Prayers. Begs for mercy written in languages that had no alphabet. A child¡¯s handprint smeared in blood led the way. He followed. A cluster of blind Wretchlings ambushed him near a pool of stagnant black water. They moved like broken spiders, their heads too large, their eyes sewn shut. They hissed. Bit. Tore. He killed them all. But not before one drove a claw deep into his shoulder, hooking muscle and yanking. HP: 33/110 He screamed. Bit the thing¡¯s face. Punched its teeth down its throat. The others swarmed. He fought through them like an animal, slipping on gore, screaming louder than they did. Trait Fragment Acquired: Wretchling (2) +1 Willpower He didn¡¯t know how long he wandered after that. The dungeon had no time. No sun. No rhythm. Just agony. Just monsters. Just blood. His screen pulsed again. Reaper Progression: 17% New Passive Acquired: Hungering Core You gain a minor regenerative effect when standing among the dead. He stood alone in a hall of corpses, his breath catching. Slowly, gently, the pain ebbed. A gift. A mockery. A reminder. This dungeon was not a place. It was a being. And it wanted him to kill. Malachai wiped blood from his eyes, raised his weapon, and kept walking deeper into the dark. Reflection in the Pit The corridor narrowed into something that didn¡¯t feel like it had been built, but grown. The walls flexed with his movement, muscles twitching beneath translucent layers of meat. Occasionally, a pulse traveled through the floor beneath him, like the dungeon itself had a heartbeat. Malachai had stopped questioning it. He only breathed when he had to. He only blinked when it wouldn¡¯t cost him his life. The tunnel opened into a small chamber, and for the first time in hours, maybe days, there was no blood. No bone. No screaming. Only a pool. A small, shallow basin carved into the stone. The liquid inside was still¡ªcrystal clear, untouched by the rot and filth that infected everything else. Malachai approached it slowly, wary of a trap, but the water didn¡¯t move. No tentacles. No mouths. No reflections reaching out to drag him under. When he looked down, he saw himself. And barely recognized what stared back. His face was pallid and sharp, cheekbones high and hollowed from starvation. A long scar ran from his left brow to his jaw, crusted with dried blood. His lips were cracked, painted with a smear of someone else¡¯s life. His eyes¡ªonce a soft, forgettable grey¡ªwere now deep, storm-dark, with an ember glow deep in their center. Something inside him was awake, and it watched him through the mirror. His hair was long, shoulder-length and black, matted in chunks and streaked with soot. His hoodie hung in tatters, one sleeve completely gone. The baggy cargo pants were slashed and caked in dried gore, one leg tied off with a shredded belt to keep a wound closed. Beneath the grime, his body had hardened¡ªlean, wiry muscle born of desperation and pain. He looked like someone who had bled their way out of hell. It was a month until his twenty-fourth birthday. He needed to survive it. The water rippled, as if in agreement. He turned. The next chamber was waiting. The scent hit him first¡ªa foul blend of mold, copper, and burned hair. The air thickened, heavy with psychic weight, like a scream caught in your throat. And then it crawled out. From the wall, from the ceiling, from under the flesh of the dungeon. The Slua. It looked human, almost. A gaunt figure, draped in rags that whispered without wind. Its face was smeared with soot, and its eyes were hollow black pits that wept shadows. But its mouth¡ªits mouth was too wide, stretching across its face, full of yellowed teeth, whispering names Malachai had never said aloud. It moved without sound. And then it was on him. He barely raised his crowbar in time, catching the creature¡¯s claws as it lashed at his throat. They scraped across metal, sparks and blood in the same breath. Malachai shoved forward, snarling, and drove his knee into the Slua¡¯s chest. It didn''t stagger. It split. The creature''s body opened down the middle, revealing a second, screaming mouth in its torso. Teeth bit down on Malachai''s forearm, tearing through skin and bone. He howled. HP: 29/110 He activated Feast of Flesh and grabbed a shard of stone. He stabbed the Slua''s torso-mouth repeatedly, each time the blade sank deeper, until he could feel it scraping something solid inside. Black blood gushed out, hissing where it touched the floor. The Slua shrieked. Its scream was not sound but memory, flooding his mind with every moment he¡¯d ever failed, every scream he¡¯d ever heard. It tried to make him feel again. He slammed his head into its face. Then again. And again. Bone cracked. Teeth snapped. He ripped the creature¡¯s head back and, with both hands, drove the crowbar under its chin and up through the skull. It twitched. Then Trait he twisted the weapon. The Slua fell apart in chunks, twitching meat and cloth. Fragment Acquired: Slua New Ability Unlocked: Dread Pulse (Minor) He didn¡¯t rest. Not now. Three more monsters burst from the chamber¡ªCrawlers, eyeless humanoids with rows of legs like centipedes, mouths stretched wide to their collarbones. They hissed in unison. Malachai didn¡¯t wait. The tale has been taken without authorization; if you see it on Amazon, report the incident. He ran to meet them. He ducked under the first, grabbed it by the arm, and ripped it free from its socket. The creature howled. He swung the severed limb into the second Crawler, shattering its jaw. The third leapt onto his back, biting into his shoulder. He slammed his body into the wall over and over until it slid off, dazed, then kicked its head in with one brutal stomp. The floor cracked. Bone sprayed. Its body spasmed once, then died. > Trait Fragment Acquired: Crawler (3) +2 Strength, +1 Reflex He panted, chest heaving. His vision pulsed. His blood felt alive. The blood from the Crawlers still steamed around Malachai¡¯s boots as he stepped over their bodies, vision blurring at the edges. The Slua¡¯s echo still hummed in the back of his skull, like a curse that wouldn¡¯t die. The dungeon wasn¡¯t done with him yet. A whisper slithered down the corridor ahead. Not air. Not breath. Something else. And then they came. More Slua. Three of them. Their rags dragged behind them like burial shrouds. Their skin was grey and tight, their eyes pits of dripping shadow. They crawled across the walls, upside down, their long limbs bending backward like broken marionettes. As they approached, their mouths stretched open wider than any human jaw should allow. They spoke his name. Each voice different. One sounded like his mother. One, his own voice as a child. The third said nothing at all. He moved first. He charged. His crowbar met the first Slua with a wet crack, caving in its skull. It screeched, arms flailing wildly as he brought it down again, then again, until the head was pulp. The second dropped on him from the ceiling, claws slashing across his back. He roared and rolled, barely avoiding its jaws. He drove his knee into its chest and tore the crowbar across its throat. Black blood sprayed. It writhed and screamed in his father¡¯s voice. The last one struck him from behind, biting into his shoulder. He spun with it still attached, slammed it into the ground, then grabbed a jagged bone shard from a nearby corpse and rammed it through the Slua¡¯s eye. Trait Fragment Acquired: Slua (2) Dread Pulse (Minor) Strengthened His chest rose and fell like a war drum. He stood over their corpses, blood and black shadow dripping from his arms. And then he saw something half-buried in the remains. Two hooked weapons, glinting faintly beneath the ichor. He knelt and pulled them free. They were claws¡ªgauntlet-like, fitted for the hand, extending into three curved blades that jutted from above the knuckles. The metal was blackened, not forged, but grown, like bone fused with steel. Runes pulsed across the surface in deep red lines. Item Acquired: Slaughter Claws Type: Melee Weapon (Paired) Damage: Medium-High, Bleeding Effect Passive Bonus: +1 Agility, +1 Reflex Effect: On kill, has a 10% chance to trigger Frenzy Pulse ¨C temporarily increases movement and attack speed by 25% for 10 seconds. He slipped them on. The metal seemed to grip his arms, locking into place like it had been waiting for him. He flexed his hands. The claws moved like extensions of his fingers. Perfect. He walked deeper. The corridor widened. The walls grew taller, the breathing of the dungeon slower, heavier. With every step, the air thickened. The ground began to slope downward. Darkness churned ahead, not from lack of light¡ªbut from something absorbing it. Then he saw them. The doors. Massive, black as pitch, twisted with iron and bone. They rose fifteen feet high, shaped like two mirrored wings folded inward. Symbols writhed across the surface like worms carved into flesh. At their center, a keyhole shaped like a screaming face gaped wide. A boss room. He approached, the Slaughter Claws humming against his pulse. But before he pushed forward, he stopped. Opened his hand. And summoned the screen. --- Name: Malachai Voss Class: Reaper (Unique) Level: 5 HP: 89/120 MP: 45/45 Strength: 15 (+5) Agility: 16 (+2) Vitality: 13 (+1) Reflex: 12 (+1) Willpower: 14 (+1) Intelligence: 9 Traits: Death-Touched (Unique): You are marked by death. Monsters hesitate. Fear lingers. Wendigo (5): +5 Strength, +1 Vitality. Enhanced hunger traits. Passive boost to physical power. Skinwalker (2): Grants Voice Mimicry (Minor). Enhanced with multiple fragments. Useful for distraction and deception. Slua (2): Unlocks Dread Pulse (Minor) ¨C emit a psychic shockwave of fear. Strengthened with more fragments. Crawler (3): +2 Strength, +1 Reflex. Enhances muscle control and speed in confined spaces. Corpse Leech (1): Grants Toxic Resistance (Minor). Slight resistance to corrosive or venomous attacks. Mawling (1): +1 Agility. Minor sensory enhancement. Tracking-based. --- Abilities: Consume Essence Voice Mimicry (Minor) [Enhanced] Feast of Flesh (Tier II) Dread Pulse (Minor) --- Weapons Equipped: Slaughter Claws Class Evolution Progress: 24% - Reaper Ascendant He stared at the screen. Then at the doors. Then back at the blood on his hands. He had come too far to stop. Malachai clenched his fists. The dungeon shivered. And the Reaper stepped forward. The Bride of Hunger The doors groaned open with a sound that wasn¡¯t metal or wood, but more like ribs breaking under weight. They did not swing¡ªthey peeled back, flesh unspooling from the bone-shaped handles, shrieking as if they didn¡¯t want to be touched. Malachai stepped through and was swallowed by the dark. The boss room was a cathedral of suffering. Towering columns of muscle spiraled into a ceiling lost in shadow. The floor was black stone slick with blood that never dried, engraved with hundreds of writhing symbols¡ªprayers, curses, names. Chained bodies dangled from the walls, their mouths sewn shut, twitching as if still alive, eyes rolling in empty sockets. A choir of whispers echoed from above, wordless and mournful. The air was thick, rotting sweet like overripe fruit split open with maggots. Malachai¡¯s breath felt too heavy in his chest, his heartbeat pounding in his ears like drums of war. And at the center of it all, sitting atop a throne made from fused spines and shattered halos¡ªwas her. The boss. The Bride of Hunger. She was tall, emaciated, her limbs impossibly long and boned with metal. Her dress was sewn from human skin, blood still weeping from the seams. A veil of blackened lace obscured most of her face, but beneath it, a jagged mouth split her head from temple to chin, stitched with golden wire. Dozens of arms curled out from her back like a spider queen, twitching, trembling, each one clutching a different object: a doll, a crucifix, a severed hand, a fetus in a jar. The moment Malachai stepped into the room, she stood. The whispering stopped. The room breathed. And then the Bride of Hunger screamed. Her mouth tore open. The wires snapped. Sound and blood exploded outward like a shockwave, slamming Malachai back against the wall. His head cracked stone. Blood spilled from his ears. HP: 64/120 She lunged. He barely rolled aside as a clawed hand shattered the floor where he¡¯d just been. Another arm whipped out from her back, flinging a hooked chain that grazed his ribs. He slashed with the Slaughter Claws, slicing through one limb¡ªonly for three more to take its place. She moved with impossible speed. Her arms were like serpents, each acting with purpose, biting at his defense, tearing at flesh, trying to pull him apart. The author''s narrative has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. He triggered Dread Pulse. A wave of psychic force radiated from him. She laughed. A horrible, wet, gurgling laugh. She didn¡¯t fear him. Not yet. He used Feast of Flesh, siphoning power from the shadows, healing minor wounds as he danced through blood. He cut. And cut. And kept cutting. The fight became a blur of screams and gore. At one point, she bit him¡ªface splitting to the sternum, fangs dragging down his arm. He screamed, shoved a claw into her mouth, and ripped free a chunk of her jaw. She roared. He activated Frenzy Pulse. Time dilated. His movements sped. Her limbs slowed. He drove both Slaughter Claws into her chest, twisted, and tore. Black ichor gushed like tar. Her arms spasmed, cracking stone, ripping a pillar in half. She grabbed his throat. Lifted him. Spoke her only words: ¡°You taste like death.¡± He rammed a claw through her eye. Then through the other. Then he drove both into her skull and pulled. Her scream didn¡¯t echo. It collapsed. The Bride of Hunger fell. The dungeon shivered. BOSS DEFEATED Level Up: 6 > 8 Class Evolution Progress: 42% You have acquired: Hungering Veil You have acquired: Essence Core ¨C Unique Malachai staggered back, panting. The Hungering Veil lay in her remains. A thin black shroud, torn but pulsing with a heartbeat. He reached out. Hungering Veil ¨C Relic (Cursed) Effect: Grants the ability Veilwalk ¨C short-range teleport through shadows. Passive: +1 Agility, +2 Willpower. Increased resistance to mental effects. Enemies struggle to track you. Cursed: Veil feeds on nearby fear. Must kill or feed it within three days, or penalties apply. The Essence Core shimmered. A crystal of roiling energy, pulsing with memory and power. Essence Core ¨C Unique This can be fused to your class. Warning: Irreversible. Outcome unknown. Malachai stared into the core. And smiled. He had won. The World Screams Back The moment the Bride of Hunger died, the dungeon screamed. Not a sound. Not truly. It was deeper than that¡ªa howl that cracked the mind, that made bones itch and blood turn to ice. The room around Malachai convulsed. Walls twisted like intestines writhing in agony. The black cathedral groaned as if its spine had snapped. Flesh peeled away from the columns. Chains fell like rain. The world was collapsing. Malachai fell to one knee, clutching the Essence Core in his left hand, the Hungering Veil draped across his other arm like a shadow trying to flee. The ground beneath him began to shatter, light bleeding through the cracks. A heartbeat later, everything warped. The air folded in on itself, colors running like wet paint. The sound of tearing reality filled his ears, and then he was falling, falling through screaming corridors of light and darkness and something in between. And then, he hit the ground. Hard. He gasped, rolled, and slammed into cold concrete. Dust billowed. Pebbles rained from above. He was outside. The Gate behind him convulsed. No longer a wound in the sky, it now looked like a dying flame wrapped in a shell of obsidian lightning. It shrieked, twisting, warping inward. Light bled from its edges. Then, with a sound like a dozen cathedrals collapsing at once¡ªBOOM¡ªthe portal shattered. Thunder ripped through the air. A blast of wind knocked him flat. When the light cleared, there was only silence. The Gate was gone. All that remained was a scorched crater, a smoldering ring of cracked stone. The sky slowly turned back to its original bleak grey. The world had devoured the wound and spat out its bones. It would be like this with every dungeon. Every Gate. Kill the boss. The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. Collapse the realm. Survive the scream. Malachai coughed, every part of him aching. He staggered to his feet and looked down at the Hungering Veil. It pulsed in his arms, like something alive and waiting. He draped it over his shoulders. The shadow gripped him like a lover. The cold that followed was immediate. Not physical¡ªbut psychic, emotional. As if the veil drank warmth and memory alike. He felt his breath hitch, his thoughts slow, the back of his neck prickle with unseen fingers. > Hungering Veil Equipped Passive: +1 Agility, +2 Willpower Effect: Enemies have difficulty focusing on you. Increases resistance to illusions and madness. Ability Unlocked: Veilwalk (Short-range teleport through shadows) Curse Active: The Veil hungers. Feed it fear or blood within 72 hours. He nodded. It felt like it belonged there. Like it had always been his. Then he looked at the Essence Core. The crystal was still in his hand, warm and pulsing, like a heart that refused to stop. He held it up. It shimmered. Whispered. Reflected not his face, but something else. A silhouette of a man with burning eyes. A Reaper cloaked in night. > Do you wish to fuse Essence Core with Class: Reaper? > Warning: Irreversible. Outcome unknown. Malachai breathed once. "Do it." The Core pulsed. Bright. Blinding. Then it sank into his chest like a blade. He screamed. Fire raced through every nerve. Every bone cracked in protest. Blood ran from his eyes. The Veil shrieked with him. Muscles seized, heart stuttered. He collapsed onto his side, convulsing, nails tearing through dirt. His soul caught fire. And still the fusion continued. Images flooded his mind: gates torn open across deserts and cities, creatures that wore human skin, stars watching through wounds in the sky. Then silence. Black. And a whisper: > Class Updated. > Reaper ¡ª Evolution Initiated. Malachai lay motionless on the cold earth, chest rising slow. Alive. Changed. The next time he opened his eyes, the world would never look the same again. Reaperborn Malachai lay in a pool of blood¡ªhis, 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 ¡ª 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 ¨C 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. If you encounter this narrative on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it. Three Wendigo Spawn skittered into view¡ªjuvenile 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¡ªfive 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¡ªbarely. 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¡ªthe Reaperborn¡ªwould not be caught unaware again.