《Fiore: The Oath of the Broken Hollows [English]》 Inherited Shadows 5:45 AM The alarm buzzed beneath a pile of textbooks, its hum drowned out by the creak of floorboards. Devon Fiore opened his eyes, staring at the crack in the ceiling that had been there since he was twelve. The air smelled of mildew and burnt coffee, a scent that had seeped into the apartment walls like an unwelcome tenant. He rose slowly, avoiding the loose floorboard near the bed¡ªa trap his grandfather had taught him to identify back when he still wore superhero pajamas. Dressing was a silent ritual: faded black jeans, a gray undershirt beneath a Columbia University hoodie with a peeling logo, and military boots that had outlived Salvatore and now fell to him to inherit. In the bathroom mirror, his reflection echoed the past: the same sharp jawline, the same unruly brown hair, the same crescent-shaped scar beneath his left cheekbone. ¡°Fiore men don''t cry,¡± his grandfather had said while stitching the wound with fishing line and a swig of whiskey. ¡°They learn.¡± The coffee machine spat black liquid into a grimy mug. As he waited, Devon checked his phone. Three messages from unknown numbers: 1. Unknown: Donnie''s waiting at Pier 42. Noon. 2. Unknown: Chen says you''ve got till Friday. 3. Unknown: The Shark smells blood. Watch your step. He deleted them without blinking. The Harlem Crows had hounded him for weeks over a debt that wasn¡¯t his, but in Brooklyn, debts were inherited like last names. --- 7:15 AM December¡¯s air bit like a stray dog. Devon walked streets where flickering streetlights resembled dying eyes, passing bodegas with rusted gates and graffiti that told stories of gang wars. A homeless man wrapped in a blanket grunted something unintelligible; Devon dropped a dollar into his hat without stopping. Columbia University emerged from the fog, its Gothic buildings rising like tombs from another era. In Advanced Calculus, he took his usual seat: back row, window side, where he could watch the skeletal oaks in the courtyard unseen. Professor Raymond, a sallow man with a too-tight tie, began scribbling integrals on the board with the enthusiasm of a customs officer. Devon opened his notebook but wrote no equations. Instead, he listed names: - Donnie Marconi: Vinnie ¡°The Shark¡± Greco¡¯s right-hand man. Horse track addict. Owed $200K to Chinese loan sharks. - Lana Chen: Loan shark. Owned a warehouse on Pier 17. Allergic to shellfish. - Vincenzo Greco: Crows¡¯ boss. Paranoid. Slept with a .44 Magnum under his pillow. A stifled giggle distracted him. Up front, Jessica Park¡ªdebate team president and textbook zealot¡ªraised her hand to answer a question no one had asked. Devon watched the professor brighten at her eagerness while the rest of the class scrolled their phones. Pathetic, he thought. College was just another stage, and he was a spectator in the back row. ¡ªMr. Fiore ¡ªRaymond¡¯s voice cracked like a whip¡ª, care to enlighten us with this function¡¯s derivative? The room fell silent. Devon eyed the equation snaking across the board. He could solve it in seconds. But standing meant drawing attention, and attention was a luxury he couldn¡¯t afford. ¡ªDerivatives are like promises, Professor ¡ªhe said, leaning back until his chair groaned¡ª. They only exist if everyone pretends to believe. Nervous laughter rippled through the rows. Jessica scowled, and the professor paled as if he¡¯d seen a ghost. Devon returned to his list, adding a new detail: Jessica Park: Fear of Failure. Absent Father. --- 12:30 PM Lunch was a desiccated turkey sandwich from a campus caf¨¦, devoured on the steps of Low Library. As he chewed, Devon watched the ballet of student desperation: girls giggling at memes, athletes comparing sneakers, an elderly professor dragging a book cart as worn as his suit. All so vulnerable. All so predictable. His phone buzzed. A new message from an unknown number: Unknown: Check Salvatore''s mailbox. Left you a gift. The sandwich lodged in his throat. Salvatore¡¯s mailbox was a PO box in a derelict post office near the docks, a secret only the two of them had shared. --- 1:45 PM This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author''s consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. The 104 bus carried him south, where skyscrapers gave way to warehouses with shattered windows and cobblestone streets reeking of salt and defeat. The post office was a brick corpse strangled by ivy, its ¡°Closed¡± sign hanging by one nail. Inside, the air hung thick with mold and the sweet stench of dead mice. Box 217 sat at the back, its rusted lock yielding to three picks. Inside lay a manila envelope. A photo slipped out: Salvatore Fiore, twenty years younger, standing before the same building beside a tall, bald man whose face had been burned away by a cigarette. On the back, a note in Cyrillic: ¡°§¥§à§Ý§Ô §Ó§í§á§Ý§Ñ§é§Ö§ß. §¯§Ö §Ó§à§Ù§Ó§â§Ñ§ë§Ñ§Û§ã§ñ.¡± (Debt paid. Don''t return.) Devon clenched the paper until his knuckles whitened. His grandfather had died in 2017. Who the hell was still playing with his ghosts? --- 3:20 PM Lana Chen¡¯s warehouse hid behind a boat repair shop facade on Pier 17. Devon shoved through the corroded metal door, the sound of waves slapping the docks mixing with the crunch of his boots. ¡ªDidn¡¯t think you¡¯d show ¡ªLana said from the shadows, seated behind a desk cluttered with invoices and disassembled firearms. ¡ªLove the smell of salt and threats ¡ªhe replied, dropping a folder on the desk¡ª. Donnie Marconi. Three shipments diverted this month. Does Vinnie know his dog¡¯s stealing scraps? Lana flipped through the documents, her red nails gleaming like blood under fluorescents. ¡ªInteresting ¡ªshe murmured, looking up¡ª. What¡¯s your price? ¡ªTwo more weeks. ¡ªOne ¡ªshe countered, slamming the folder shut¡ª. And if you play with fire again, I¡¯ll burn you so slow you¡¯ll beg for the Crows. Devon smirked. Lana loved mind games as much as he did. --- 6:10 PM The Midnight Diner glowed with pink neon. Luigi, the owner, slid him a triple espresso without a word, his face carved with wrinkles that told stories of decades on the streets. ¡ªCrows were here ¡ªthe old man muttered, wiping a glass with a rag that had lost its whiteness in the ¡¯90s¡ª. Asking about you. Devon nodded, savoring the coffee¡¯s bitterness. Luigi had been Salvatore¡¯s partner before a stray bullet retired him. Now he was a useful ghost, with ears in every alley and warehouse. ¡ªTell them to find me ¡ªDevon said, leaving a twenty under the cup¡ª. But bring flowers. The dead like company. --- 8:30 PM Bitter wind whipped through Devon¡¯s hoodie as he walked the Brooklyn Bridge, Manhattan¡¯s lights flickering like counterfeit stars across the East River. He pulled out his phone, staring at the unanswered messages. A gust tore a paper from his hand¡ªthe photo of Salvatore and the bald man. He watched the wind drag it toward the river, where dark waters swallowed it whole. ¡ªEven the dead have secrets, huh, old man? ¡ªhe muttered, rubbing the scar under his jaw. Suddenly, a scream shattered the night. Across the bridge, a young woman struggled with a man trying to snatch her purse. Without thinking, Devon sprinted toward them, his knife already in hand. ¡ªLet her go! ¡ªhe growled, the blade glinting in the moonlight. The thief cursed and fled, leaving the woman trembling. She stared at him with grateful eyes, but Devon was already walking away, vanishing into the night before she could speak. --- 10:15 PM Back in his apartment, Devon spread a city map over the kitchen table, red pins marking Crow territory, blue pins his meager footholds. Salvatore¡¯s urn watched from the shelf, a silent witness to every move. ¡ªWhat would you do, old man? ¡ªhe whispered, tracing the urn¡¯s cold edge¡ª. Run? Negotiate? Or show them why Fiores don¡¯t bend? The sirens outside wailed his answer. --- Flashback Twelve years ago. The Queens apartment reeked of cheap cologne ando lies. His mother, perched on a velvet armchair, toyed with a nail file. ¡ªKnow why your grandfather took you in, Devon? ¡ªher voice was honey on broken glass¡ª. Not out of love. He sees the same rot in you that ruined the Fiores. The file glinted under dim light. Devon tried to step back, but his feet were rooted. His mother laughed, a sound that froze blood. ¡ªYou and I are the same ¡ªshe whispered¡ª. Cold. Calculating. But even useful things become trash when they outlive their purpose. The file stabbed into the table with a crack. When Devon woke, the file was still there, and her laughter echoed in his bones like poisoned scripture. --- 12:00 AM The phone rang at midnight, its shrill tone cutting the silence like a knife. Vinnie Greco¡¯s voice rasped through static: ¡ªYou¡¯ve got till dawn, Fiore. Or I¡¯ll turn your skull into a paperweight. Devon hung up. He opened the desk drawer and pulled out Salvatore¡¯s Glock 19, its weight familiar and cold. ¡ªLet¡¯s play ¡ªhe whispered to the dark, as wind rattled the windows like a warning. --- 2:15 AM The warehouse on Pier 42 buzzed with flickering lights that cast dancing shadows on concrete walls. Donnie Marconi paced between crates of stolen goods, a Smith & Wesson on his hip. ¡ªThought you¡¯d lost your spine ¡ªDonnie sneered, acne-scarred face twisting. ¡ªCouldn¡¯t miss your face when the feds kick down your door ¡ªDevon said, tossing a USB at his feet¡ª. Happy Thanksgiving, Donnie. A recording of Donnie confessing to shipment fraud boomed from hidden speakers. By the time the Crows arrived, Devon was already a ghost. --- 4:00 AM Back in his apartment, Devon slumped into Salvatore¡¯s armchair, the map now dotted with new blue pins. He¡¯d bought time, but Vinnie wouldn¡¯t forget the insult. The first hint of sunlight bled through the blinds, painting the room in gold that couldn¡¯t warm the chill. Then he saw it. At the map¡¯s center, where he¡¯d pinned the mailbox photo, a smear of black wax¡ªthe same wax that had sealed the anonymous envelope¡ªbegan to spread. Not melted by heat, not smeared by human hands. It moved on its own, like a living thing, twisting into letters that squirmed across the paper: THE RULES CHANGE AT DAWN Devon shot upright, his chair clattering to the floor. His pulse raced, his trembling hands gripping the table¡¯s edge. ¡ªWhat the hell¡­? ¡ªhe muttered, rubbing his eyes furiously. The words remained. Not Cyrillic, not English, no language he knew. Yet he understood them, felt them slither into his mind like a serpent¡¯s whisper. He stumbled back until his shoulders hit the wall, Salvatore¡¯s Glock already in hand. Sweat snaked down his spine as he scanned the room for cameras, traps, logic. Nothing. Just the creak of old wood and the drumbeat of his heart. ¡ªThis isn¡¯t happening ¡ªhe hissed, glaring at the message. His razor-sharp mind raced¡ª Hallucination? Gas? Crow trick? But nothing explained how the wax had crawled into words. The floor shuddered. Not like the subway¡¯s rumble, but like something colossal and unseen breathing beneath his feet. The walls seemed to lean in, and for a heartbeat, Devon glimpsed flashes of another place: a forest with violet-barked trees, a sky cracked by glowing fissures¡­ Then it vanished. Everything was normal. Except the message. Except him. Footprints in the Wax Devon Fiore | Brooklyn, NY The black wax had moved. Devon stood frozen in the center of his apartment, the morning light slicing through dust motes like shards of broken glass. His eyes traced the map pinned to the wall¡ªthe same map Salvatore had marked decades ago with red pushpins and paranoid scribbles. But overnight, the dried smear of wax that had spelled ¡°THE RULES CHANGE AT DAWN¡± had slithered downward, leaving a trail of pinprick-sized footprints toward Pier 42. Insectoid. Deliberate. This isn''t possible. He pressed a finger to the residue. Cold. Oily. Like the grease his grandfather used to clean from his revolver. You taught me to spot traps, old man. To read streets, not¡­ whatever this voodoo bullshit is. But here I am, chasing your ghosts through a haunted apartment. What did you drag me into? His phone buzzed. A Brooklyn area code he didn¡¯t recognize: Unknown: Stop digging where you don¡¯t belong, Fiore. Some secrets burn. Devon snorted. Reply: Tell Greco to hire better scriptwriters. The reply came instantly: Unknown: Greco¡¯s a gnat. The real debt collectors are coming. Before he could type a retort, glass shattered behind him. Devon spun, Glock drawn, but found only a dead crow impaled on his windowsill. A rusted kitchen knife¡ªthe same one missing from Salvatore¡¯s block¡ªpierced its chest. Tied to its leg: a scroll with a single Cyrillic word. ¡°§¢§Ö§Ô§Ú¡± (Run). Who the hell plays this? Greco? No, he prefers bullets and beatings, not wax puppets. This is... different. Older. As if Brooklyn itself breathes secrets even the mobsters don¡¯t know. And that symbol? That damn mark that keeps appearing everywhere... Why do I feel like it''s watching me? Salvatore, this reeks of you. Of your sleepless nights, of your safes full of photos of strangers. What did you bargain for that they''re coming after me now? Was I part of the deal? The crow¡¯s head twitched. Its beak split open, and a voice like grinding gears rasped:¡°The Hollows hunger, Fiore. Your blood is overdue.¡± Devon emptied the Glock into the bird. Feathers and wax exploded, splattering the walls. Hallucination. Gas leak. Crow trick. But the wax on his fingers burned. And without Devon realizing it, Angelo''s watch was vibrating in his pocket. --- Jessica Park | Columbia University, NY The cancer cells weren¡¯t behaving. Jessica adjusted her glasses, squinting at the microscope. The HeLa cells she¡¯d cultured¡ªnormally predictable in their ruthless mitosis¡ªhad twisted into fractal patterns: triangles within circles, pulsing like living kaleidoscopes. Contamination? No¡ªsterile procedure. Equipment malfunction? Unlikely. Then why¡­? Her hand trembled as she reached for her coffee. Cold. Forgotten. The symbol from last night¡¯s manuscript haunted her peripheral vision¡ªa three-lobed eye etched into the library¡¯s forbidden section. She¡¯d copied it onto her notebook, and now it throbbed in time with her migraine. Sleep deprivation. Stress. Dad always said I¡¯d crack under pressure. ¡°Jess?¡± Her lab partner, Mark, frowned at her shaking notes. ¡°You okay?¡± ¡°Migraine. Forgot my meds.¡± Lie. Her father¡¯s voice hissed in her mind: Weakness is a choice, Jessica. Solve the problem or fail. Variables: 1. Symbol appears in 16th-century text. 2. Cells mutate post-exposure. 3. Correlation ¡Ù causation. But if it¡¯s not a hallucination¡­ She snapped a photo of the cells. The image blurred, the fractals rearranging into the symbol. No. Delete. Breathe. 1. Identify variables. 2. Eliminate impossibles. 3. Whatever¡¯s left¡ª A hand gripped her shoulder. ¡°Miss Park.¡± Professor Raymond¡¯s breath reeked of antacids. ¡°My office. Now.¡± --- Lana Chen | Pier 17, NY The docks stank of rotting fish and diesel, but Lana Chen breathed it like perfume. Power had a scent: gun oil, counterfeit bills, and the sweet tang of fear. She flicked her cigarette into the harbor, watching two Crows thugs unload crates of smuggled Rolexes. Amateurs. Vinnie Greco¡¯s crew had gone soft since Salvatore¡¯s era. Pathetic. In Macau, we moved heroin in diplomatic pouches. These clowns think they¡¯re kingpins for peddling knockoffs. ¡°Chen.¡± Donnie Marconi¡¯s voice slithered from the shadows. Acne scars cratered his face like bullet wounds. ¡°The Shark wants to know why you¡¯re sniffing through old files.¡± ¡°Tell Vinnie curiosity keeps women young.¡± She tossed him Salvatore Fiore¡¯s 1992 dossier¡ªphotos of the dead man meeting figures with tattoos of a three-lobed eye. Donnie¡¯s hands shook. Fear smells different on men. Sweeter. Almost¡­ floral. ¡°This is some cult shit. The boss don¡¯t play with¡ª¡± ¡°The boss is drowning in debt to the Triads. Tell him I¡¯ll erase it¡­ for a taste of his new friends.¡± She turned, heels clicking on wet concrete. Rats scurried past her ankles toward the water, squealing. Rats flee sinking ships. But what¡¯s sinking here? --- Devon | Apartment The apartment reeked of burnt plastic and wet dog. Devon kicked the door shut, Glock trained on the shadows. Drawers hung open, Salvatore¡¯s photos scattered like confetti. But it was the fridge that stopped him cold. Inside, wedged between expired milk and a six-pack: his grandfather¡¯s gold pocket watch. Frozen at 3:14 AM. Coated in black wax. Three fourteen. The hour Angelo died. The hour Salvatore sewed this scar on me. Coincidence? In this family, there are no coincidences. Only debts. Why did you keep this here, Grandpa? Did you know I would find it? That you''d force me to follow in your footsteps even from the grave? Shit. This isn''t paranoia. It''s... a warning. And I''m the idiot deciphering the message. He said while looking at his hand, burned from touching the black wax. A news clipping fluttered to the floor. 1998: MYSTERY SUICIDE WAVE IN BROOKLYN¡ªVICTIMS LEAVE NOTES IN UNKNOWN LANGUAGE. The photo showed seven corpses arranged in a circle, their skin etched with the three-lobed eye. Among them, grinning: the bald man from Salvatore¡¯s photo. Grandpa knew him. Knew all of them. What did you trade, you bastard? Souls for time? His scar itched. The one Salvatore had stitched with fishing line after Mom tried to carve the ¡°rot¡± out of him. Stolen novel; please report. ¡°Fiore men don¡¯t cry, boy. They learn.¡± Devon hurled the watch. It struck the wall, cracking plaster. You taught me to fight, to lie, to survive. But this? This is your mess. Your debt. Why am I the one paying? --- Jessica | Professor Raymond¡¯s Office The office smelled of mothballs and regret. Professor Raymond paced behind his desk, a sallow man drowning in a too-tight tweed jacket. Jessica clutched her mutated cell photos, the symbol burning through her folder. ¡°Your midterm was¡­ disappointing, Miss Park. A child could solve those integrals.¡± He¡¯s scared. Pulse in his neck¡ª180 bpm. Pupils dilated. Why? ¡°Respectfully, sir, my work is flawless.¡± ¡°Flawless?¡± He slammed a hand on the desk. ¡°You¡¯re distracted. Careless. Just like your father.¡± The air thickened. Jessica¡¯s fingers dug into her palms. Dad¡¯s voice: ¡°Mediocrity is a cancer, Jessica. Cut it out.¡± But I¡¯m not him. I¡¯m not¡ª ¡°Consider this your warning. Another misstep, and I¡¯ll recommend expulsion.¡± She stood, knees trembling. ¡°You¡¯re right, Professor. I¡¯ll do better.¡± Lie. In the hallway, she unfolded the photo from the gray-suited man. The hanged boy¡¯s face mirrored hers¡ªsame jawline, same mole. Coincidence? No. 1. Photo dated 1923. 2. Genetic mirroring impossible. 3. Conclusion: Hoax. But why target me? Her phone buzzed. Unknown number: "THEY KNOW YOU SEE. FIND FIORE." --- Lana | Chinatown, NY The Golden Lotus Tea House hid behind a fa?ade of red lanterns and peeling dragons. Lana slid into a back booth, the scent of jasmine and betrayal thick in the air. ¡°You play dangerous games, Miss Chen. The Triads don¡¯t forget debts¡­ or traitors.¡± The old smuggler sipped his tea, eyes sharp as scalpels. Lana slid Salvatore¡¯s dossier across the table. ¡°Mr.Wu, Vinnie Greco¡¯s new friends interest me. Who are they?¡± Wu¡¯s smile revealed gold-capped teeth. ¡°Not ¡®who.¡¯ What. They are¡­ recruiters. For a game older than your city.¡± He flipped to a photo: Salvatore shaking hands with a man whose skin shimmered like mercury. ¡°Your Fiore patriarch owed them a debt. Now they collect¡­ with interest.¡± Games. Always games. But the prize? Power? Immortality? ¡°How do I play?¡± Wu traced the three-lobed eye. ¡°Find the Hollows. Survive the pruning. Or die like the rest.¡± --- Devon | Brooklyn Bridge The wind screamed. Devon gripped the railing, Angelo¡¯s watch burning his palm. Below, the East River churned with violet currents, its depths alive with serpentine shadows. This is insane. Go home. Call the cops. But what¡¯ll I say? ¡°Hey, my dead grandpa¡¯s cult is leaving me creepy bird notes¡±? The scar under his jaw pulsed. Salvatore¡¯s voice echoed: ¡°Pain¡¯s a teacher, boy. Listen.¡± A gunshot cracked. Donnie Marconi stepped from the fog, Smith & Wesson gleaming. ¡°Greco sends his regards.¡± Devon ducked. The bullet grazed his scar. Too slow. Too loud. Greco¡¯s thugs hit harder. He returned fire. Donnie collapsed¡­ then melted into a puddle of wax and clockwork gears. Is this real? Or have I finally broken? The streets are no longer streets. They are veins of something bigger, and I am a red blood cell drifting towards a rotting heart. And that forest? It''s just like in the vision... Salvatore,¡ªDevon began as he looked at his trembling hands.¡ª if you''re in some hell, listen to me: I¡¯m not your soldier. I won¡¯t pay your debt. Or will I? Because every bullet I fire, every lie I weave... I¡¯m your damned copy, aren¡¯t I? Hallucination. Gas leak. Crow trick. But the gears kept ticking. --- Twitter Trends: 1. #User278 (2.1M tweets): ¡°Saw it in Tokyo! Trees growing from skyscrapers!¡± 2. #Ricewchicken (1.8M tweets): *¡°They¡¯re real! My sister vanished after drawing the symbol!¡±* 3. @DrAlejandro (Virologist): ¡°The ¡®mass hysteria¡¯ theory is nonsense. This is coordinated. Biological? Psychological? Extraterrestrial?¡± Encrypted Chat Log (Dark Web): User [EaterOfWorlds]: The Hollows aren¡¯t a place. They¡¯re a process. A digestion. We¡¯re the meal User [Observer-7]: Specimen G-777 (Fiore) shows promise. Proceed with harvest. --- Jessica | Dorm Room The equations bled. Jessica woke choking on ash. The symbols on her desk writhed, numbers rearranging into the three-lobed eye. Schizophrenia? No¡ªfamily history clean. External manipulation? How? She reached for her phone. The screen flickered: ¡°FIND FIORE. HE HAS ANSWERS.¡± Outside, the gray-suited man watched from the park, Angelo¡¯s watch ticking in his hand. Logic says run. But the variables¡­ they add up to him. To Fiore. --- Lana | Safehouse The safehouse stank of gunpowder and betrayal. Lana cleaned her knife, the Triad¡¯s warning ringing in her ears: ¡°The Hollows prune the weak. Will you be a gardener¡­ or fertilizer?¡± Games within games. But the prize is always the same: survival. She loaded her pistol. Outside, shadows moved. ¡°Come in, boys. Let¡¯s discuss¡­ gardening.¡± --- 4:00 AM - Devon''s Apartment Shadows danced on the walls, but Devon no longer knew if they were the product of the moon or his mind. The black wax on the map had stopped being a stain and had turned into an obsession, a hieroglyph that burned his eyes every time he tried to look away. The insect tracks were still there, drawing a path from his broken window to the heart of Brooklyn, as if something were guiding him to a trap he couldn¡¯t even comprehend. It¡¯s always the same damn thing. Salvatore taught me to read the streets, to see the traps before they closed in on me. "Men like us don¡¯t have the luxury of fear," he¡¯d say while making me disassemble the Glock with my eyes blindfolded. But this... this isn¡¯t a mafia ambush. This is... He stopped, his knuckles white around Angelo''s gold watch. The ticking of the dead mechanism echoed in his ears, a metronome of madness. What did you do, grandfather? What deal did you make for them to come for me now? The scar under his jaw pulsed, as if a worm was twisting under his skin. He approached the bathroom mirror, brushing away the sweaty hair. The crescent-shaped mark glowed under the fluorescent light, redder than usual. You stitched this up for me. With fishing line and cheap whiskey. "The Fiores don''t cry," you said as the needle went in and out. "They learn." What, old man? To lie? To kill? To carry burdens that aren¡¯t even mine? The watch weighed in his hand. He twisted it, searching for answers in the engraved initials: A.F. Angelo Fiore. The great-grandfather who died in 1945 but appeared identical in photos from the 1920s. Immortal? Time travel? Or just another crazy in the family? A rough laugh escaped his lips. I¡¯m arguing with myself about immortality. Greco was right: the Fiores are cursed. The walls creaked. Devon turned, the Glock ready... but it was just the wind seeping through the broken window. The December cold bit into his bones, but he didn¡¯t move. How many nights did you spend like this, grandfather? Gun in hand, waiting for ghosts to knock on the door. Were they the ones who drove you paranoid? Or were you the one who invited them in? He walked to the kitchen, where the map of Brooklyn was still a collage of red pins and scribbled notes. The locations of the 1998 suicides formed a pattern: a giant eye staring toward the Statue of Liberty. A message? A warning? Or just the coincidence of a bunch of desperate souls? But there was the photo: the bald man with the scar, smiling among corpses. The same one Salvatore had photographed decades ago. You knew him. Worked with him. What did you sell? Souls? Time? Or something that doesn¡¯t even have a name? The sound of wings made him jump. On the shelf, another dead crow. This one didn¡¯t have a knife, but its beak was sealed with black wax. Who the hell are you? What do you want? He smashed the bird with a towel, but the wax clung to his fingers, burning like dry ice. Hallucinations. That¡¯s the only logical explanation. Post-traumatic stress. Too many sleepless nights. Too many years carrying your crap, grandfather. But then, why did Jessica Park have a photo of a dead boy with his own face? Why did Lana Chen smell fear in Greco? Why were the rats fleeing Brooklyn like hell was on their heels? He collapsed into Salvatore¡¯s armchair, the worn leather smelling of gunpowder and lies. Angelo¡¯s watch was still in his hand, a dead weight. You taught me how to survive, but never how to live. Every room in this apartment is full of you. Every weapon, every scar, every whisper in the dark... They¡¯re yours. And me? I¡¯m just the idiot who inherited the outstanding bill. Tears burned in his eyes, but they didn¡¯t fall. The Fiores don¡¯t cry. In the silence, the ticking of the watch turned into hammering. He opened it with trembling fingers. Instead of gears, there was a black, pulsating substance. Wax? Blood? What are you? He touched it. And the world exploded. Devon appeared in a forest I¡¯m in a forest, but it¡¯s not a forest. The trees have veins instead of bark, and the sky... God, the sky is cracked like a painting that someone drove a knife through. Through the cracks filters an amber light, thick like poisoned honey. Salvatore is there, but younger. He¡¯s my age. His scar glows under the violet light, and in his hands, he holds the same gold watch. In front of him, a figure... No, it¡¯s not a figure. It¡¯s a void with a human shape, a hole in the world dressed in shadows and broken clocks. "Your blood for his," says the void, and its voice is the static of a TV, blades in a mill. "The deal is still valid." Salvatore steps back. "No. Not him." The void laughs, and the sound makes my ears bleed. "The debt is hereditary. It always was." Salvatore yells something, but the forest collapses. The roots drag me toward the cracks in the sky, and I see... I see things. Cities writhing like worms in the sun. Humans with skin made of clocks. And an eye. Always the same eye. When I come to, I¡¯m on the ground, the black wax burning my hands. Angelo¡¯s watch reads 3:14 AM. This is real. The admission hit him like a bullet. These aren¡¯t hallucinations. It¡¯s not stress. It¡¯s... something else. Something Salvatore invoked, and now it¡¯s claiming me. He stood up, staggering. In the mirror, his reflection had bloodshot eyes, the scar pulsing like an exposed heart. What did you bargain for, grandfather? Eternal life? Power? Or just a little more time to raise the grandson you never wanted? The walls whispered. Voices in dead tongues, whispers of dry leaves and needles against glass. The Hollows. That¡¯s what the crow said. What are they? Where are they? Why me? He opened Salvatore¡¯s drawer, pulling out the old ammo box where he kept family photos. In one, Angelo Fiore posed next to a man in a gray suit... the same one from Jessica¡¯s photo. It¡¯s no coincidence. Nothing is. This is a web, and I¡¯m the thread someone¡¯s pulling. The watch vibrated. The hands spun wildly before stopping at 3:14 AM. Three fourteen. Pi. The number of infinite madness. A cosmic joke? Or a warning? On the street, a scream tore through the night. Devon ran to the window. Under the moonlight, a tall, thin figure walked down the middle of the street. It wore a gray suit and sunglasses. The one from the photo? The one from Jessica¡¯s? The figure raised a hand. In its palm, the tripartite eye glowed. Come. Devon lowered the Glock. There were no bullets. It didn¡¯t matter. This isn¡¯t survival. It¡¯s... inevitability. He stepped into the cold, Angelo¡¯s watch beating in his pocket like a second heart. I¡¯m going to find you, grandfather. And when I do, you¡¯re going to explain every damn letter of this debt. But deep down, he knew the truth: some answers burn more than the questions. Tutorial Upon leaving his apartment, Devon felt a chill run down his spine. The street, usually full of noise and life, was empty. No voices, not even the hum of electricity. Only an absolute, unnatural silence. A cold wind blew between the buildings, but not a single leaf moved. Something was wrong. Then, without warning, the space in front of him distorted as if reality itself was being torn apart. Out of nowhere, the tall and slender figure in the gray suit and sunglasses appeared before him, his expression indifferent. A suffocating aura of power emanated from him, as if gravity itself bent around him. ¡ªGive my regards to the Watchers ¡ªhe said in a calm voice, but with a barely concealed mocking tone¡ª. You''re late for the tutorial, so¡­ goodbye. Devon barely had time to react. The man moved with inhuman speed, his arm extending like a whip of steel. Before his brain could process it, a cold, firm hand grabbed his head. And then, devastation. A shattering impact. Devon''s vision filled with light and debris as his skull was slammed against the apartment wall. A deafening boom echoed through the area as the concrete exploded as if it were cardboard. The entire building trembled and, in an instant, the structure gave way. The ground disappeared beneath him. Fragments of metal and concrete rained around him as he fell through the ruins of what was once his home. Pain was a burning storm in his head, his consciousness teetering on the edge of the abyss. As his body was swallowed by dust and darkness, one last image burned itself into his mind: the man in the gray suit, standing among the rubble as if nothing had happened, adjusting his sleeves with disturbing calm. And then, everything faded. The impact was absolute. Devon felt his skull fracture under the relentless pressure of that hand, felt his bones splinter as his body was crushed against the debris. There was no resistance, only the certainty that he was being reduced to nothing. Pain. Darkness. And then¡­ something worse. His consciousness did not fully fade. Instead, it unraveled and dragged itself through a void that burned with colors that shouldn''t exist. Something was devouring him, something beyond pain and death, something he did not understand but that claimed him as its own. When he opened his eyes, the world was no longer the same. The forest smelled of rust and burnt flesh. Devon gasped, feeling a stabbing pain in every fiber of his being. His trembling hands clutched the ground¡ªa carpet of violet leaves that crunched like broken bones beneath his knees. His vision flickered between shadows and a sickly amber glow. The sky was shattered, slashed by luminescent cracks. They weren¡¯t mere fissures in the firmament; they were wounds in reality itself, gaping open like hungry mouths. They were the same ones he had seen in his visions, but now they were wider, more voracious. A spectral light seeped through them, tinting everything with a feverish radiance. There was no sun. There was no moon. Only the humming of something ancient breathing among the metallic-barked trees. And Devon, broken, trapped in a place that should not exist. This is real, he repeated to himself, digging his nails into the scar on his jaw. The pain was a whip of clarity. Salvatore, this is what you hid in your encrypted journals. This is the price. Around him, the screams of the other initiates echoed like distorted reverberations. Hundreds of people ran in all directions¡ªsome towards the heart of the forest, others towards rock formations that looked like giant fangs. A man stumbled against Devon, his eyes bloodshot. ¡ªThe Saviors! The Saviors will get us out of here! ¡ªhe screamed, pointing upward. On a platform of intertwined roots, three reptilian figures observed the chaos with crossed arms. The tallest one carried a curved sword made of twisted wood, and his golden scales gleamed under the unnatural light. Devon suppressed a shiver. They are not gods. They are jailers. And jailers have routines. ¡ªSilence, worms! ¡ªroared the reptilian, and an invisible pressure crushed the air. The crowd collapsed to their knees, Devon included. His teeth ground under the weight of that mental force. Telepathy? Telekinesis? No¡­ it''s something dirtier. ¡ªWelcome to the Garden of the Three Twilights ¡ªthe creature announced, scanning the crowd with a gaze of bored predator¡ª. Survive for sixty days, and you will regain your miserable existence. Fail¡­ ¡ªhe smiled, revealing obsidian fangs¡ª, and you will feed the roots. The speech continued, but Devon was no longer listening. His attention was on the details: 1: Their weapons are staffs of living wood that writhe like snakes. 2: The leader has a scar running across his chest, too precise to be an accident. 3: The youngest one''s bracelet blinks with a green light¡ªis it a communicator? A sensor? An explosion interrupted his thoughts. A man with a gun emptied his magazine at the reptilians. The bullets stopped in midair and fell like stones. ¡ªFools! ¡ªthe reptilian leader spat. With a gesture, five wooden spears flew towards the crowd. Devon threw himself to the ground, but others weren¡¯t so lucky. The projectiles pierced bodies with wet cracks. A splash of warm blood hit his face. They are not invincible, he thought, noticing how the youngest reptilian panted after launching the spears. They use their own energy. They get tired. The violet forest echoed with the screams of three thousand lost souls. These were not just cries of panic¡ªthey were roars of despair, broken pleas, and sobs from those who had yet to understand that their old world no longer existed. Among the crowd, trembling bodies clung to each other. Some tried to run, but the ground beneath them rippled like a living thing, trapping them in its cruel embrace. Others screamed names that would never receive an answer. In the midst of the chaos, the Watcher raised his claw. He was an impossible entity¡ªa reptilian with golden scales that shone like liquid fire under the amber light. His vertical eyes were mortally cold. When he spoke, his voice pierced bone. ¡ªPathetic initiates ¡ªhe spat in a guttural Spanish, as if his tongue were not made to pronounce it¡ª. Forget your weak laws. Here, the Rules of the System reign. If you want to survive, say "Status." A brief silence. Then, a murmur. Some whispered the word with hesitation, others with the hope that it was all a dream. Devon, however, did not hesitate. "Status." It wasn¡¯t a choice. It was instinct. The word left his lips, and instantly, a holographic screen appeared before his eyes. It was invisible to others, but he saw it clearly: --- [Devon Fiore - Level 1] Race: Human (Grade G) Health: 80/80 Mana: 70/70 Stamina: 70/70 -- Attributes: Strength: 13 Agility: 14 Endurance: 11 Vitality: 11 Toughness: 8 Intelligence: 16 Wisdom: 12 Perception: 15 Free Points: 0 -- Titles: None Class: Locked (Available at Level 10) Profession: Locked --- Numbers. Without context, that¡¯s all they were. But something didn¡¯t add up. Beside him, a woman gasped, hands trembling in front of her face. ¡ªNo¡­ this can¡¯t be¡­ My numbers¡­ my numbers are too low! Another man murmured with vacant eyes: ¡ªVitality¡­ only six¡­ Devon narrowed his eyes. Then, slowly, he understood what he was seeing. He had no way of knowing what was "normal," but if some were reacting with panic, it meant the numbers mattered. And if their fear was because of low values, then¡­ Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. Why didn¡¯t he feel that same desperation? The Watcher continued his speech, his voice tearing through the atmosphere: ¡ªEach level will grant you 1 point in all attributes and 5 free points. Increase Vitality so you don¡¯t bleed to death, Wisdom to resist the Garden¡¯s lies, or Toughness so your bones don¡¯t snap like this idiot¡¯s. CRACK The Watcher vanished and reappeared in front of a man in the blink of an eye. Before the victim could react, a golden claw pierced his face with a wet, nauseating sound. There was a moment of silence, a flicker of disbelief in the man''s eyes¡­ and then, his skull exploded in a rain of bone fragments and gray matter. His body convulsed uncontrollably before collapsing onto the carpet of violet leaves, which absorbed his blood as if they were hungry. Panic turned into sheer hysteria. Some fell to their knees, others broke into tears. A young man tried to run, but the ground swallowed him up to his waist before spitting out his lifeless corpse. Devon felt his heart pounding in his chest, but he didn¡¯t let the adrenaline take over. He couldn''t afford to lose his head. ¡ªSurvive 60 days ¡ªhe sentenced, a cruel gleam in his vertical eyes¡ª. And perhaps¡­ we will allow you to choose a Class. Grades... G to C, he mentioned. And after that? B, A, S? How many steps are there in this damn cosmic staircase? Salvatore wrote about ''ascending in grade'' in his journal, but he never said how. Accumulated levels? Specific trials? If these lizards are Grade E... how many grades above them are the Devourers?" The watch burns in my pocket. 3:14. The hour Angelo died. The hour Salvatore stitched this scar onto me. Coincidence? In this place, nothing is. Ascending in grade won¡¯t just mean leveling up... it will mean paying a different kind of price. Sixty days. Devon scanned the broken souls around him, the faces in shock. There¡¯s no point in trusting anyone. But there¡¯s no point in trusting the System either. Salvatore¡­ what the hell did you know? The Watcher spun his twisted wooden sword, cutting through the air with a supernatural whistle. ¡ªYou are not the first. Nor will you be the last ¡ªhis voice echoed with a multidimensional resonance¡ª. This Garden is but a grain of sand in the desert of the Multiverse. Survive, and perhaps you will be deemed worthy of setting foot in the in the confines of the multiverse. Fall¡­ ¡ªhis eyes gleamed with malice¡ª, and not even your souls will be remembered. Silence. The impact was immediate. Most of the humans paled, their minds struggling to process what they had just heard. Multiverse. This was not just a survival game, not just a personal hell. There was something beyond. Something vast. Something watching them from an unimaginable distance. Devon didn¡¯t move. His mind worked fast, unraveling the hidden meaning behind the Watcher¡¯s words. They were not the first. How many others had gone through this before them? How many had succeeded? How many had died before they even glimpsed this so-called Multiverse? More importantly¡­ what did it mean to deserve to set foot in it? If this is a test, then it has rules. And if it has rules¡­ I can break them. He looked around. Some were terrified. Others seemed hopeful, as if those words had given them a purpose. But what Devon saw was something else. A ladder. If humans were at the very bottom, if they were nothing more than cattle for something greater, then there was only one option: climb, no matter the price. The Watcher¡¯s eyes swept over the crowd until they landed on him. Devon held his gaze, unwavering. The reptilian tilted his head. As if he recognized him. As if he was expecting something from him. Devon didn¡¯t smile. Not yet. But in his mind, a thought ignited like fire. I will rise higher than you can imagine. And when I do¡­ you will remember my name. It wasn¡¯t time for answers. It was time to survive. Panic erupted. People fled into the forest, but Devon crouched between the bushes with sharp leaves. He watched the watchers: ¡ªSpecimen 667-F is still alive ¡ªmuttered one, checking his bracelet¡ª. Orders? ¡ªLet it run ¡ªthe leader responded, wiping blood off his claws¡ª. The Rippers will take care of it. Rippers. The name echoed in his mind like a funeral bell. --- The forest was a living organ. The trees oozed violet sap that burned upon contact with skin. Devon followed the trail of a group of initiates, keeping his distance. They were not allies. They were bait. The first victims fell quickly. A creature resembling a puma with moss-covered fur appeared out of nowhere, tearing throats with crystal claws. Devon froze, recalling Salvatore''s lessons: "Predators smell fear. Become stone." The monster brushed past him, leaving a bleeding gash on his arm. He held the pain without flinching. When the beast moved away, he followed the human pack, now reduced to three. ¡ªWe need to find shelter! ¡ªa woman screamed. ¡ªLook! Water! ¡ªa man pointed to a stream of silvery liquid. Devon didn''t warn them. He watched as the first one to drink convulsed, his skin covered in metallic scales. The others fled, but not fast enough. The roots from the ground coiled around their ankles, dragging them underground. Their screams lasted less than a second. The forest itself is a predator, he realized, retreating. And the reptilians only watch. He found refuge in a hollow log. The inside smelled of sweet rot, but it was dry. He took out Angelo''s watch. The hands were still stuck at 3:14, but the ticking was louder, as if the mechanism was turning under his skin. ¡ªWhat do you want from me? ¡ªhe whispered to the device. The answer was a fleeting vision: Salvatore kneeling in this very forest, signing a contract with a creature made of shadows and broken clocks. "I accept the Pact. Blood for power. Soul for time." The sound of breaking branches pulled him back to reality. Someone was lurking nearby. It was a man with a homemade knife, his eyes dilated with panic. ¡ªLeave! This is my shelter! ¡ªhe growled. Devon calculated his options: he could kill him (it would be easy, the guy was trembling like a fawn), or use him. He chose the second one. ¡ªThere¡¯s a supply terminal ¡ªhe lied, pointing east¡ª. I saw lights. Weapons. Food. The man hesitated, but greed won over fear. He set off in that direction. Devon followed him from the shadows. The trap was obvious to anyone who knew how to look: bioluminescent mushrooms formed a circle too perfect. The man ran toward them, and the ground opened. His screams attracted the Rippers. There were three. Humanoid creatures with bark-like skin and flat faces with no eyes. Moving silently, they dismembered the man with surgical precision. Devon watched, memorizing every movement: The first ripper used its nails like scalpels, the second preferred to strangle with vines, and the third collected fingers. When they were done, Devon acted. He threw a stone at the mushrooms, triggering another trap. Poisonous vines wrapped around the Rippers. The third managed to escape, but was limping. He followed the trail of black blood to a cave. Inside, he found what he was looking for: a nest with chewed bones, and among them, a diary from Salvatore. "Day 43 in the Garden," one entry said. "The Watchers have a weak spot: the gland under the left armpit. Cut there and they deflate like balloons." He smiled. The old bastard had really been here. --- The night in the forest was a sound nightmare. Invisible creatures howled in fractal tongues, and the roots moved stealthily beneath the leaves. Devon took refuge in a cave of black crystals, using the diary as a pillow. The visions came with sleep: Salvatore, decades younger, fighting against a Watcher. His knife found the left armpit. The creature exploded in amber liquid. "Grade F achieved," a metallic voice resonated. "Do you wish to ascend?" Salvatore spat blood. "Not for me. For him." The scene changed: an iron crib, a crying baby (was it him?) with the scar already marked on his jaw. He woke up startled. Angelo''s watch burned on his chest. Outside, something growled. The Watcher moved with the grace of an ancient predator, its golden scales resonating like war bells. Devon clung to the cave ceiling, the acidic sap of the forest burning on his skin like a cold shroud. He couldn''t see the numbers of the reptilian¡ªthe System hid the data of living targets¡ªbut he knew. "The Watchers are Grade E. Level 30 at a minimum," Salvatore had written in his diary. "Killing one will give you more XP than a hundred humans." "Specimen 667-F... irregular energy signature... possible mutation of the Lineage..." The reptilian''s voice rumbled in his translator-bracelet as it scanned the area with eyes that glowed in the infrared spectrum. Devon knew it because Salvatore''s diary had warned him: "Day 22: The Watchers see the heat of blood, not shadows. Cover your skin with frozen mud or acidic sap. Their eyes are their weapon... and their curse." That''s why he had rubbed his torso with the violet sap from the carnivorous tree hours earlier. The liquid, now dry, emitted an unnatural cold that distorted his thermal signature. Even so, the Watcher advanced, its claws leaving grooves in the stone. ¡ªI know you''re here, Fiore ¡ªit whispered¡ª. The Devourers whisper your name in my marrow. The creature threw its living wooden staff. The weapon slithered through the air, piercing the crystal just inches from Devon''s head. ¡ªYour lineage ends here, rotten seed! ¡ªroared the reptilian, its voice an earthquake in his mind. Devon jumped, landing silently. The pain of his bleeding palms was a mantra: "The Fiores do not retreat. They take advantage." The Watcher attacked again, its claws etching scars in the stone. Devon rolled, feeling the air cut where his neck had been just seconds before. ¡ªWill you run like your grandfather? ¡ªthe creature mocked, throwing an amber energy sphere that vaporized a rock. "Lie," thought Devon as a shard embedded itself in his thigh. "Salvatore beat you. And I''ll do worse." With a studied movement, he threw black crystal dust into the reptilian''s face. The particles glowed under the three suns, blinding its infrared eyes for a second. Enough. The black bone dagger¡ªthe same one Salvatore had hidden decades ago¡ªfound the left armpit. The blade vibrated as it hit the thermoregulating gland, and the Watcher''s scream shook the forest. The reptilian collapsed, its body convulsing in a storm of sparks and acidic smoke. Devon didn''t wait. He climbed its scaly back and drove the dagger into the base of its skull, where the diary marked a worn-out blue spot. --- [Kill Confirmed!] [Name: Kraxil Vorn] [Race: Garden Watcher (Subspecies: Draconis Custodis)] [Level: 32 | Grade: E] [XP Gained] The body disintegrated into glowing ash, leaving only a bracelet of liquid gold and a fading cosmic wail. [Level Up!] [Level Up!] [Level Up!] [Level Up!] [Level Up!] [+4 to all stats] [+20 free points] Devon dropped to his knees, his breath ragged as he pulled up his status. -- [Devon Fiore - Level 6] [Race: Human (Grade G)] Health: 68/80 Mana: 70/70 Stamina: 54/70 -- Attributes: Strength: 13 ¡ú 17 Agility: 14 ¡ú 18 Endurance: 11 ¡ú 15 Vitality: 11 ¡ú 15 Toughness: 8 ¡ú 12 Intelligence: 16 ¡ú 20 Wisdom: 12 ¡ú 16 Perception: 15 ¡ú 19 Free Points: 20 -- "Grade E... and I killed it while still Grade G." His fingers trembled as he distributed the points¡ª10 into Agility, 10 into Perception. And then it happened. A storm beneath his skin. His muscles didn''t just grow¡ªthey shifted, reforming in real-time, tightening like coils ready to snap. His vision sharpened, the world exploding into detail¡ªevery flicker of movement, every pulse of heat, every ripple in the leaves from unseen creatures lurking just beyond sight. He clenched his fists. Salvatore was right. The System rewards audacity... or stupidity. The forest fell into a tense silence. Distant howls echoed¡ªthe other Watchers had noticed. Devon reached for the bracelet, ignoring the burn of alien metal against his skin. [Item Acquired: Fallen Watcher¡¯s Bracelet (Grade E)] [Effect: +5 Perception against Garden threats] Grade E. The bracelet vibrates with foreign energy, but it doesn''t burn me... not yet. Could it be that the System doesn''t restrict the use of higher-grade items? Or maybe the Watchers are so insignificant in the Multiverse that even their items aren''t protected. Salvatore, if you were able to steal secrets from these lizards... what else is there in the higher grades? Weapons that cut through dimensions? Armor that defies physical laws? It doesn''t matter. This trophy is the first step. And I will climb until even the Devourers see the name Fiore in their nightmares. A slow grin spread across his face. Angelo¡¯s watch burned cold against his chest. 3:14 AM. "Next." --- As he stepped out of the cave, the forest had changed. The cracks in the sky bled more freely, the trees whispered his name¡ªin Salvatore¡¯s voice. A group of initiates saw him emerge, his body streaked with reptilian ash. ¡°He¡¯s one of them!¡± a woman shrieked. ¡°Kill him before he turns us in!¡± Devon didn¡¯t run. He let them come closer. Let them see the Watcher¡¯s bracelet wrapped around his wrist. ¡°I know how to survive,¡± he said. And for the first time since arriving here, it was the truth. The hunger in their eyes flickered into something else. Hope. "They don''t ask how I know. They don''t question the bracelet. They only see the gleam of gold and think ''salvation.'' Pathetic Grades are cages. G for cattle, E for jailers... And what am I? The wolf that learned to bite between the bars. If ascending in grade requires crossing thresholds even the Watchers won¡¯t speak of¡­ then I¡¯ll break down the doors. I¡¯ll use their fear as my ladder, their corpses as my steps. After all, isn¡¯t that what you wanted, Grandfather? For me to turn every lie into a weapon, every soul into a resource... until even the Devourers learn to fear the name Fiore." Devon exhaled. This was the real Pact. Not one of blood, nor power, but hope¡ªtwisted, reshaped, and controlled. Angelo¡¯s watch still read 3:14 AM. Always 3:14. Grade F Devon observed the initiates surrounding him, their eyes reflecting something more than fear. It was the need for power. "What about you?" one of the younger ones said, his voice trembling. "Do you really think you''ll survive here? In this place?" Devon smiled¡ªthat cold smile he had learned to perfect. The young man understood nothing. None of them did. They were trapped, like rats in a glass cage, gasping for air. But he... he already knew how to break the walls. "Don''t waste my time," Devon replied, letting the glow of the Watcher¡¯s bracelet shimmer in the dying light of the forest. "If you really want to survive¡­ you should learn to look beyond the rules you''ve been given." The initiates stepped back, murmuring among themselves, but they didn¡¯t dare attack. Something had changed in Devon. He was no longer the confused boy who had entered this game. Now, he was someone who understood the rules of power¡ªand how to twist them to his advantage. "I''m not the one who should be afraid," Devon said quietly, almost to himself. "I''m the hunter, and panic only makes me stronger." And with those words, he turned away, leaving the initiates behind, his mind already set on the next steps. He knew what he had to do. He knew he was ready to go beyond. Devon walked through the dense forest, his bracelet glowing faintly under the moonlight. The stillness of nature was about to be broken when he heard a sound¡ªheavy footsteps, almost imperceptible, behind him. He turned quickly, ready for anything. What he saw took his breath away. A man, at least two meters tall, stood in the shadows. His scarred skin was covered in tattoos depicting ancient symbols, tensing as he noticed Devon¡¯s presence. The golden chains wrapped around his wrists gleamed with an ominous light. His eyes were cold, calculating. An E-Grade. Although Devon couldn¡¯t see his opponent¡¯s exact level, the aura surrounding him was unmistakable¡ªdangerous. "So, the rookie dares to crawl out of his hole?" the man''s deep voice rumbled. His tone wasn¡¯t an outright threat, but something in his gaze made it clear there would be no conversation. Devon clenched his fist, knowing this would be a difficult fight. He wasn¡¯t a fool¡ªhe could feel the difference in power. This man was far stronger than him, and without a clear chance of victory, his only option was to rely on cunning. "I''m not looking for a fight," Devon said, choosing to speak before acting. "I just want to be on my way." "You care about the path?" the man replied, stepping forward. "There are no choices here. And you, little one, are already in my way." In the blink of an eye, the E-Grade launched a devastating punch toward Devon, who barely managed to dodge by a few centimeters. The air around him distorted from the sheer force of the impact. Devon leapt back, feeling the shockwave rattle his bones. This man was a monster. His attacks were fast and precise, as if every movement was calculated. His opponent seemed to have a deep understanding of the system, as if he were waiting for Devon to make a mistake. "You¡¯ll regret crossing paths with me," the man growled as he advanced, sending a surge of energy toward Devon. It was pure energy, denser than any attack Devon had ever faced. Devon quickly scanned his surroundings. He didn¡¯t have many options. Facing this man head-on was suicide. He couldn¡¯t win in terms of strength. The only way to survive was through intelligence. He dodged again, twisting to the opposite side, using his agility to stay out of the energy¡¯s reach. As he retreated, he felt the ground shift slightly beneath his feet¡ªa phenomenon his perception picked up instantly. He was in an unstable zone. Suddenly, Devon remembered something¡ªthe bracelet. Though he didn¡¯t fully understand how it worked, he could feel its power. He decided to take a risk. Devon closed his eyes for a second, focusing on the bracelet now linking him to the Watcher. Energy surged from it, forming a weak but effective barrier that managed to block the man¡¯s next attack. The E-Grade paused briefly, momentarily thrown off by the unexpected defense. "Is that what you are? A pathetic rookie relying on an artifact?" he scoffed. "You think a mere bracelet will make you win?" Devon didn¡¯t answer. With a swift movement, he vanished into the trees, using the brief moment of confusion caused by his defense. In the chaos, Devon slipped through the unstable terrain toward an elevated position, where he could see the man from a vantage point. "You¡¯re going to pay for that, little one," the man roared. But Devon knew time was on his side. This battle wasn¡¯t just about strength¡ªit was about endurance and patience. The E-Grade was far more experienced, but also overconfident, and that could be his downfall. Devon used his perception to study the man¡¯s movements, searching for any pattern or weakness. If he could find one, it would be his chance to strike. But he couldn¡¯t allow the man to reach him again. The fight intensified. Devon knew he couldn¡¯t afford any mistakes. Every blow he took from the E-Grade left him more breathless, and the pain in his body multiplied with each step. The enemy was bigger, stronger, and his presence was suffocating, as if the very earth feared his power. Unlike his previous opponents, the E-Grade was no fool. His perception was outstanding. Every time Devon tried to dodge or slip between the trees, the enemy''s eyes followed him. Every distraction trick, every attempt to change direction, was quickly dismantled. The enemy had refined instincts, and Devon knew he couldn¡¯t rely on the same methods over and over again. The E-Grade observed, calculated, and didn¡¯t make mistakes. "You think you can fool me?" the man roared, unleashing a blast of energy that tore through the air. Devon was thrown backward but quickly got back up, his feet nearly slipping in the mud. The fight was turning into a battle of endurance, and he couldn¡¯t afford any more mistakes. He needed to find a weakness. His opponent¡¯s speed was impressive. Not only were his attacks powerful, but also precise, leaving no room for improvisation. Every time Devon attempted a quick strike, the man blocked it with terrifying ease. Despite the disadvantage, Devon began analyzing his enemy¡¯s behavior. What made him vulnerable? Where was his weak point? Then he saw it. The E-Grade wasn¡¯t moving as fluidly as someone of his power should. There were moments during the fight when his body seemed overloaded. Each attack was devastating, but it also wore him down. Despite his sharp perception, the E-Grade didn¡¯t seem to have strong defenses against quick, light attacks that disoriented his movements. Devon took a deep breath. If he could keep the fight moving, not allowing his opponent to take full control, he might find an opportunity. He began shifting from side to side, but this time with a different approach. It wasn¡¯t just about dodging¡ªit was about provoking the enemy, making him angry. Every time the E-Grade threw a lethal strike, Devon moved with an agility his opponent couldn¡¯t match, all while keeping up the pressure and searching for flaws in his pattern. The E-Grade¡¯s perception allowed him to anticipate almost everything, but what he couldn¡¯t predict was Devon¡¯s mental strategy. As he dodged, Devon started using his surroundings more intelligently. Instead of running toward the edges or cliffs, he focused on conditioning his opponent¡¯s movements. He forced him into a confined space, surrounded by large rocks and thick shrubs. The enemy, confident in his superior strength, began losing patience. He could no longer keep up with Devon¡¯s smaller, faster attacks. At first, he thought he was being led into a trap, but then he realized there was no actual trap in that space¡ªjust a subtlety in Devon¡¯s movements that slowly threw him off balance. Devon now knew what he had to do. Every time the E-Grade used his energy, the strain on his body became more noticeable. But Devon also knew he needed to strike directly¡ªnot with force, but with precision. He seized the perfect moment. When the E-Grade prepared a final blow¡ªa blast of energy that nearly split a tree in half¡ªDevon slipped toward him, aiming for a weak spot on his side, just below his rib. The E-Grade tried to block the attack, but Devon¡¯s timing and technique were enough. The strike was precise, and though it didn¡¯t kill him, it weakened the enemy enough to make him stagger backward. If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation. ¡°No¡­ this can¡¯t be¡­¡± the E-Grade murmured, trembling from the pain. Devon watched his enemy, breathing heavily, but now with a determined expression. He had gained ground in the fight. His opponent was fatigued, and now, he had the advantage. The E-Grade staggered back, gasping for air after the direct hit to his side. His movements became more erratic, the fatigue already taking its toll. Devon didn¡¯t let his opponent catch his breath¡ªhis instincts pushed him to keep pressing, to force the fight to its conclusion. Despite the overwhelming physical disadvantage, Devon knew that with every passing second, the enemy was losing his edge. Each of his attacks required more effort, and although he could still counter and block, Devon¡¯s precision and speed kept him in a constant state of uncertainty. ¡°Don¡¯t think you can win just because you¡¯ve landed a couple of hits,¡± the E-Grade growled, his voice a low hiss of rage. ¡°I¡¯ll tear you apart, no matter how much you move.¡± But instead of taking it as a threat, Devon saw it as an opportunity. The E-Grade was relying too much on brute strength, underestimating the exhaustion that was beginning to drain his stamina. Devon needed one final push. A decisive move. ¡°Make no mistake,¡± he whispered to himself, stepping back and gazing at the E-Grade with a calmness that contrasted with the chaos of the fight. ¡°You don¡¯t win with strength¡­ you win with cunning.¡± He continued taking small lateral steps, almost as if he were dancing around his opponent, waiting for the perfect moment. The E-Grade, blinded by fury, chased him without a second thought every time Devon made a quick move to the side. Then, he saw it. An open space. The perfect spot. If the E-Grade kept moving at the same speed, he would walk right into the trap Devon had set¡ªwithout even realizing it. Devon dashed to the left, dodging swiftly. The E-Grade followed without hesitation. Devon took a deep breath, his heart pounding, and rushed toward the edge of a nearby cliff. The E-Grade was too close¡ªthe attack was just seconds from landing. And just as his enemy threw a brutal punch, Devon leaped¡ªnot backward, but sideways, toward the cliff, moving with such unpredictability that the E-Rank couldn¡¯t react in time. The E-Grade¡¯s leg landed right at the edge, his foot striking a rock as he tried to steady himself. The sound of his massive body teetering backward was barely audible. Devon seized the moment. His sharp perception caught the slightest misalignment in the E-Grade¡¯s balance, and without hesitation, with the same speed he used to dodge his blows, Devon lunged forward. The final push was subtle but effective. The E-Grade completely lost his footing, slipping over the edge and plummeting down the cliff with a strangled cry. Silence. Devon stared at the empty space where the E-Grade had fallen, his body still struggling to recover from the intensity of the battle. His muscles ached, pain coursed through every inch of him, but a quiet sigh of relief escaped his lips. He had won. But not without cost. Devon''s body trembled with adrenaline as he watched his opponent fall. His breathing was ragged, and his muscles ached deeply from the effort. Yet, despite everything, he felt a strange satisfaction within him¡ªa sense that something inside had changed. A soft light began to glow before his eyes, like a fleeting radiance materializing in the darkness of battle. It was the same sensation he had experienced before upon completing challenges, but much stronger this time. The system was recognizing his victory. [You have defeated Markus Vross ¨C Level 19 (Grade F) | Class: Ebony Hunter!] [XP gained] [Level Up!] [Level Up!] [Level Up!] [+3 to all stats] [+15 Free Points] --- So it was a F-Grade. Devon watched the glow that had begun to surround him. Without warning, his body felt lighter, his mind sharper as he allocated 5 points to Strength, 5 to Agility, and 5 to Endurance. The experience points gained from the battle against the E-Rank had become something tangible¡ªsomething that elevated him. "Status." [Name: Devon Fiore ¨C Level 9] [Race: Human (Grade G)] Health: 129/160 Mana: 190/190 Stamina: 153/210 --- Attributes: Strength: 23 Agility: 34 Endurance: 21 Vitality: 14 Toughness: 13 Intelligence: 21 Wisdom: 17 Perception: 30 Free Points: 0 -- [You have reached the limit of your Grade.] [Do you wish to evolve from Grade G to Grade F?] [The process is irreversible.] [Accept] [Reject] Devon smiled and accepted. The system emitted a muffled sound, as if a heavy lock had been unlocked deep within his being. [Evolution completed.] [Level Up!] A strange sensation enveloped him. Devon felt his body adapting to the new power bestowed upon him, his muscles tightening slightly as his mind expanded with newfound clarity. The bones in his fingers creaked faintly, as if being molded into a more powerful, more capable form. The air around him seemed to vibrate, and a surge of energy coursed through him, from the tips of his feet to the crown of his head. [You have ascended to Grade F.] [+5 to all stats] The system continued its message, breaking down the change that had just occurred. His body and mind had been reconfigured in ways he hadn¡¯t expected. [By reaching Grade F, you will now receive 2 points in all stats per level and 10 free points to distribute in any of your attributes.] As he listened to the system¡¯s words, the feeling of power grew, filling his being. His health, mana, and stamina were much higher, and his abilities were enhanced by the increase in attributes. His vitality gave him more endurance, his wisdom increased his ability to manage mana, and his agility, strength, and perception reached a new level. He was no longer the same. The evolution had not only increased his physical and mental power, but it had also given him a new sense of possibility. Now, he could face much greater challenges, and the idea of continuing to climb to higher levels kept him alert. "Status." [Name: Devon Fiore ¨C Level 10] [Race: Human (Grade F)] Health: 230/230 Mana: 260/260 Stamina: 270/270 --- Attributes: Strength: 30 Agility: 41 Endurance: 28 Vitality: 21 Toughness: 20 Intelligence: 28 Wisdom: 24 Perception: 37 Free Points: 10 -- Devon looked at his status with narrowed eyes, absorbing every change with a mix of awe and satisfaction. The cold air of the forest no longer seemed as thick. There was a vibration in the air, an energy that seemed to pulse around him. Everything felt different. Better. Stronger. "230 health... 260 mana... 270 stamina..." he thought, a smile curling his lips as he saw the results of his evolution. "Is this what it feels like to be someone truly powerful?" He sat down, letting the wind brush against his face. Though he had just come from a fight that had pushed him to the edge, he now felt as if he had been reborn. As if his body was filled with renewed strength, ready to tear through any obstacle in his path. "The fight... it was in my bones, it hurt... but now..." His mind replayed the battle, the way he had felt the blows, the way he had used every resource at his disposal. "I¡¯ve recovered everything. The pain doesn¡¯t exist anymore, my body is whole, like nothing ever happened." Looking at his status now, it was as if everything had been reset. The physical wear from the fight faded, and in its place, the feeling of power grew. His vitality had increased, and the agility he felt in his legs was more pronounced, as if he could move even faster, push past his own limits. "This power... is this what it feels like when you leave behind who you were?" Devon felt a slight shiver run down his spine. His strength, now much greater, pulsed in his muscles, as if every fiber of his body was ready to burst with energy. "I can feel it in my veins... in every muscle. I¡¯m much stronger, much faster, much smarter." It wasn¡¯t just a physical improvement. His mind felt sharper, as if the neural connections were working with greater efficiency, processing information at an accelerated speed. His perception of the environment had skyrocketed, he could notice every movement in the distance, every crackling leaf around him. As if he could see beyond the obvious, reaching a mental clarity that had once eluded him. "2 points per level... 10 free points... can I make this even deadlier?" he thought, with a sly smile. His mind was already planning how to use those points. More strength? More speed? Or maybe... more of that perception that made him see every detail, every trick in the air? The power was now in his hands, and he could mold it to his will. The breeze brushed against his face as he closed his eyes, letting the feeling of being at new heights take over. "This is just the beginning... I¡¯ve just reached Grade F... and I already feel like I¡¯ve climbed a mountain that once seemed insurmountable." A sense of inevitability washed over him. The questions that once tormented him¡ªhow far could he go? How could he face the challenges ahead?¡ªnow felt less unsettling. Now, he felt that no matter what came, he had the power to face it, to overcome it, to claim what was his. "There are no limits to this." Devon murmured to himself, opening his eyes and gazing at the horizon. "This is just the beginning of a new era for Fiore." His breath steadied. In his hands, the future was waiting to be claimed. --- The man in the gray suit observed from his elevated position, not missing a single detail of the scene before him. The vastness of the tutorial landscape stretched out in front of him, but his focus was fixed on a single point: Devon Fiore. The young man had just gone through the process of evolution, a palpable change in his body and soul. He remained still, but the energy around him seemed to vibrate, as if his mere existence was reconfiguring the laws of that world. The man showed no surprise. He knew. The power of the Fiores has never been something to underestimate. In his mind, there was no astonishment or admiration. Devon''s evolution was simply another step in the process, another cog falling into place in the grand scheme. He knew what this moment meant, what it would mean for the Fiore family and the pact that had been sealed long ago. He should have known the progression would be this fast. It¡¯s not the first time I¡¯ve seen a Fiore unlock their potential. Each one has their own pace, but most of them... rise with ease. The man in the gray suit adjusted his dark glasses, unfazed, watching how Devon''s energy stabilized and his body adapted to the new form of power. There was something almost predictable in the way the Fiores developed. Evolution is never an obstacle for someone like him. What¡¯s to come will be even more interesting. The Fiore family never settles for anything less than the best. A fleeting smile crossed his face, not out of excitement, but recognition. Devon was no different from the other Fiores. The young man had taken the first step on his path toward something much greater. A path that the man in gray had been watching from the shadows, certain that the Fiore family would play a crucial role in the events to come. And when the time comes, when everything is resolved... when he faces his final destiny... His gaze grew more intense, as if he could see beyond the present, to a point still distant in time. ...he will be more than a piece on the board. He will be the change that everyone is waiting for.