Morning.
My eyes snap open, assaulted by a brutal light.
A flash, fleeting, but unmistakable: the Zero on my forehead.
Then, Roch's revelations hit me like a sledgehammer to the skull.
The impact drowns me, drags me out of the void into a waking nightmare.
My body stiffens. Violently.
Before I can even breathe, the air rips through my throat.
A moldy, acrid mist pins me down.
Every inhale is torture.
My lungs shred under the assault of dust-soaked air.
My body, a broken instrument, tenses under the pain.
Muscles like cables stretched to their limit.
Nerves in full alert mode.
Everything is stiff, every fiber of me wound to the breaking point.
Pain. Deep, throbbing. Like barbed wire curling around my bones.
My skull pounds.
The migraine pulses with each heartbeat.
Feels like my head is about to explode.
I try to sit up.
Big Mistake.
A bolt of pain tears through my back.
A strangled groan escapes me as invisible needles crawl over my skin.
I scratch.
Furiously. Desperately.
It does nothing. The pain is omnipresent.
And the air… this air is pure horror.
Smells of mold, rusted metal, corroded tin.
Every breath burns like acid.
The wind howls through the tin walls.
The house groans, an old beast on its last breath.
The walls twist under some unseen pressure.
There's a weight in the air, thick, almost alive.
The darkness around me tightens, as if ready to swallow me whole.
I blink. Thoughts scrambled.
— Me: Where… where the hell am I now?
I touch my face.
My skin feels rough, weathered by dust, wind, and sleepless nights.
I'm here.
In this ghetto.
Still on the run.
Still hunted.
My eyes scan the room.
A controlled mess.
Twisted scraps of metal, broken statues, deformed objects.
Each piece carries weight, a history of its own.
Every object feels like a barrier, a ward against something unseen.
A chill runs down my spine.
An invisible presence lurks, watching.
— Me (grumbling): Tss… What the hell is this place…?
Then.
My phone vibrates near me.
It's cracked screen flickering dimly in the gloom.
A notification. Barely legible.
— Iris (flat, emotionless): Good morning, Master William. Rough night?
I exhale. My muscles scream.
— Me: You could say that…
Another notification.
I glance at the title.
My chest tightens.
KING OF SHADOWS
Rightful Heir to the Ombrelin Throne
• Shadow Veil: Royal Skills
• Unique : Reconstruction, Deconstruction.
I blink.
Mind fogged.
Pieces of a puzzle that refuse to fit together.
— Me (stunned): Iris… What the hell is this? King of Shadows? My ancestors weren't ruling anything, they were playing dice in the back alleys.
— Iris (neutral, ice-cold): Master William, your arrival has overwritten the new King. The Eye of Ozen deemed you worthy.
The words hit like war drums.
Too loud.
Too sharp.
Too real.
— Iris (continuing): Congratulations. You are now the rightful sovereign of the Eighth Cycle. Updating status.
You are now an Architect of Shadows, capable of shaping and distorting reality.
Breathing stops.
Heart skips a beat.
Hands tremble.
I stare at the stats, speechless.
STATS UPDATED
• Rank: 0/?
• Strength: 10/?
• Agility: 10/?
• Endurance: 10/?
• Perception: 10/?
• Will power: 10/?
• Luck: 10/?
Word fail me.
— Me (whispering): I doubled my stats… just by sleeping? Tamam!
But that's not all.
INVENTORY UPDATED
• Shadow Veil: A mystical second skin.
• Eye of Iris: Analysis and strategy interface, fused with the Eye of Ozen.
• Survival Key: Artifact pending configuration.
A cold shiver crawls up my spine.
I reach out.
The Veil reacts.
A dark mass slithers over my fingers, fluid, untouchable.
Coiling around my wrist like a living shadow.
— Me (uneasy): Is it… supposed to do that? Iris?
— Iris: The Shadow Veil is an evolving skill. It adapts to its user.
The Veil slowly creeps up my arm.
It's… indescribable.
Half-cloth, half-specter.
Burns and soothes at the same time.
Then… shock.
The Veil unfolds.
Fuses with my skin.
Molds to my form like it was always meant to be there.
I feel it.
Alive.
Mine.
— Me (impressed): Damn… This is better than Mr. Rajen's tailoring.
A thrill ignites in my chest.
Raw, untamed energy bubbling up.
— Iris: You may also customize it. Suit, armor, living cloak…
— Me (blinking): Wait. Suit? Living cloak?!
— Iris: Exactly, Master William. The more you evolve, the more powerful forms you can create.
A nervous chuckle escapes me.
— Me: This skill is insane.
— Iris: Precisely, Master. Worthy of a Ghetto King.
Shadows swirl around me, pulsing, shifting.
Unrestrained.
Untamed.
Waiting to be shaped.
Infinite potential.