Location: Underpass off Delancey Street, Lower Manhattan
Time: 3:11 A.M.
Date: November 2nd, 2007
He moved like a shadow that had forgotten how to belong to a body.
Low. Quiet. Intent.
The cold didn't touch him anymore. Not really. It bit at the tips of his fingers and nose, but inside, he was burning. The System hadn't spoken in words, but it didn't have to. He felt it behind his eyes like a second spine — silent, watching, always hungry.
He had leveled the Greenskin Bloodline.
Spent everything.
And something had changed.
His joints clicked differently. His footfalls, already light, had grown quieter. His skin felt tighter, pulled over something newer, stronger. The air tasted different now — not just cold, but layered. He could smell the metal in the rain. The rot in the dumpsters. The oil on concrete.
And him.
The man by the barrel fire.
He saw him two nights ago.
A regular.
Middle-aged. Filthy. Scarred. Drunk. The kind of man who drank to forget everything except the reasons he started. Always alone. Always talking to ghosts. The kind people stepped over without slowing down.
Now he slept under the bridge, cocooned in newspaper and piss-stained blankets, a half-empty bottle of rotgut whiskey resting between his knees.
The flames from the barrel lit his face in twitching orange strokes — a face half-erased by time, cold, and cruelty.
To Chad, it was a target.
Not because the man had done anything.
But because he hadn't.
Because the world wouldn't miss him.
Because the System wouldn't question him.
Because the blood would be valuable.
And Chad was done grinding rats and pigeons for 2 SP at a time.
He needed power.
And luckily the man didn't stir.
The fire crackled beside him, weak but stubborn. Flames curled upward in orange ribbons, licking the edge of an oil-slick pot full of rainwater. Steam hissed into the cold air. Shadows danced behind broken brick pillars and rusted stairwell gates.
Chad crouched behind a dumpster ten feet away, invisible in the mist.
He watched the rise and fall of the man's chest.
Slow. Even.
He was asleep. Too asleep.
A cheap whiskey bottle lay in the man's lap, one finger still looped through the neck. His hands were wrapped in duct tape and fingerless gloves. Military gloves. Stained with motor oil and old blood. There were boots on his feet — not cheap ones. Army-issue. Torn laces. Mismatched soles.
Chad could see the scars through the holes in the man's coat. Cigarette burns. Knife wounds. His beard was patchy, matted. His coat had three dog tags sewn into the inside collar.
The kind of man who had once been useful to someone. Who had followed orders. Killed people for reasons someone else believed in. Until the war ended, and the medals stopped meaning anything.
A man who came home broken. Who lost a family. Who drank because silence was louder than bullets.
Now he slept under bridges.
Waiting to forget the world one bottle at a time.
And the System didn't care.
The System didn't see soldiers. Or victims.
It saw soul weight.
And this man was heavy.
> Strike clean. From behind. Soft tissue.
Chad moved.
Fast.
His knees didn't creak. His weight didn't shift the gravel.
The Throw Weapon ability was ready — but he didn't need it.
This wasn't about range. This wasn't a rat on a rooftop.
This was a statement.
He crept up behind the barrel. Steam curled up around his legs. The smell hit harder now — burnt hair, wet piss, antifreeze from a leaking pipe nearby.
He tightened his grip on the shiv — a jagged piece of rebar wrapped in tape. Not elegant. But heavy enough.
The System didn't light up.
It just watched.
Waiting.
His breath stayed low.
The man groaned in his sleep. Shifted. One eye fluttered.
Too late.
Chad struck.
The shiv went in below the ear.
CRUNCH.
The man's body convulsed.
His eyes snapped open.
One arm jerked. The bottle fell.
He made a noise — not a scream. A wet, gurgling sound, like a kettle boiling blood.
Chad yanked the blade out.
The man twisted, elbowed wildly — but he was too slow. Too broken.
Chad moved behind him. Grabbed his hair. Slammed his head into the barrel.
Once. Twice.
Bone gave way.
Then he stabbed again.
Neck. Spine. Ribs.
The coat soaked red.
Steam hissed from the spilled water.
The fire spat sparks.
And the man stilled.
His last breath gurgled through shattered teeth.
His eyes didn't close.
They just stared.
At the tunnel wall. At nothing.
And then—
> [+75 XP]
[+1 Soul Acquired]
[Soul Type: Human – Tier 1 – Displaced Warrior]
[Soul Points Earned: +720 SP]
Chad stood over the body.
Breathing slow.
Hands soaked.
No adrenaline. No panic.
Just clarity.
The System waited, quiet.
And he understood now:
This wasn't about anger. Or revenge. Or justice.
It was about value.
He had killed rats for scraps.
Now he had killed a man.
And the System had rewarded him for it.
He looked at the blood pooling in the dirt. At the bottle still rocking slowly in the gutter.
Then he smiled.
Just a little.
And disappeared into the fog.
---
Location: Abandoned Utility Corridor, beneath Delancey Street
Time: 3:45 A.M.
Date: November 2nd, 2007
---
The city was quiet.
Too quiet.
Not the kind of quiet that came from sleep — but the kind that came from absence. From a place that had never been designed to be heard.
Chad dropped back into the earth.
Through rusted gates. Under fallen signage. Past tunnels that had once hummed with steam and electricity and now just breathed like something asleep.
His heart didn't race.
His body didn't shake.
He'd just killed a man. Taken a soul. Watched it counted, converted, rewarded.
The blood on his clothes was beginning to dry.
But he didn't feel dirty.
He felt alive.
---
The corridor curved beneath an old maintenance junction. A half-collapsed utility chamber waited beyond it — lined with moldy tile and broken lockers. This was where he slept sometimes. Where rats once lived. Where no cameras reached.
Where the world forgot to look.
He knelt beside a stack of cloth and wire, laid out like a nest.
And exhaled.
> System.
It flared behind his eyes like a command remembered instead of spoken.
> [Soul Balance: 725 SP]
[Class: Rogue – Level 2 | XP: 33 / 200]
[Bloodline: Greenskin – Tier 0, Level 6]
> SP Available: 725
> Options Available: Upgrade Bloodline | Unlock Items | Acquire Traits
He stared at the number.
He could feel it in his chest — the pulse of potential.
This wasn't a currency anymore.
This was power.
He scrolled to the Bloodline tab.
> [Upgrade to Greenskin Level 7 – Cost: 640 SP]
He didn't hesitate.
> Buy it.
---
Something inside him shifted.
Not snapped. Not broke.
Shifted.
His spine arched. His breath caught. Bones creaked softly — not cracking, but reinforcing. His skin pulled tighter across muscle. His vision stung, then cleared.
His ribs thickened. His joints rebalanced.
He slumped forward onto all fours, breathing hard.
Then stood.
Not taller.
But heavier.
More grounded.
The tunnel didn't just echo now — it listened.
He checked his stats.
---
> [Greenskin Bloodline – Level 7 Active]
Skull and spine reinforcement applied
Mass increase +10%
Minor height growth: +3cm
Threat presence enhanced
> SP Remaining: 85
> Stealth Penalty: None — compensated by Rogue class
> Kin Tolerance: Maintained – High alert radius, no automatic aggression
---
He looked at his hands.
They weren't just his anymore.
They were tools.
And tomorrow, they'd make more.
He leaned back against the wall. Let the cool tile settle his thoughts.
He didn't smile.
But something inside him did.
Because this wasn't the end of anything.
This was the first step into the dark.
And it belonged to him.
---
Location: Abandoned Utility Corridor, Lower Manhattan
Time: 4:10 A.M.
Date: November 2nd, 2007
---
The chamber was quiet.
Cracked tile lined the walls, once white, now mottled with moss and soot. Broken lockers rusted in silence. An old subway map flapped on the wall, its ink eaten by time. Rainwater dripped steadily from a pipe above, hitting the floor like a ticking clock.
Chad stood at the center of the room.
Still shirtless. Still bloodstained.
He had just leveled the Greenskin Bloodline — poured most of his soul points into it. He could feel it in his chest, in the marrow of his bones. He was heavier now. Denser. Stronger.
But still small.
Still young.
Still learning.
And so, like a child with a new tool he didn't understand, he crouched beside the earth and thought:
> Spore Ability: Activate.
The response was immediate.
A tightness bloomed in his core. Like a breath drawn too deep. His fingers twitched, palm grazing the mossy floor. Something leaked — not liquid, but essence. Not seen, but felt. The air in the tunnel thickened.
The temperature dropped.
The ground rippled.
A pulse moved through the tile and rot like a heartbeat.
Then it began.
Flesh bloomed from concrete.
It started as a bulge. Then a tear. Then a scream.
A Snotling burst free.
Fully naked. Its skin was pale, gray-green, slick with fluid. No umbilical. No cord. Just meat and instinct. It collapsed forward, breathing hard, then shrieked at the ceiling.
A second one followed. Then a third. A fourth.
All naked. All born fully grown but twitching like infants. Each one looked around as if shocked by existence.
They didn't see Chad.
They saw the room. The stone. The others.
And they screamed.
"RAK-ZUT! ZUK! ZUK-ZUK!"
Their words were senseless to Chad. Guttural, rough. But they meant something.
> Zuk-zuk! — (birth cry)
Rak-zut! — (mine! fight! feed!)
Then the wall split open.
A Goblin fell forward.
Fully grown. Naked. Covered in mucus and sewer mold. Its ribs flexed. Its feet clawed at the stone.
It hissed.
Then another fell behind it — leaner, arms longer. Its face looked more cunning.
They spoke to each other immediately.
"Groth? Groth zuk-zukk." "Na-gra. Na-gra!"
They didn't see Chad.
But they felt him.
One turned. Sniffed.
Its eyes locked onto him.
No respect. No allegiance.
Just confusion.
Then a slow curl of its lips.
A snarl.
Chad's feet shifted.
Another Goblin emerged. This one older-looking, though just born. Its body was gnarled, its fingers longer, and in its hand was a length of pipe it hadn't built — it had remembered.
The Shaman came last.
It slithered through the wall like it had never been anything else. Its bones cracked into place as it stood. Its tongue flicked. It scraped its nails against the wall and began painting a rune in its own birth-fluid.
Then it spoke.
"Grahk'nuz… vun."
The other goblins paused.
The Snotlings stopped screeching.
Chad took a step back.
He was stronger now. Faster. Deadlier.
But he was still a Rogue.
Still a shadow, not a soldier.
He didn't know what they were. He didn't know what they could do. And every instinct screamed the same thing:
Get out.
He turned and ran.
Not out of cowardice.
But out of wisdom.
Behind him, the chamber howled — not in attack, not in triumph.
But in birth.
A new hive had begun.
And he wasn't their king.
He was just the door they came through.
---