The world wasn't ending.
It was just glitching.
Michael watched from a coffee shop doorway as reality tore itself a new one in the heart of Times Square.
He'd only ducked in for an overpriced latte, not a front-row seat to the apocalypse.
Loud screams bounced off the huge digital billboards, which now showed the strange, glowing rip in the sky that had appeared about fifty feet above the street.
It was a Gate.
A pulsating, violet wound in the fabric of the universe.
Police sirens wailed, a familiar urban symphony now layered with the high-pitched shriek of Hunter-grade energy scanners.
Armored vehicles from the Department of Gate Control (DGC) were already forming a perimeter, their heavy-plated sides a stark contrast to the fleeing yellow taxis.
Hunters, clad in tactical gear shimmering with faint mana signatures, barked orders into their comms.
They were the city's rockstars, its celebrity knights.
Probably had endorsement deals for tactical-grade hair gel.
Michael snorted, pulling the hood of his gray sweatshirt lower.
Heroes.
His father used to be one of them.
An S-Rank, they called him. A legend.
Now he was just Marcus, a man who flinched whenever a car backfired and refused to even look at the Hunter News Network.
A man who forbade Michael from ever, ever thinking about awakening.
"It's a life of ghosts, kid," he'd said, his voice hollow. "You fight monsters until you become one."
From the rip in the sky, things began to fall.
They weren't just falling; they were crawling out, spilling into the world like venom from a fang.
Gutterfangs.
Nasty, dog-sized creatures with oily black fur, too many joints in their legs, and mandibles that clicked with a wet, chitinous sound.
They hit the pavement and scattered, their movements unnaturally fast, skittering into the labyrinth of abandoned cars and screaming tourists.
Chaos erupted.
The organized DGC perimeter fractured as the creatures darted past their lines.
A Hunter in gleaming silver armor summoned a wall of fire, incinerating a half-dozen Gutterfangs in a roar of arcane energy.
The crowd cheered, even as they fled.
Michael just felt tired.
He was supposed to be at the library, studying for a calculus midterm that suddenly felt cosmically insignificant.
Although, knowing Professor Davies, he'd probably still expect the homework to be handed in on time. "Apocalyptic monster invasion is no excuse for failing to derive a function, Mr. Michael."
He started to back away, melting into the tide of panicked civilians.
His father's words were a mantra in his head. Stay away. Don't get involved. You are not one of them.
Then he saw her.
A little girl, no older than seven, clutching a bright pink unicorn backpack.
She'd tripped and fallen behind a hot dog stand, hidden from the main line of fire but directly in the path of a Gutterfang that had broken from the pack.
It was bigger than the others, its fur matted with something dark and its eyes glowing with a predatory, intelligent light.
An Alpha.
No one else saw them.
The heroes were busy with the main swarm. The police were focused on crowd control.
Michael's feet froze.
His mind screamed at him to run. To obey his father. To live.
It's not your problem.
The Gutterfang lowered its head, saliva dripping from its clicking mandibles.
The little girl whimpered, trying to press herself into the metal of the cart.
Something inside Michael snapped.
It wasn't courage.
It wasn't heroism.
It was a sudden, white-hot surge of defiance.
Defiance against the monsters, against the indifferent heroes, against the fear that had hollowed out his father.
He moved.
He didn't have a weapon. He didn't have powers.
He had a backpack that weighed more than the child he was trying to save and a half-eaten bag of tragically stale pretzels.
"Hey!" he yelled, his voice cracking spectacularly.
"Bug-Face! Eat me instead!"
He immediately regretted the invitation.
He hurled his calculus textbook - all 800 pages of soul-crushing, weaponizable density - at the creature's head.
Finally, a practical application for advanced mathematics.
The book struck with a surprisingly solid thud.
The Gutterfang staggered, shaking its head, its glowing eyes swiveling to fixate on him.
It worked.
"Run!" Michael screamed at the girl, not daring to look away from the monster.
He heard the frantic patter of her small sneakers on the asphalt.
Good.
The Gutterfang let out a chittering hiss and charged.
Time seemed to warp, stretching and thinning. Michael could see every detail: the grime on its claws, the twitch of its segmented antennae, the way its multiple legs pistoned against the ground.
He fumbled in his pocket, his fingers closing around the only other thing he had.
His keys.
He dodged the initial lunge, the creature's claws scraping against the pavement where he'd just been standing, sending sparks into the air.
He sidestepped again, adrenaline turning his blood to ice water.
He wasn't a fighter. He was a student. But he'd watched every fight analysis, every grainy Hunter-cam video his father thought he'd deleted. He knew their anatomy.
They had compound eyes, but their peripheral vision was poor up close.
And they had a soft spot. A breathing spiracle right behind their primary mandible.
The Gutterfang lunged again, jaws agape.
Michael didn't dodge.
He ducked under the snapping jaws, the stench of ozone and rot washing over him.
He drove his fist, keys clutched tight with the sharpest one protruding, into the soft flesh of the creature's neck.
A shriek of pain.
He'd hit it.
He scrambled back, his heart hammering against his ribs.
The Gutterfang thrashed wildly, black ichor leaking from the wound.
But it wasn't dead.
It was just furious.
It turned, its body a blur of motion, and a razor-sharp talon sliced through the air.
Michael felt a searing, blinding pain across his chest.
He looked down.
A deep gash tore across his hoodie, and blood - so much blood, was already soaking through.
His legs gave out.
He collapsed to the ground, the world tilting on its axis. The sirens, the screams, the roar of mana...it all faded into a distant hum.
His vision swam.
So this is how it ends.
Sorry, Dad.
The Gutterfang loomed over him, its monstrous face filling his fading sight.
It opened its jaws for the final bite.
And then, the glitch happened.
Not in the world.
In his head.
[CRITICAL VITALITY DETECTED]
[HOST MEETS ACTIVATION REQUIREMENTS]
[SYSTEM INITIALIZING...]
A translucent blue screen flickered into existence in his vision, a HUD only he could see.
The text was sharp, clinical, and utterly impossible.
[VERIFYING BLOODLINE: MichaelRO-ARCANA... VERIFIED.]
[BINDING SOUL... PROCESS COMPLETE.]
[WELCOME, LAST SCION.]
The Gutterfang froze, its head cocked as if sensing something it couldn't comprehend.
Another blue box appeared.
[FIRST QUEST GENERATED: SURVIVE]
[DESCRIPTION: A large, pointy creature is attempting to convert you into a fine paste. It is recommended that you prevent this.]
[REWARD: System Integration, 100 EXP]
[FAILURE: PERMANENT DELETION (DEATH). We don't sugarcoat it. It's very permanent.]
A third window opened, displaying a single item.
[NOVICE HEALTH POTION (F-RANK) ADDED TO INVENTORY.]
[CONSUME?]
[Y/N]
Michael's mind, foggy with blood loss, latched onto the only word that mattered.
Survive.
With the last of his strength, he focused on the letter 'Y'.
He didn't know how, but he pushed his intent at it.
The screen flashed.
A small, corked vial of glowing red liquid materialized in his hand, cool and solid against his skin.
He didn't hesitate.
He fumbled with the cork, pulled it free with his teeth, and tipped the contents down his throat.
It tasted like cherries and static electricity.
A wave of warmth spread from his chest, knitting torn muscle and skin back together with impossible speed. The searing pain vanished, replaced by a dull, buzzing energy.
He pushed himself up, his body weak but whole.
The Gutterfang, confused by his sudden recovery, let out a frustrated shriek.
But it was too late.
A shadow fell over them both.
"Kid, get down!" a voice boomed.
The Hunter in the silver armor was there, his hand crackling with white-hot energy.
A lance of pure light erupted from his palm, striking the Gutterfang and vaporizing it in an instant.
The Hunter knelt beside him. "You alright? Are you hurt?"
Michael just stared, his mind reeling. He looked at his hand, where the potion had been moments before. It was empty.
He looked at his chest. The gash was gone. Not even a scar remained.
He glanced at his own reflection in the polished chrome of the hot dog stand.
His eyes were wide with shock.
And floating in front of them, visible only to him, was a single, terrifying line of blue text.
[QUEST COMPLETE. SURVIVAL: CONFIRMED.]
[TUTORIAL COMPLETE! Would you like to rate your near-death experience on a scale of 1 to 5 stars?]