The crimson dawn came late that morning, filtering through the storm clouds like diluted blood.
Ethan hadn't slept. Not truly. The Core didn't let him anymore. Each time he closed his eyes, it whispered. Sometimes in words. Sometimes in pulses of hunger. Sometimes in faces he didn't want to remember — the men he'd killed, the people he'd failed to save.
The Bone Rats — no, the Crimsonborn — were awake before him, preparing for another raid. Their loyalty had become devotion, their devotion something close to religion. And though Ethan didn't want to admit it, that terrified him more than their enemies ever could.
He stood at the edge of the camp, watching the ruined city breathe. Smoke rose in the distance, twisting against the rising sun. Somewhere beyond that, factions warred over scraps, oblivious to the quiet empire forming under his command.
He was building something — and losing something else.
Each victory carved away another piece of the man he used to be.
The Core hummed inside him like a heartbeat that wasn't his own.
Power demands obedience, it murmured. And the world obeys you now.
He ignored it, though his hands trembled.
By midday, Mira found him near the half-collapsed highway bridge. She carried a portable transmitter — old world tech, barely functional, yet buzzing faintly with static.
"Someone's been sending signals," she said, setting it down. "Encrypted ones. Strong enough to pierce the radiation belt."
Ethan frowned. "Who?"
"I don't know. But they're not random. They're targeted. To us."
Before he could speak, the transmitter shrieked — a burst of distorted sound that almost felt alive. The air thickened. The Core inside him pulsed sharply, reacting.
Then, through the static, came a voice. Smooth. Measured. Too calm for a world like this.
> "Ethan Carter. Host of Core Designation: CR-01. You've drawn attention sooner than expected."
Ethan froze. "Who the hell is this?"
> "I am the Overseer."
The voice wasn't entirely human. It carried harmonics — layered, metallic, echoing as if multiple beings spoke at once.
> "Your growth rate exceeds projection parameters. The System was never meant to evolve this fast without guidance."
"The System?" Ethan's jaw clenched. "You mean this parasite inside me?"
> "Parasitic? No. Symbiotic. A tool for reconstruction. You were chosen for compatibility. But your behavior has… diverged."
Mira looked between them, wide-eyed. "Ethan, what is this thing?"
He didn't answer her. "Why contact me now?"
> "Because others are awakening. Hosts across the wastelands. Some reject control. Some embrace it. You, however—"
The voice paused, almost as if considering.
> "You lead. That makes you dangerous."
The Core flared violently, as if insulted. Ethan winced, gripping his chest.
"Dangerous to who?" he hissed.
> "To balance. To design. To us."
The transmission crackled. Images flashed across the screen — broken, incomplete. A massive structure floating in darkness. Dozens of glowing pods suspended within it. Human silhouettes inside.
> "The Crimson Network was created to rebuild civilization," the Overseer continued. "But your evolution threatens systemic collapse. Your Dominion must be contained."
The air grew colder. Every word felt heavier, pressing down on his skull.
"Try," Ethan said softly.
> "You misunderstand, Subject Carter. Containment does not require your consent."
Static roared — then silence. The device sparked once and died.
Mira swore under her breath. "What the hell was that?"
Ethan didn't answer. He was staring at the blackened transmitter, his pulse hammering.
The Core whispered in its place. They fear you. That means they are weak.
He shook his head. "They built you."
And now you surpass them.
The words vibrated through his bones. For the first time, he wondered if the Core wanted him to confront these Overseers. If this was all part of a cycle — evolution, rebellion, ascension.
He looked back toward the camp. The Crimsonborn were chanting again. His symbol painted across banners, walls, even their skin.
The sight filled him with pride. And dread.
That night, the rain came again — heavy and metallic, washing rust and ash from the broken buildings. Ethan walked through it alone. His reflection rippled in a puddle: eyes faintly glowing, veins dimly lit beneath his skin.
He barely recognized himself anymore.
A faint flicker of light caught his attention — movement among the shadows. Instinct kicked in. He turned, blade half-drawn.
A figure stood at the edge of the alley, cloaked, unmoving.
"Selene?" he whispered before he could stop himself.
The figure didn't answer — only watched him. Then it spoke, and his blood went cold.
> "You've been marked, Crimson King."
Not her voice. Someone else's. A woman's, yes, but older. Rougher.
> "The Overseers won't stop now. They'll send Collectors. Hunters. You've stepped beyond what they can control."
Ethan took a cautious step forward. "Who are you?"
The figure smiled — faint, sharp. "A ghost of another host. One who learned what happens when gods get afraid of their creations."
Before he could ask more, lightning split the sky — and she was gone. Only her voice lingered, like an echo carved into the storm.
> "The Dominion has begun, Ethan. But even kings bleed."
He stood there long after the rain stopped, his breath fogging in the cold.
The Core pulsed inside him, almost pleased.
He whispered to the darkness, "Let them come."
Because deep down, beneath the fear and exhaustion and ghosts of who he'd been, he could feel it — the shift, the inevitability, the hunger to meet whatever waited beyond the crimson storm.
For the first time, Ethan Carter wasn't running from the System.
He was ready to confront the ones who made it.
And far above, in the dying sky, the Overseer watched — and smiled.
The storm had passed, but its ghost lingered — a hush over the city ruins, a tremor in the ground that refused to fade.
Ethan stood alone at the fringe of the Bone Rats' territory, the metallic rain still dripping from his coat.
Every shadow seemed alive now.
Every flicker of light, every hum of dying neon whispered the same silent truth — he was being watched.
The Overseer's voice still echoed in his skull. Calm. Cold. Infinite.
He could almost feel its presence pressing from above the clouds, as if the heavens themselves were studying him like an experiment gone wrong.
Back at camp, the Crimsonborn moved carefully. Word had spread — about the signal, about the voice that reached their leader through dead frequencies. They looked at him differently now. Not just with reverence… but with fear.
When Mira approached him that night, she didn't hide her worry.
"You haven't eaten in two days," she said softly, kneeling beside the rusted crate where he sat.
Ethan didn't answer. He was staring into a crimson flame, its light reflecting off his half-gloved hands. They trembled slightly — not from cold, but from something deeper. Something he couldn't quiet anymore.
"The Overseer," he muttered finally. "It called me by designation. CR-01."
Mira's brow furrowed. "What does that mean?"
He shook his head. "If I'm one… then there are more. CR-02, CR-03… others like me."
"And they're all… connected? Through this System thing?"
"Maybe. Or maybe they're just watching us fail, one by one."
He leaned forward, his eyes catching the firelight. "But they called it the Crimson Network. Reconstruction, they said. Like this is all part of some design."
Mira hesitated. "And you think… we're part of it?"
He smiled faintly — tired, bitter. "No, Mira. I think we're what's left of it."
Later that night, sleep finally came — not willingly, but in waves, heavy and poisoned with memory.
He dreamt of glass.
Of a sterile white room with no walls, no doors — just light. Floating before him were pods — human silhouettes inside, suspended in viscous red. Their faces blurred, unreadable.
Then he saw himself.
Eyes closed. Veins glowing faintly. A line of text burned across the pod's glass:
"CR-01: ACTIVATED."
The voice came again — the Overseer's, whispering directly into his dream.
> "Every system begins with order. Every order breeds rebellion. And every rebellion… demands a king."
He turned, heart pounding. "Why me?"
> "Because you survived."
> "You think I'll lead your creation?"
> "You already are."
The ground beneath him cracked open, light spilling upward — crimson, endless, blinding. The figures in the pods screamed, their glass shattering, red liquid flooding the floor.
The Overseer's tone sharpened, almost human now.
> "Do not mistake your Dominion for freedom. The Core was made to rule through you, not for you."
Ethan reached out — too late. The light swallowed him whole.
He woke gasping, drenched in sweat. The crimson glow beneath his skin was brighter than before, pulsing like a heartbeat that wasn't his.
By dawn, the camp stirred with unease. The sky above was wrong — a whirl of black clouds spiraling inward toward a single point, like the heavens were opening an eye.
"Ethan!" Mira's voice tore through the noise. She came running, clutching a radio module sputtering static. "It's happening again — the same signal as yesterday, but it's… closer."
He took it from her, listening. Through the distortion, a phrase repeated:
> "PROTOCOL: COLLECTOR INITIATED."
His blood ran cold.
The cloaked woman's warning echoed in his mind — "They'll send Collectors."
He looked to the skyline, where red lightning flickered inside the vortex.
Something was coming.
Hours later, when the first tremor hit, everyone felt it. The ground rippled like something massive was tunneling beneath it. Then — a sound. Deep. Metallic. Like the groan of a dying machine.
The Core inside Ethan roared to life, reacting to it. He doubled over, clutching his chest. His vision blurred with red.
Through the haze, he saw them — figures emerging from the storm. Not human. Not fully. Towering silhouettes of black armor streaked with glowing veins, their eyes mechanical and lifeless.
Collectors.
Their presence was suffocating — the air itself bending under invisible weight. The Crimsonborn began to panic.
"Positions!" Ethan shouted, his voice carrying across the camp. "Hold the perimeter! Don't engage until I say!"
The Collectors moved as one — precise, silent, terrifyingly calm.
One of them stepped forward, its voice flat and cold.
> "Designation CR-01. You are in violation of Reconstructive Protocol. Surrender your Core for reinitialization."
Ethan met its gaze. "You'll have to tear it from me."
> "Acknowledged."
And then the world exploded.
The first Collector moved faster than anything human, slamming into the ground where Ethan had stood seconds before. The shockwave threw bodies through the air.
Ethan's Core surged — instinct overriding thought. His blood ignited, his vision flared crimson. He caught the creature's next blow with his bare hand, the impact shattering concrete beneath them.
The Core screamed inside him — Yes. Yes. Let it feed.
He drove his knee into the Collector's torso, tearing through armor like glass. It didn't bleed. It sparked.
Mira screamed something behind him, but it was distant now — drowned beneath the hum of power coursing through his veins.
He wasn't fighting to survive anymore. He was fighting to dominate.
The battle was short and brutal.
When it ended, the camp was in ruins. Smoke and fire stretched into the sky. The Collector's body lay broken at Ethan's feet, its core glowing weakly.
The Core inside him pulsed hungrily. Absorb it.
"No…" He gritted his teeth, stepping back.
Consume it, and ascend.
He hesitated — then drove his hand into the Collector's chest. Crimson light burst outward, flooding him. Pain, ecstasy, power — all at once.
When it faded, the Core's voice whispered again, softer now.
You've taken your first step toward the Overseer's throne.
Ethan stood amidst the fire, his body trembling, his eyes burning like molten gold. Around him, the Crimsonborn knelt, awestruck and terrified.
The Core hummed in satisfaction.
The Overseer watched from afar.
And Ethan Carter — the man who never wanted to lead — realized there was no turning back.
Because tonight, the Dominion had drawn blood.
And gods… had noticed.