The rift was hollow.
Kaisen walked through its expanse, his boots making no sound on the corrupted, glassy ground.
The chaotic energy that had plagued this place was gone—replaced by an odd, almost reverent silence.
It felt sacred. Like walking through the aftermath of creation, every step an intrusion. At his side, his hand hung loosely, a faint spark throbbing between his fingertips—not the weak sputtering flicker of his old F-rank Will.
This was different. A low, resonant hum of power. Alive in a way he'd never been.
He reached the glowing tear that marked the rift's exit—a wound in reality slowly stitching itself shut.
He turned for one last look at the crimson-hued void behind him. Then, without ceremony, stepped through.
The transition was seamless. On the other side, the Deadzone greeted him with a quieter kind of silence.
He stood alone.
The mustering area was deserted. The armored transports, the support staff, the other trainees—all gone.
Behind him, the rift closed with a final, low hum, sealing away the horizon and leaving him under the dull gloom of the blight-choked wastes.
A realization settled over him, slowly.
He took a steady breath.
The Blight—the toxic miasma that required every Awakened to wear a breather—should have been searing his lungs, clouding his mind.
But it didn't.
The air was heavy, foul… yet his body processed it with effortless indifference, as if it had rejected the very concept of weakness.
He sighed, a sound caught somewhere between relief and weariness, and lifted his hand, studying it like it belonged to someone else.
He sifted through the emotions that had shaped him for so long—the weight of inadequacy, the taste of disappointment, the cold fear of being weak.
He reached for them… but they were gone.
In their place was something rare. Something dangerously close to peace.
---
[Hi.]
A voice echoed in the quiet of his mind.
Kaisen's head snapped around, muscles tensing, eyes scanning the twisted trees and jagged rock formations.
Nothing.
[Don't look around. I'm not there.]
The voice wasn't metallic or monotone like a system prompt. It carried a teasing calm, familiar enough to make his chest tighten.
"...Iris?" he said softly, the name feeling strange on his tongue.
[In the flesh—well, not yet. Not until you're ready.]
"How?" he asked, his voice calm but threaded with disbelief.
[You'll understand soon enough. But for now...]
The air rippled. A stark white prompt flared before his eyes.
[You are now in the presence of: Berserker.]
A heavy thud echoed ahead as a hulking Corrupted stepped from the shadows between the petrified trees.
It was almost identical to the one that had slaughtered Thalen—its form all twisted muscle and black skin, its molten eyes burning with hunger.
Kaisen rolled his neck, exhaling slowly.
"Keep it moving, man. I'm not in the mood."
The Berserker roared, the sound shaking the trees, and charged.
[No.] Iris's voice sliced through the noise, sharp and clear. [Test the blade.]
"The blade?" he muttered, eyes still locked on the charging monster.
[That static in your fingers—materialize it. Call it.]
He didn't question. He simply raised his hand. The faint spark between his fingers flared, and darkness gathered—thick, tangible, alive.
It wasn't the absence of light but the birth of something else.
A dagger formed in his grasp, its black surface swallowing what little light the Deadzone offered, its edges shimmering faintly like a dying star.
The name came to him unbidden, a whisper from the knowledge Karihad had left behind.
"...Nirvhal."
[Yes. Now feed it.]
The Berserker's massive arm came crashing down to pulp him into the dirt.
Kaisen didn't move.
And then—he was behind it.
No flash, no blur of motion. To anyone watching, it would've looked like he had simply… relocated.
The Berserker's arm hit the ground first, severed clean at the shoulder.
The creature stared in dumb shock for a breath, then bellowed in pain.
Kaisen's mouth curved into a slow, dangerous smirk.
The power moved with him. Anticipated him. It answered his will before he could even think.
"I see."
[Finish it.]
The Berserker spun, screaming, swinging wildly. This time, Kaisen met it head-on.
Nirvhal became a blur of consuming darkness.
He flowed through its attacks—clean, deliberate, unrelenting. The blade sang in short, efficient arcs, carving through corrupted flesh and bone like mist.
Seconds later, the Berserker collapsed, twitching once before going still.
The world fell quiet again.
Notifications flared across his vision.
[You Have Slain Corrupted: Berserker]
[You Have Gained 42 Soul Energy]
[You Have Leveled Up]
[You Have Reached Level 30!]
He stood over the corpse, breathing even, heart steady.
A warmth spread from the blade into his arm—a pull, a rush, a satisfaction that felt almost holy.
His eyes gleamed.
"More," he whispered to the hungry dark in his hand. "More souls."
The blade hummed softly in response.
---
Inside the cab of a battered armored transport, two scavengers rattled through the Deadzone.
Blight fog pressed against the reinforced glass, thick as smoke. Both men wore their breathers tight; out here, a single leak could kill.
"How the hell'd you lose an artifact in this dump?" the driver grumbled, wrestling the wheel.
His partner, a scarred man with half a jawline of metal, snorted. "Better here than in the rift. If it stayed in there, it's gone for good."
The driver laughed once, humorless. "You really think anyone's finding it now? This place is a graveyard."
A sound cut through the hum of the engine—distant crashes, a roar, then silence.
The driver frowned, killing the engine. "You hear that?"
"Yeah," the scarred man muttered, already reaching for the rifle between them. "Grab a weapon."
They stepped out cautiously, boots crunching on the brittle earth.
The clearing ahead stopped them dead.
Corpses. Dozens of them.
Gutter Imps, Spined Stalkers, even two Berserkers—torn apart, scattered like butcher's scraps.
The air shimmered with soul residue, the copper tang of blood mixing with ozone.
And at the center stood a single figure.
Kaisen.
Silent. Drenched in blood that wasn't his own. His clothes shredded, his eyes sharp and distant.
In his hand, the black dagger steamed faintly as if cooling after being drawn from the forge of some dying god.
The scavengers froze, breath fogging their helmets.
"What... the hell..." one whispered, his rifle trembling.
The other said nothing. He just stared at the lone man standing atop a mountain of corpses—a massacre that should've taken a full squad of Awakened.
And the way that man looked back at them… it wasn't human anymore.