He gasped.
It was a wet, agonizing sound, torn from a throat that had forgotten how to breathe. The cold, sterile white of the Lobby was gone, replaced by the pitch-black, suffocating reality of the alley. He wasn't floating. He was lying in a puddle of his own sticky, cooling blood.
His soul had slammed back into his body with the force of a car crash, and the [Resurrection Protocol] was not a gentle light.
It was agony.
He felt the shattered, caved-in pieces of his skull grinding against each other. He felt the torn, brutalized tissue of his brain knitting itself back together with a wet, pulpy squelch. The pain was white-hot, absolute, and so far beyond his experience that his mind couldn't even process it. He convulsed on the pavement, his vision a blur of black spots, biting clean through his own tongue to stop the scream from erupting.
It took a full, agonizing minute. Then, it was over.
He lay there, shaking, his body drenched in sweat and blood. A new, alien sensation thrummed beneath his skin.
[Resurrection Complete. Host Body Stabilized.]
[Level 1 Achieved. Stats Updated.]
[Soul-Body Synchronization Rate: 1.0%]
He pushed himself up onto one elbow. He felt… different. That 1% was tiny, almost imperceptible. But the constant, dull, sickly ache he'd lived with his entire life—the one in his bones, in his chest—was gone. He wasn't "healthy," but for the first time in his memory, he wasn't "sickly." The feeling wasn't joy. It was just... cold.
He forced himself to his feet. He had to get home. As he stumbled, his foot hit something small and metal. He looked down.
A cheap, dragon-shaped keychain. Devis's.
A wave of pure, undiluted hatred, colder and sharper than any emotion he'd ever felt, washed over him. He picked it up. It was just a piece of metal. No magic. No prompt.
Just a reminder. He shoved it deep into his pocket, his face a mask of stone.
The pre-dawn city was dead. 4:30 AM. He slipped into his apartment like a phantom. His grandfather's soft snoring echoed from the other room, a sound from a life that already felt a million miles away.
He went to the bathroom and locked the door. He quietly washed the filth and caked blood from his face, his arms, his neck. When the water ran clear, he looked up.
And he stared.
The face in the mirror was his. But it was wrong. His skull was perfectly healed, not a bruise or a scratch on his pale skin. But his eyes...
His eyes were dead.
The fear was gone. The childish softness was gone. They were empty, cold, and they looked… old. He was looking at a stranger.
'It was a nightmare,' he thought, his mind latching onto the only possible explanation. 'I hit my head. I passed out. I had a horrible, horrible dream.'
He clung to that thought. It was the only thing that made sense. The pain, the monster, the cold woman, the blue screens… it was a trauma-induced hallucination. It had to be.
He couldn't sleep. He sat on his bed, fully dressed, until the sun came up, watching the numbers on his cheap alarm clock change. 5:00 AM. 6:00 AM. 7:00 AM.
He got up. He put on his school uniform. It was the only "normal" thing he could think of to do.
The gates of Seohwan High were a territory line. This wasn't just a school; it was a food chain. A brutal, unspoken hierarchy ruled by strength and appearance, where your face and your fists decided your place. On one side of the courtyard, the "Crows," a lower-tier crew, were shaking down first-years for lunch money. Across the way, the "Vipers," their rivals, watched them like hawks.
And by the main entrance, standing with his own crew, was Devis.
Devis saw him first.
His jaw went slack. His face, usually set in a cocky sneer, went completely, starkly white. He looked like he was seeing a ghost—which, in a way, he was.
Dev just... stopped.
'He's the one who killed me,' he thought. The thought was calm. Clinical.
"H-hey... Dev..." Devis stammered, his tough-guy act evaporating. The other Crows turned, their laughter dying. "Look, man, no hard feelings, right? I just... I didn't hit you that hard..."
Dev didn't say a word. He felt his heart, not pounding with the familiar, rabbit-like terror, but beating with a slow, cold, heavy rhythm. thump... thump... thump.... He felt no fear. He felt no anger. He felt nothing but a vast, cold contempt.
He just... looked at Devis. Held his gaze with his new, dead eyes.
Devis, the bully, the "killer," the enforcer for the Crows, was the first to look away. He flinched, a tiny, terrified cringe, and took a half-step back.
Dev walked past him.
The entire courtyard seemed to go quiet for a second. This tiny, silent interaction had shifted something.
It was not missed.
Standing at her locker, the beautiful, untouchable class president, Mina, watched the entire exchange. She was smart. She saw everything. She saw the power dynamics of the school every day. And she had just watched Devis—a boy who broke arms for fun—cower before Dev, the school's designated punching bag.
She watched Dev's straight, unbroken back as he walked away, and for the first time, her perfectly neutral expression flickered with a spark of genuine, sharp-eyed curiosity.
The rest of the day was a blur. Dev was an automaton. 'It's not real. It's not real. It's not real.' He rushed home the second the bell rang, locking himself in his room. He did his homework. He ate dinner with his grandfather, his single-word answers worrying the old man.
He was terrified of going to sleep.
He fought it. He read his textbooks until the words blurred. He splashed cold water on his face. He did push-ups on his floor until his weak, 1.0%-synced arms screamed. But his body, his mind, was exhausted from dying, healing, and the sheer psychological trauma of the day.
At 11:04 PM, he finally collapsed onto his mattress. His eyes closed.
Instantly, his consciousness snapped.
He was standing in the cold, sterile, white Lobby.
Selina was there, arms crossed, her foot tapping with sharp, impatient rhythm. She looked furious.
"You're late," she said, her voice like ice.
"I... I was..." Dev stammered, the reality crashing down on him. 'It's real. God, it's real.'
"My report said you've been 'conscious' for seventeen hours," she snapped, cutting him off. "Did you think we were a dream? Did you think you could just... not show up for your job? Get this through your new, anomalously-ranked skull, Dreg: You sleep, you're mine."
She tapped a screen in front of her, her expression all cold, hard business.
"Your trial is over. Your job begins. The Ebonguard Faction doesn't carry dead weight. You'll earn your keep, or you'll be fodder. Welcome to the Weeping Woods."
The white room dissolved.
A cold wind hit his face. The smell of copper and rot filled his nose. He was standing alone at the edge of a dark, twisted forest. The trees were black, and from their gnarled branches, thick, red sap dripped like tears of blood.
And in the darkness, he could hear things skittering.
[Faction Mission Issued: The Weeping Woods]
[Objective: Survive one 'Sleep Cycle' (8 hours)]
[Rewards: 100 Nexus Shards, 1x 'Lesser Soul-Essence']
[Penalty for Failure: Faction Expulsion. (Hint: Un-Factioned Dregs are a primary food source.)]