The air in the cramped alley hung thick with the metallic tang of fear and stale magic. Seventeen-year-old Zack leaned against the graffiti-scarred brick, his knuckles white against the worn leather of his gloves. Above the towering, soot-stained buildings, the sky was a perpetual bruise of gray, typical of the industrial sprawl that hugged the edge of the D-Realm Gate. D-Realm: Low. Even the low-ranking gates attracted the lowest ranking demons, and consequently, the lowest ranking human defenders—which was exactly where Zack belonged.
He wasn't an 'Awakened' in the traditional sense. Most teenagers his age who manifested a Divine Grant received flashy, elemental powers—a burst of fire from the God of the Forge, or a shield of wind from the Goddess of the Zephyr. They became heroes, or at least, celebrated skirmishers. Zack's power was different, a silent, chilling gift whispered from a being few dared to name: Thanatos, the God of Death.
His abilities were two-fold, and both were secrets he guarded with a desperate fervor. The first, Rebirth, was a lie he lived. It wasn't immortality, but a cruel form of temporal resilience. When he died, he didn't just respawn; his soul rewound his body to a pre-defined checkpoint, usually within the last few minutes. It felt like being snapped back on an elastic band, a jarring, sickening sensation that left him weaker, but alive. He had 'died' nine times this week alone, the record for a D-Realm cleanup crew.
The second power was the one that truly defined his curse: Soul Absorption. Every time he killed a demon—or anything, really—its residual energy, its very essence, was ripped into him, coalescing into what Thanatos called a Soul Knight. These ethereal, armored forms were visible only to him, hovering like silent, ghostly sentinels around his periphery. He currently had fifty-three. Fifty-three small, invisible weights dragging on his conscience. He knew the purpose: once he reached a certain threshold, the Soul Knights would merge to form a devastating avatar. He just didn't want to know what that threshold was.
A shudder ran down the alley. The air grew suddenly cold, and the sound of grinding stone echoed from the end of the street—the Gate was stabilizing.
"Alright, runt, look alive," snapped Sergeant Kael, a hulking man whose Divine Grant manifested as rock-hard skin. Kael was the only one who didn't dismiss Zack entirely, mostly because Zack was an excellent distraction. "D-Gate's open. Standard Grubs and one, maybe two, Hellhounds. Stick to the shadows and clean up the leftovers. Don't get in the way of the high-ranks."
Zack nodded, his heart thudding a nervous rhythm against his ribs. D-Realm. The demons here were slow, predictable, and had souls the size of marbles. Easy kills, easy Soul Knights.
Suddenly, a shadow detached itself from the wall, a gaunt figure cloaked in tattered black. It wasn't a demon; it was a human, a Gatekeeper—the rare individuals granted powers specifically to manage the rifts. This one was pale, eyes sunken, radiating a raw, dangerous energy.
"Sergeant Kael, retreat your team," the Gatekeeper rasped, his voice dry as bone. "The calculation was wrong. This isn't a D-Gate breach."
Kael scoffed, placing a heavy, stone-clad hand on his pistol. "Gatekeeper, watch your tongue. We're on a schedule, and the city needs reassurance."
"The energy signature… it spiked," the Gatekeeper insisted, trembling. "This is a C-Realm breach, maybe worse. I'm seeing traces of B-Class signature in the stabilization aura. You need to pull back now."
Just as Kael opened his mouth to deliver a furious reprimand, the grinding sound from the portal reached a deafening, tearing shriek. A monstrous claw, black as obsidian and dripping with vile green ichor, punched through the shimmering purple tear in reality. It was far too large for a D-Grub, far too defined for a Hellhound.
The Gatekeeper screamed, not in fear, but warning. "B-Gate! It's a B-Gate opening! Get out!"
Panic erupted. Kael's stone skin didn't protect his mind, and he froze, staring at the widening rift. The behemoth on the other side was forcing the aperture, and the ground began to shake violently.
Zack didn't freeze. His instinct, honed by nine resurrections this week, took over. He drew the only weapon he owned—a plain, slightly rusted iron shortsword. The blade wasn't enchanted, but it hummed faintly when he focused his power.
He saw the B-Class demon emerging—a towering, four-armed monstrosity with a face that was a mask of razor-sharp teeth. It saw Kael, the easiest target, the strongest soul.
Zack didn't charge the demon. He charged the frozen Sergeant.
"Move!" he screamed, shoving Kael out of the demon's direct path just as the creature's claw swept down.
The claw didn't hit the ground; it hit Zack.
There was no pain, only a flash of blinding white heat, and the sound of bone crunching like dry leaves. He felt the terrifying, agonizing wrench of his soul being torn from his body. And then, the snap.
He gasped, staggering backward, clutching his chest. He was standing three feet from where he'd been hit, seconds before the impact. Kael was still frozen. The demon was still completing its swipe. Rebirth.
The memory of his death—the raw, physical sensation of his body being pulverized—was still fresh, making him retch. He was weaker, the invisible Soul Knights around him shimmering with strain.
He looked down at his sword, then up at the horrifying, unstoppable force of the B-Class demon. He had done the impossible: he had seen the future, and it was death.
It's coming back for me, he realized with a cold certainty. The demon had recognized the aberrant soul that had just slipped its grasp.
He took a deep breath, clutching his sword. He didn't have the strength for another Rebirth. This time, he had to make the kill count. He had to gain a Soul Knight worthy of the risk.
He had to kill a B-Class demon.