Citadel Ebonreach, Outer Slums—
Ashfall: Light
Wind: Low, hollow
A gaunt young man sat alone on a cracked concrete ledge overlooking the outer slums.
Citadel Ebonreach loomed above him like a wall built to mock the weak—tier upon tier of polished stone and radiant light, rising far beyond the choking smog. From here, the inner districts looked unreal. Clean. Untouchable.
In his hands, the young man cradled a small tin cup.
Inside it swirled real tea.
Not synthesized leaf-substitute. Not boiled sludge stamped with an expiration date older than he was. Real leaves, steeped in hot water. Earthy. Faintly fragrant.
Luxury.
It had cost him nearly everything he'd scavenged over the past month.
Today, Asterion decided, was worth it.
After all—
—his life was quietly ending.
He lifted the cup, inhaled the aroma, and took a careful sip.
"…Ugh."
His face twisted immediately.
"Bitter as hell."
He glared at the dark liquid as if it had personally betrayed him. After a second of silent judgment, he forced another swallow.
Gulp.
Grimace.
"Should've bought smoked rat instead," he muttered. "At least that tastes like something. This stuff's supposed to be luxury?"
A gust of wind swept across the ledge, carrying fine gray ash from the distant breach zones.
Fffffsh.
Asterion slapped his cheek lightly.
"Tch. Stay awake."
He drained the rest of the tea with stubborn resolve. Bitter or not, wasting it now would be unforgivable.
Standing, he looked upslope once more.
The inner citadel glowed—warm lights, wide streets, tall silhouettes moving without hunching their shoulders. People with full stomachs and unbroken sleep cycles.
He envied their height almost as much as he envied their food.
"Three meals a day will do that to you," he murmured.
He flicked the empty tin cup toward a rusted disposal bin.
Clang—tktktk.
It bounced off the rim and rolled into the dust.
Asterion sighed.
Then, with a resigned shake of his head, he walked over, picked it up, and placed it inside properly.
Old habits died hard.
Unlike people.
With a faint, crooked grin, he turned and headed downhill.
Toward the Enforcement Outpost.
—Outpost 17-C—
Interior: Fluorescent hum
Air: Oil, metal, sweat
The building squatted at the edge of the district like a concrete tumor—thick walls, armored shutters, weapon slits hidden behind innocuous seams.
Inside, a bored guard in patched armor glanced up from his terminal.
He scowled.
"You lost, kid?"
Asterion took in the room slowly. Reinforced plating. Emergency blast doors. A dozen small design choices all screaming the same message:
This place expects violence.
The guard snapped his fingers.
"Hey. I'm talking to you."
Asterion cleared his throat.
"No."
The guard blinked.
Asterion scratched the back of his neck, forcing casualness into his posture.
"Under Section Nine of the Citadel Containment Act," he said, "I'm here to report voluntary registration as a carrier of the Eclipse Curse."
Click.
The room changed.
The guard's irritation vanished, replaced by something colder. More careful. His eyes traced Asterion's thin frame, the pallor of his skin, the bruised shadows beneath his eyes.
"…You're sure?" the guard asked. "Symptoms confirmed?"
Asterion shrugged.
"Started four days ago. Can't stay awake more than a few hours now."
The guard went pale.
"Shit."
His hand slammed down on a red panel.
"CODE RED! LOBBY! CODE RED—NOW!"
The Eclipse Curse had descended on the world generations ago.
After the God-War. After the collapse.
No one knew where it came from—only that it began with sleep.
Unnatural drowsiness sweeping through districts. Entire populations nodding off mid-conversation. Authorities called it exhaustion. Stress. Reconstruction fatigue.
Then people stopped waking up.
Comas followed.
Then the first bodies twisted.
Rose.
And tore through barricades with mouths full of screaming void.
No army could hold the line.
Only the Eclipse Walker—those rare few who survived their Nightmares and returned with divine shards carved into their souls—managed to push the darkness back.
They built the citadels.
They enforced the fragile order that remained.
For most people, being chosen by the Curse was a gamble.
Death… or ascension.
Children trained in combat from a young age. Wealthy houses hired private masters. Legacy clans hoarded ancient Echoes and Memories to pass down.
The richer you were, the better your odds.
For someone like Asterion—
No family.
No training.
No inheritance.
The Curse wasn't a gamble.
It was a grave with a delayed lid.
—Outpost Sub-Level—
Restraint Chamber
Lighting: Dim red
Minutes later, Asterion sat strapped into a heavy alloy chair.
Thick restraints locked his arms and legs in place. The seat looked like it was designed to hold something much larger than him.
Armed enforcers lined the walls.
Rifles ready. Fingers tense.
He barely noticed them.
All he could think about was how desperately he wanted to close his eyes.
Just for a second.
The vault door hissed open.
HSSSSSS—
An older enforcer entered. Gray-streaked hair. Scarred face. Eyes worn down by too many breaches and not enough victories.
He checked the restraints, then glanced at his wrist chrono.
"Name?"
Asterion blinked, fighting the fog.
"Asterion."
The man raised an eyebrow.
"No family name?"
Asterion tried to shrug. The straps stopped him.
"Never needed one. Out here, most don't bother."
A yawn slipped out before he could stop it.
"My mother named me during a total nightfall eclipse," he added. "Said it fit."
The enforcer grunted.
"Anyone you want notified?"
Asterion shook his head.
"No one left."
Something dark crossed the man's face.
"…How long can you hold out?"
"Not long."
The enforcer exhaled sharply.
"Then listen carefully. Stay awake as long as you can."
He didn't wait for a response.
"You know the basics?"
"Yeah," Asterion murmured. "Fall asleep. Nightfall trial. Kill things. Maybe come back stronger."
"Not the propaganda version."
Asterion cracked one eye open. "Go on."
"You'll face monsters," the enforcer said. "But also people. Guards. Civilians. Slaves. None of them are real."
"How can you be sure?"
The man's gaze hardened.
"Because if you hesitate to kill a child or a friend in there, you die. Believe they're illusions. It makes it easier."
Asterion absorbed that in silence.
"Luck matters," the enforcer continued. "Your scenario, starting position—it should be survivable. The Curse creates trials, not instant executions."
A pause.
"You're disadvantaged. But slum kids survive things others don't. Remember that."
"Right," Asterion muttered.
"Your Aspect awakens inside. Check your Soul Core immediately. Attributes. Skills. If it's combat-oriented, you're in better shape."
The room dimmed at the edges.
"If it's utility or strange… don't panic. Almost every Aspect has value."
Almost.
"If you survive," the enforcer said quietly, "you'll wake up a awakened."
"And if I don't?"
A grim look.
"You'll open a breach right here."
The armed men stiffened.
"We'll handle it. Try not to die immediately, kid. Reinforcements are hours away."
Half-gone already, Asterion smiled faintly.
"Appreciate the confidence."
Darkness pressed in.
Heavy.
Cold.
With that, sleep claimed him.
—VOID—
Silence.
Then—
A voice.
Cold. Vast. Unavoidable.
[Aspirant.]
[You have been claimed by the Eclipse Curse.]
[Prepare for your First Nightfall trial.]
Heartbeat: Gone.
Light: Extinguished.
Descent: Begin.