It felt like only a moment had passed. Xarion struggled to open his eyes, each eyelid heavy as stone. His limbs resisted movement, uncooperative and alien, as if they did not belong to him. After what felt like an eternity, he finally managed to peel his eyes open.
Confusion took hold of him immediately. What he saw did not make sense.
He lay on his back, that much he could feel, the ground beneath him was cold, uneven, and unmistakably rough stone. But above him was no open sky or ruined throne room ceiling. Instead, a low ceiling made of jagged rock loomed just a few meters above his face. It looked natural, untouched by tools or civilization.
Slowly, wincing from phantom pain that no longer seemed to exist, he turned his head. His surroundings were more of the same, stone walls on all sides, completely enclosing him. The space around him formed a cramped box no larger than five meters across. There were no windows, no doors, no visible way in or out. It was as if the earth itself had swallowed him whole and sealed him away.
The man the world had once called the Diamond Dragon sat up cautiously. He expected agony. He expected his broken bones to protest and his torn muscles to scream. Instead, he felt no pain. Rising to his feet was surprisingly easy.
Then he looked down at himself.
His body was intact. Perfect, even. No burns. No cuts. No bruises. But something was off. Very off. His skin, once a golden tan, now carried a pale gray hue, like weathered ash.
"Why am I gray?" he asked aloud. His voice, though hoarse, echoed through the enclosed space.
He patted himself down, searching for any hint of the wounds he knew he should have had. But there were none. Not even a scar. His skin, though strange in color, was smooth and unmarred. Questions began to flood his mind.
Where was he?
How had he survived?
Why was he so calm?
He should have been overwhelmed with fear or relief or something, anything. Instead, he felt a stillness, a neutrality that was almost eerie.
His gaze drifted to the center of the room. There, standing silently, was a small stone statue he had not noticed until now. It was of a swaddled infant, wrapped in a carved blanket. The baby's face was completely hidden.
Xarion instinctively stepped back. Something about the statue unsettled him. It was too pristine, too deliberate, standing in this otherwise barren room.
He took a moment to scan the chamber again, this time with greater focus. No runes. No inscriptions. No markings of any kind. There were no openings, no seams in the stone, and yet he was breathing.
That realization hit him like a wave.
He exhaled, then waited. He took a deep breath and held it. Ten seconds. Twenty. Forty. A full minute passed, and yet his body gave no signs of distress. No air seemed necessary.
It was unnatural.
And then another thought entered his mind.
He felt weak.
Not injured. Weak.
It had been years, more than a decade, since he last felt this fragile. His body no longer radiated the strength of a hardened warrior. He lacked power, speed, and resilience. He was diminished. Broken down to something far less than he had once been.
With that thought, two words formed on his lips.
"Soul Status."
The moment the words left his mouth, a surge of information flooded his mind. A familiar screen appeared before his eyes, not physically, but mentally. The data embedded itself in his thoughts as clearly as if etched into stone.
[Name: Xarion Diamoriel
Faction: Undead
Race: Netherborn
Rank: Aspirant
Level: 1
Experience: 0%]
[Attributes
Strength: 1
Vitality: 1
Defense: 1
Agility: 1
Dexterity: 1
Intelligence: 1
Will: 1
Charisma: 1
Perception: 1
Magic: 1
Total: 10]
[Skills
Passive: Hero's Journey, Bound to the Labyrinth
Active: Hero's Eyes, Master of the Undead]
"What the fu—" Xarion began, stumbling back against the wall. He slid down to the ground, head spinning.
His level had been reset.
His attributes were at their bare minimum.
But even more concerning were the lines that labeled him. His faction. His race.
Undead.
Netherborn.
That was not possible.
He closed his eyes and tried to breathe through the panic. His thoughts drifted back to the day everything changed.
The Emergence.
It had struck without warning. One day the world had been stable, predictable. The next, it had descended into chaos. Monsters appeared in every nation, every city, every forest. Entire civilizations were swallowed in a matter of days. Humanity's collective knowledge became nearly obsolete.
In the wake of destruction, something new had awakened, an ability to quantify oneself. Those who survived their first encounters with monsters could access a unique ability known as the Soul Status. With it came knowledge of one's strengths and potential, and most importantly, the mysterious abilities called Skills, which gave humanity the power to fight back.
From the ruins of society, intense and thorough research was done and patterns began to emerge.
First, every person who accessed their Soul Status for the first time had two skills. One active, one passive. Passive skills functioned continuously, and could be enable and disabled at will by the user. Active skills required deliberate activation and came with cooldowns and energy costs.
Second, the fields labeled "Faction" and "Race" were always the same for everyone.
Humanity.
Human.
Without exception.
Until now.
"So why?" Xarion whispered, his gaze returning to his Soul Status.
"Why does it say Undead and Netherborn?"
He clenched his fists, the gray skin of his knuckles tightening. Something had changed. Not just in the world, but in him.
And he had no idea why.
After several moments lost in a whirlwind of scattered thoughts, Xarion began to understand the reasons behind his unnatural state. The lack of breath, the absence of panic, the eerie calmness in his heart despite everything he had endured, none of it was natural. These were not the attributes of a living man. These were traits of something else entirely. Something colder.
He was dead.
Or, to be more accurate, he was undead.
A race of monsters feared throughout the world. They required no food, no sleep, nor air to breathe. They did not age, nor did they suffer from fatigue. They existed for one purpose alone, to kill and destroy. The thought chilled him to his core.
And now, he was one of them.
"No," he whispered to himself, clenching his fists as if that alone could deny the truth.
"No, that is not right," he muttered again, and then shouted the words.
His rage boiled to the surface, hot and unbearable. He slammed his fist against the nearest wall, the rocky surface tearing his gray skin open. Where there should have been searing pain, he felt only a dull throb. Numbness.
"I am not some monster! Do you hear me?" he screamed, each word laced with fury and desperation. His fists pounded against the wall again and again. Flesh split open. Bone cracked. Still, he kept hitting, unable to stop himself. It was as if he needed the pain, even if it would not come.
How could this happen? He was human.
He had not just been human. He had been a hero. A protector. A symbol of hope for mankind. He had sacrificed everything to save the world from ruin. He had led the charge, united the factions, and stared death in the face more times than he could count.
So why did his Soul Status say he was a monster? Could it be an error? A glitch in the system? He entertained the thought briefly before dismissing it. The Soul Status came directly from the soul itself. It did not lie. It could not lie.
Then how?
His fists slowed. The fury drained from his limbs. His shoulders slumped.
Despair took its place.
He was no longer the man he once was. He had become the very thing he had sworn to destroy. Was there even a purpose to continuing on?
He stared blankly at the wall before him, the same wall he had abused in frustration. The black, uneven surface gave no answers. It only mirrored his hopelessness.
Would it not be better to end it now?
His comrades had ensured his death. Perhaps that had been the right choice. Perhaps they had seen what he could not. That he was better off dead.
Was life worth living if he had become a thing of horror? If he was now fated to exist only to undo everything he had once fought for?
His mind spiraled. The logic was simple. Kill the monster. End the cycle.
He even found himself calculating how many strikes it might take to end his own life by slamming his skull against the wall hard enough.
His eyes dimmed. His breathing, while no longer necessary, slowed as he mentally prepared for the end.
Then, from the darkness of his mind, a face emerged.
That familiar, painful, beautiful face.
That damned face.
He remembered the warmth of their hand in his. He remembered their final breath. Their final words.
"Save this world. Be the person you always needed, to save you"
Those words pierced deeper than any sword ever had.
Would he break his promise now?
Would he give up before the journey had even begun?
Would he spit on this second chance, forsaking everything he had lived and died for?
No.
No.
"No!"
He roared the word, slamming his fist against the wall one last time.
And then he breathed, figuratively. He let himself calm. Slowly, the storm in his heart began to quiet. He centered himself, eyes burning with newfound determination.
This would not be the end.
Not yet.
Now composed, he turned his focus back to the Soul Status. There were two new skills listed. Two unfamiliar names beside two old ones he knew intimately. He would start with what he knew.
[Passive – Hero's Journey
Upon leveling up, the user gains +1 to all attributes instead of 5 freely distributable points.]
He smiled slightly at the sight.
This skill was one of the greatest reasons he had risen so high during his life. In the world after the Emergence, the path to power came from battle. Combat granted experience, and once a person filled their experience bar to one hundred percent, they would level up. Upon leveling, five attribute points were awarded, which could be distributed freely.
Most chose to specialize. Some focused on Strength to deal heavy damage. Others favored Vitality to endure longer. Few spread their points evenly.
But not Xarion.
Thanks to this skill, every time he leveled up, instead of five points to divide, he received one point in every attribute. At a glance, it seemed inferior. Being good at everything often meant being excellent at nothing.
But the math said otherwise.
Ten attributes. One point each. Ten total.
Everyone else received five points.
He received ten.
That meant, level by level, he was twice as powerful as any other person. This gave him overwhelming advantage in every encounter, and allowed him to take on enemies far beyond his level.
Satisfied that the skill had remained unchanged, Xarion moved on.
[Active – Hero's Eyes
Allows the user to perceive basic information about a target, including name, level, rank, faction, attributes, and possibly their skills. Effectiveness scales with Intelligence and Will.
Cooldown: 10 seconds
Cost: 1% Stamina]
He chuckled. This skill had been his second blade in battle, an invisible edge that let him win fights before they even started. It was deceptively simple. By activating it, he could see part of his opponent's Soul Status. Their level. Their attributes. Their abilities.
It gave him the information he needed to strategize. To exploit weaknesses.
It was not perfect. Its effectiveness depended on the gap between his Intelligence and Will and that of his target. If the target was vastly superior in those attributes, the skill would fail.
But with Hero's Journey boosting his stats evenly, his Intelligence and Will had always been high enough to use Hero's Eyes reliably. Only the most powerful enemies had ever hidden themselves from his gaze.
He relaxed a little. Despite everything, some things had remained the same.
Now, it was time to look at the new skills.
"I have a bad feeling about this," he muttered, exhaling.
And then he opened the next skill.