Shlok staggered forward, one hand pressed to his temple as if to keep his thoughts from spilling out. The other hand was clenched in his pocket, wrapped around the obsidian shard. It pulsed faintly, a morbid rhythm that beat in time with his own frantic heart.
"We need to keep moving," Ananya said, her voice a low, steady anchor in the disorienting gray. She had a hand on his arm, guiding him. "Just focus on putting one foot in front of the other."
He didn't know why he still held the shard. A cold, logical part of his brain screamed at him to throw it away, to cast off the last remnant of the monster. But something deeper, the same instinct that had forged a weapon from his terror, whispered that the shard was a part of him now. It was… warm. Alive.
And it was hungry.
Shlok clenched his jaw, forcing the thought down. "Which way are we even going? There are no landmarks, no sun…"
"That way," she said, pointing. "I think I see something."
He squinted, his eyes straining against the oppressive fog. Then he saw it. A light. Faint, flickering, a pale, lonely glow that cut through the gloom. Hope, sharp and painful, lanced through him. They weren't alone.
"Come on," he urged, his pace quickening. Maybe they knew what this place was. Maybe they could help—
The light grew closer, resolving into a lantern held by a gloved hand, its pale flame swinging in a silent rhythm. Beneath it stood a figure wrapped in a long, tattered gray coat, the hood drawn low over their face. Chains, each one ending in a shard of obsidian like the one in Shlok's pocket, dangled from their belt, clinking softly with each step.
The figure stopped, tilting their head toward them. Their voice was calm, raspy, but it carried the weight of command.
"You're alive. That means you killed it."
Shlok froze. Ananya stepped slightly in front of him, her posture defensive. "Who are you?" she demanded. "What was that thing?"
The hooded figure ignored her, their attention fixed solely on Shlok. They took a step closer, the lantern casting strange, dancing shadows. He still couldn't see their eyes, only the faint, silvery line of a scar running down their cheek.
"A Whisper," they said, the word seeming to suck the air around it. "The lowest breed of Abyssal. Pathetic… but enough to tear apart an unawakened civilian. Yet here you stand."
Shlok swallowed, the lump in his throat feeling like sandpaper. "I don't understand. I didn't— I just… it attacked me, and then—" He lifted his trembling hand, where the shadow blade had appeared. The weapon was gone, but his skin still tingled with its phantom coldness.
The figure studied him for a long, unnerving moment. Then, slowly, they extended their gloved hand, palm up.
"It's true, then. The Shroud chose you. You've awakened."
"Awakened?" Ananya shot back, her voice sharp with disbelief. "He almost died! We were on a subway and now we're in this… nightmare. Stop talking in riddles and tell us what's going on!"
The stranger's head turned slightly toward her, a silent dismissal. "This doesn't concern you, unawakened. You are merely collateral. An echo." Their gaze returned to Shlok. "Give me the Fragment."
Shlok's hand tightened around the shard in his pocket. The warmth intensified, the hunger inside it resonating with his own fear. "How did you know I had it?"
The hooded stranger's lantern flared, and for the briefest, horrifying instant, the world shifted. The mist thinned, revealing writhing shapes at the edge of vision—slithering forms with too many limbs, twisted silhouettes that undulated like weeds in a deep-sea trench. Hungry things. Watching. Waiting. The light returned to normal, and the horrors vanished back into the fog. Ananya let out a choked cry, stumbling back.
The stranger's voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. "Because I have my own. Everyone who awakens is born from a kill. You have stepped through the door into a life where fear is your weapon… and your curse."
Before Shlok could respond, the mist shuddered. A sound rippled through the air—deep, resonant, like the groan of an ancient leviathan waking from a millennia of sleep. The ground quaked beneath their feet.
The stranger's calm demeanor shattered. They spun around, raising the lantern high. "Damn it. The birth of a new Beacon always draws the bigger predators." They turned sharply toward Shlok, urgency cutting through their tone. "Stay behind me. That… is no Whisper."
From the veil of gray ahead, a colossal silhouette emerged. It was a grotesque mockery of a human form, easily twenty feet tall. Its arms were long enough to scrape the ground like towers of flesh, and its body was a chaotic tapestry stitched together from dozens of screaming, moaning faces, their features locked in eternal agony.
A Phantom. Stronger. Hungrier. Drawn by the scent of Shlok's newborn, potent fear.
The stranger didn't hesitate. With a flick of their wrist, the pale flame of the lantern detached, elongating and solidifying into a blade of brilliant white fire that hissed in the damp air.
"Welcome to the Shroud," they said, their voice a low growl as they fell into a battle stance. "If you want to live, learn quickly—or die screaming."
The Phantom threw back its composite head and roared, a sound made of a hundred voices crying out in torment.
And the hunt began.