The rain fell like knives. Not loud, not heavy—just sharp. Crispin stood still in the alley's mouth, face turned toward the sky, letting the cold wet slide down his scars. His Echoes waited beside him, barely visible, silent as the shadows of gods.
Blackridge was holding its breath.
The rebellion had grown too fast. Too loud. Now the System had answered. Not with Hunters. Not with soldiers.
With Vultures.
No one had seen them enter the city.
No one ever did.
They didn't kick down doors or issue demands.
They simply killed.
And tonight, they would come for the Crown.
Yara's voice crackled softly through the comm pin in his ear. "Three blocks east. South side's gone cold. They hit the factory. Everyone's gone."
Crispin didn't blink.
He didn't speak.
He just turned and walked into the dark.
Because the only way to stop ghosts—
Was to become something worse.
Crispin moved through the backstreets like smoke, each step measured, his Echoes slipping along the alley walls. The glow of the Crown had dimmed to a low pulse — like a warning. Not to him.
To them.
He reached the south corridor where the factory once stood. It wasn't just destroyed — it had been erased. Charred bodies still smoked in the rubble. The heat hadn't even left the stones yet. And not a single trace of magic had been used.
This wasn't war.
It was surgical.
"They made this look like a firebomb," Revenna's voice cut in through his comm, "but it's not. Not even a burn on the steel pipes. It's all distraction."
"Keep your team spread," Crispin said, scanning the rooftops. "They're funneling us. Trying to corner."
"They're good," Yara said, breathing hard. "Too good."
A metallic clang echoed in the distance. Then silence again.
It was never just one Vulture.
They always came in threes.
Crispin gave the signal. Three fingers down. Echoes flickered to high ground. Revenna vanished from view. Yara crouched, fingers glowing.
Then a whisper: "Right behind you."
Crispin turned, blade up, but nothing was there.
Not at first.
Then out of the shadows, a mask. Sleek. Seamless. No eyes. Just a mirrored face and a gloved hand reaching for his throat—
But the Crown flared.
Crispin caught the wrist, twisted, and slammed the assassin into the wall. The Vulture rolled, rising fluidly, already drawing two blades.
"Hello, Crown-bearer," the voice came, too calm. "We've been watching."
"Then you should've stayed in the shadows," Crispin growled, and lunged.
The Vulture didn't breathe like a man. It moved like a code—clean, without effort, each shift of its blade calculated a second before it happened. Crispin ducked, spun left, rolled off the wet concrete, and still the edge of the Vulture's dagger kissed his ribs. Not deep—measured. Testing him.
He gritted his teeth and summoned an Echo to flank.
But the Vulture pivoted.
It stabbed the Echo in the eye without looking.
Like it knew.
Crispin flinched. "You're copying my rhythm…"
The Vulture said nothing.
But then, it began to move faster. His own movements—repeated, mimicked, then improved.
Revenna's voice crackled through his comm: "Crispin, what the hell is that thing?"
He didn't answer. Couldn't.
The assassin was now using his own sword style—like it had learned it just by watching. One wrong breath and this thing would own him.
Crispin's back slammed against the alley wall, ribs aching. Rain trickled down his temple.
"Crown," he growled, "you better wake up."
The Crown responded like a lightning strike to the spine.
His body burned—not with pain, but with clarity.
His Echoes roared to life again—but not the usual ones.
New ones.
Two monstrous beasts he didn't recognize stood at his side—one with a horned skull, the other armored in bone. Both snarling.
The Vulture stopped moving.
For the first time… it hesitated.
Crispin pushed off the wall, lifted his blade, and bared his teeth. "You think I'm the same as when I walked into this city?"
He pointed at the monster beside him. "That thing right there? I killed it yesterday. You don't want to know what I'll kill tomorrow."
The Vulture lunged.
The Echoes lunged back.
And the alley disappeared into chaos.
he Vulture moved like a blade made of memory—slipping through gaps that shouldn't exist, slicing through Echoes like they were mist. But these weren't the usual mindless phantoms Crispin summoned. These two… they remembered how to fight.
The bone-armored Echo took the Vulture's dagger straight to the neck and still kept swinging, dragging the assassin into the wall with a brutal crunch. The horned one pounced like a predator, pinning the Vulture with claws that cracked the street.
But it wasn't over.
The Vulture whispered something in a dead language.
And detonated.
A burst of kinetic energy erupted from its chest, vaporizing both Echoes in a wave of shrapnel and smoke. Crispin hit the ground hard, ears ringing, vision full of static.
Revenna's voice roared through the comm: "Crispin, report! Where are you?!"
He couldn't answer yet. Not through the smoke. Not with the ringing.
Through the haze, the Vulture stood again. Broken. But not dead.
Its mask was gone.
What stared back at Crispin wasn't a man.
It wasn't even close.
Its skin was pale, almost translucent. Veins glowed blue under it. No lips. No pupils. Just a twisted copy of a human face stretched over something engineered.
Crispin dragged himself to his feet, blood running down his temple. "You're not real…"
The thing cocked its head, voice glitching. "We are perfected. You… are the variable."
A second figure dropped behind him.
The third Vulture.
They came in threes.
Revenna burst onto the scene, sword spinning, slicing clean through the third's thigh. It staggered.
Yara hit the first one with a bolt of raw, uncontrolled magic that lit the sky blue-white.
The force sent Crispin flying back into the wall. His vision blurred. His shoulder cracked.
But he smiled through the pain.
"They're not invincible."
Revenna stood over him, breathing hard, blood on her knuckles. "No. But they don't die easy."
The first Vulture looked up, half its face melted off.
And it was smiling.
"They're enjoying this," Yara whispered, horrified.
"Good," Crispin said, eyes hard. "So am I."
Smoke and blood filled the air. Rain mixed with ash. Somewhere in the broken cityscape, alarms began to scream. Not Council ones—rebellion ones.
The entire block was awake now.
People poured into the streets—some armed, others terrified. But they all saw the same thing:
Crispin David, bloodied and limping, standing with Revenna and Yara between them and death.
The Vultures didn't retreat.
They never did.
The third one rose again despite a missing leg. Crawled toward Crispin like its body didn't understand pain. It left a trail of blue-black liquid that hissed when it hit the ground.
"Fall back," Revenna snapped to the civilians. "Now. Move!"
But no one moved.
Because something had changed.
The people weren't running this time.
They were watching.
Some lifted makeshift weapons—rusted pipes, enchanted chains, broken mana casings. Others just stood, fists clenched, eyes locked on the fight.
"You see this?" Crispin called out, voice hoarse but strong. "This is what they send when we speak too loud. They want silence."
He raised his blade.
"I say we get louder."
The third Vulture lunged again.
This time it was met by a dozen Echoes—ones Crispin didn't summon.
Yara turned, confused. "Wait—those aren't yours."
They weren't.
All around the square, others had started summoning.
Young Hunters. Awakened rebels. Civilians with dormant gifts flaring for the first time. The fear was gone. The city had cracked.
And something divine slipped through the fracture.
Crispin looked around, eyes wide.
The air pulsed.
Like a second heartbeat rising beneath Blackridge.
The Vultures sensed it too.
They froze.
Not from fear.
From calculation.
They were thinking.
And that was new.
"They weren't expecting this," Yara whispered.
"They thought we'd break," Revenna muttered. "Instead…"
"We're becoming something worse than dangerous," Crispin said, staring directly into the mask of the first Vulture.
"We're becoming ungovernable."
he crowd was no longer just a backdrop—it was a storm gathering strength.
Crispin's eyes burned with resolve. His Crown flared to life, spilling pale light that danced over every shattered brick and every face hardened by years of fear.
"This ends now," he shouted. "No more hiding. No more running. Tonight, Blackridge remembers what it means to fight."
Echoes burst forth from every shadow, summoned not just by him, but by the people—the forgotten, the broken, the angry. They surged into the streets like a tidal wave, howling with rage.
The Vultures snarled, knives flashing as they tried to slice through the rising tide.
Revenna fought beside Crispin like a whirlwind, blade carving through steel and shadow, never faltering.
Yara's magic roared, weaving barriers and blasts that shattered the rain-soaked night.
But the Vultures were relentless—machine precision with human cruelty.
The battle twisted and turned through alleys, over rooftops, beneath flickering streetlamps. Every corner brought fresh danger, every breath tasted like iron and fire.
At one point, Crispin found himself pinned, surrounded by two Vultures. They smiled—cruel, empty smiles that made his blood freeze.
Then the unthinkable happened.
One of the Vultures hesitated.
Its blade paused midair.
A crack.
And from the cracks, a whisper:
"You're not just fighting for survival. You're fighting for a future they want to erase."
Crispin gritted his teeth, feeling the truth in those words strike deeper than any wound.
With a roar, he shattered their formation.
The fight was far from over.
But something inside the city had shifted.
Chains were breaking.
And fire was rising.
The rain slowed to a drizzle, but the storm inside the ruined street was far from over. Crispin's breaths came hard, burning in his chest like fire. Around him, the bodies of fallen rebels and shattered Echoes lay tangled with the broken forms of the Vultures—dead, dying, or waiting for another strike.
He locked eyes with the last Vulture standing—its mask cracked and smeared with blood, revealing pale skin stretched tight over sharp cheekbones and a cold, unblinking glare.
"You think this fight changes anything?" it snarled, voice rough like metal grinding. "You're a flicker in a storm you can't hope to survive."
Crispin tightened his grip on the Crown, feeling its power humming beneath his skin. "Maybe. But flickers start wildfires."
With a guttural yell, he charged forward, every step echoing the years of pain and loss that led him here. Their blades met with a clash that rang out across the empty streets—steel biting steel, sparks flying in the wet night.
The Vulture was fast, matching Crispin's every move, parrying and countering with deadly precision. For a moment, they were equals—hunter and hunted, locked in a dance of death.
Then, the Vulture struck low, aiming to finish it with a strike to Crispin's side.
Crispin twisted, pain exploding, but he managed to swing his sword in a wide arc—catching the Vulture's wrist and snapping the blade aside.
With a roar, he drove the tip of his sword deep into the Vulture's side. The assassin gasped, staggering back, eyes wide with shock and something like fear.
It collapsed onto the wet stone, coughing blood.
Around them, the rebels paused, breathing heavily but alive.
Crispin stood over the fallen enemy, sword dripping.
"This is just the beginning," he said, voice low.
The city around them was broken, but its heart was beating strong.
The first light of dawn crept over Blackridge, pale and uncertain, but unstoppable. The rain had stopped. The fires were dying. The silence left behind was heavy—thick with the weight of survival and sacrifice.
Crispin stood amidst the ruin, the Crown glowing softly against his bruised skin. Around him, rebels tended wounds, gathered fallen Echoes, and whispered names of those who would never rise again.
Yara approached, her face streaked with grime and tears, but her eyes held fire.
"We did it," she said quietly.
Revenna nodded beside her, exhaustion etched deep into her features.
Crispin looked out over the city. The Vultures were gone—for now—but their shadow lingered in every cracked wall and broken window.
"This is only the first step," he said. "The System will come back harder. But so will we."
He clenched his fist, the Crown flaring bright.
"Blackridge is waking up. And we're not stopping."
The rebellion was no longer just embers.
It was a blaze.
And Crispin was its heart.