I burst through the ancient, rusted iron gates of the cemetery, gulping down the noxious, stale air of Erebos. I found myself staggering into the ruins of what looked like an old, bombed-out market square. Rubble lay everywhere, and the sulfurous orange sky cast long, broken shadows.
The screams had stopped. A chilling silence had replaced the noise, broken only by the distant, rhythmic thump-thump-thump of something large moving far away.
I halted, breathing heavily, the raw energy of the Eternal Core already smoothing out the worst of the fatigue in my new, weak muscles. My Mental Fortress maintained a sharp, clear center, protecting me from the paralyzing fear that should accompany standing alone in this dead landscape.
The ground here was asphalt, cracked and warped, littered with skeletal metal frames of long-dead wooden vehicles. The buildings were shells—windows shattered, walls crumbling. It was a true apocalypse, far worse than any fiction I had read in my original world.
"You should stay still, unless you want to be the next meal."
The voice was low, harsh, and utterly exhausted. It came from behind a leaning slab of concrete, barely ten feet away, and it made the hair stand up on the back of my neck.
A figure emerged. She was small, clad in heavy, patched leather armor that was scuffed and stained dark red. Her face was streaked with soot, and her eyes, ringed by fatigue, were locked on me with shrewd, suspicious calculation. She held a crude, heavy-caliber rifle—an antique by the looks of it—with a familiarity that spoke of constant, desperate use.
"You're fast for a Trench-Rat," she said, her rifle leveling slightly at my chest. The movement was practiced, efficient. "Where did you spring up from? The ground?"
My heart hammered—a purely physical response, since the mental terror was blocked. I kept my hands visible, raising them slowly to show I held no weapon. I needed information, and she was clearly a survivor, a native of this cursed place.
"I... I just got here," I managed, my voice sounding rough and unused.
She scoffed, a dry, dusty sound. "Everyone just got here from somewhere. Let's try again. You're Tier-Zero, ragged, and covered in cemetery dirt, but you smell clean. Where were you hiding during the last patrol sweep?"
I couldn't tell her about the Junction, the Entity, or the wishes. I needed a lie, immediately.
She narrowed her eyes, impatience hardening her features. "Well? Speak. If you're a Void-worshipper trying to infiltrate the Outer Ring, I'll end this quickly."
My name? Did I even have one now? I seized the memory from the last few moments of my old life—the broken headstone. It was the only identity I possessed in Erebos.
"My name's Lorn," I said, the name feeling foreign, yet grounding. I paused, testing the name of the dead man I was replacing. "Lorn Cairn."
The woman relaxed fractionally, though the rifle didn't drop. Her gaze lingered on the fresh dirt clinging to my rags.
"Lorn Cairn," she repeated, almost a scoff. "Sounds like something you pulled off a tombstone. Fine. I'm Eiara." She finally lowered the rifle an inch, shifting her weight. "Now, Lorn Cairn, tell me why you just came sprinting out of a field of dead men and why you smell like you haven't been eaten yet."
"I..I don't know," I lied smoothly, the Mental Fortress aiding my composure. "I woke up in the dark, underground. I don't remember anything before that."
"Amnesiac," Eiara said flatly, her eyes raking over my gaunt frame. "Convenient. Did you hit your head, or did the Wraiths take a bite out of your memory?"
"Wraiths?"
Her expression tightened. "Don't play stupid. If you're fresh, you'll be a liability. The Patrols sweep this sector for stragglers. If they find you, they'll either enlist you—or feed you to the hounds." She paused, pointing the rifle toward the far shadows where the rhythmic thump was growing slightly louder. "That sound you hear? That's not a patrol. That's it coming to finish off what's left in the sector. Those things feed on flesh and even the remains of the dead"
My senses sharpened. The sound was heavy, deliberate, and growing fast. The air itself seemed to vibrate with its movement. I hadn't acquired any "Danger Sense" skill, but the sheer, primal wrongness of the sound was terrifying.
"What is it?" I whispered.
Eiara didn't answer. She grabbed my arm—her grip surprisingly strong—and hauled me toward a crumbling concrete stairwell leading beneath the ruined market.
"It's the reason we don't stand around talking. If you want to survive your first five minutes, you run when the ground starts shaking."
"They're Coming.