Brock crouched atop a jagged ridge, spear in hand, sword sheathed at his side. The valley below was a chaotic expanse of ruins, fractured roads, and debris-strewn terrain. The Time Rend had been relentless all July, and now early August brought the final waves.
He pitched his makeshift tent on a small elevation, barricading it with rubble and scavenged wood. Supplies were limited—bandages, food, and water carefully rationed—but the horde was coming.
Morning — First Engagement
The first low moans of the undead echoed through the valley. Weak zombies emerged, stumbling through fissures and debris, while mutated and armored zombies moved with uncanny, terrifying precision.
Instinctively, Brock activated Combat Sense. The battlefield lit up in his mind: weak points, attack intentions, and movement patterns. As he lunged into the fray:
Spear jab into a mutated zombie's shoulder joint → XP +15 (reduced from 20)
Elbowing a weak zombie into a fissure, then stabbing another → XP +2 +2
Grappling an armored zombie, twisting it into rubble, striking a joint → XP +25 (reduced from 30)
Current XP: 18 + 44 = 62 / 5120
The valley moved like a living organism. Zombies approached from all angles, forcing Brock to pivot, roll, and leap between debris. Hand-to-hand combat became essential—pushing, shoving, twisting, and redirecting enemies into hazards.
Midday — Environmental Mastery
The sun reached its peak, illuminating the ruined valley in stark light. Brock had begun noticing subtle differences: weak zombies still gave him the small XP and the payoff from mutated and armored enemies felt lighter—he didn't recognize the change immediately.
He vaulted over a toppled wall, swinging the spear downward on a mutated zombie
[XP +15]
Sliding down rubble, he pushed three weak zombies into fissures
[XP +6]
Armored zombie barreled through a narrow alley; Brock grabbed its arm, twisted it into a beam, struck a joint
[XP +25]
Current XP: 62 + 61 = 123
[XP: 123/5120]
Every kill was deliberate. He used terrain and environmental hazards as weapons:
Sludge pools and fissures for traps
Collapsed beams as pendulums
Hand-to-hand strikes to redirect enemies
Afternoon — Overdrive and Consequences
By late afternoon, the waves intensified: hundreds of zombies converging. Brock's Combat Sense Overdrive flared. He could see every weak point, anticipate every movement—but the headache was sharp, vision blurring, and his heart pounded as though trying to escape.
He realized, mid-swing, that repeated Overdrive use carried a risk he hadn't fully comprehended. Becoming a Hallowed—losing himself to the system—was closer than he had thought.
Mutated zombies: 50
[XP +725]
Armored zombies: 15
[XP +375]
Weak zombies: 40
[XP +80]
Subtotal: 725 + 375 + 80 = 1180 XP
Cumulative XP: 123 + 1180 = 1303
[XP: 1303/5120]
The overdrive allowed him to fight like a machine, striking enemies with deadly efficiency. He vaulted over debris, used spear sweeps to clear clusters, elbowed zombies into sludge, and spun around armored enemies to hit weak joints. But each move felt heavier, more taxing.
Evening — Reality Sets In
As dusk settled, Brock paused, surveying the valley. Hundreds of bodies littered the terrain. Sweat, blood, and grime coated his skin.
He noticed something then: the XP from mutated and armored zombies was less than before. Weak zombies gave 2 XP and the difference in gains from tougher enemies was clear.
Mutated zombies previously yielded 20 XP; now only 15
Armored zombies previously yielded 30 XP; now only 25
It was subtle at first, almost imperceptible amidst the chaos—but undeniable. He realized he wouldn't reach Level 10 this rend. With the remaining kills, he calculated he was now roughly 25.45% of the way to Level 10.
The adrenaline still pulsed through him, but a shadow of fear crept in: if he pushed Overdrive too far, he risked losing himself entirely.
"I… can't keep doing this. Not yet."
He let the tent serve as a temporary haven, catching his breath while keeping his spear ready. The Time Rend would not pause, and the valley would demand every ounce of his skill tomorrow.
Brock had survived the relentless Time Rend, using terrain, weapons, and sheer adaptability to carve through waves of undead. But now he faced a new challenge: limiting Overdrive to stay in control, conserving energy, and preparing for what might be an even greater threat ahead.
For weeks, he had pushed himself, overdriving Combat Sense and relying on Adrenaline Rush to carry him through the relentless Time Rend. But something was wrong.
During a critical moment, a mutated zombie had lunged from an unexpected angle. Brock had aimed for its weak point—he should have struck cleanly—but his Combat Sense flickered, unstable. The strike barely grazed the creature. Another wave approached from the ridge; he jumped, rolled, but again his Talent failed to anticipate their movements accurately.
It wasn't his mind fracturing. It wasn't fatigue. The repeated Overdrive had made his Talent unstable, failing him when he needed it most.
"I can't risk this," he muttered, gritting his teeth.
He realized he wouldn't reach Level 10 this rend. With the remaining kills, he calculated he was now roughly 73% of the way to Level 10.
And with the looming shadow of being a hallowed he packed up quickly and headed for the hub
Tent dismantled and rolled tight
Supplies and remaining first aid stowed
Spear and sword sheathed, ready for rapid movement
Brock cast one last glance at the valley, now quiet and lifeless, before descending the ridge. The hub was seventeen miles north, and every step back would be a chance to rebuild, rest, and prepare.
He had survived the Time Rend, gained XP, and honed his skills—but he knew better than to push himself further into unpredictability. Control was more important than recklessness.
"Next time, I'll be ready. My Talent won't fail me again."
The valley faded behind him as he began the long trek home, determination burning brighter than exhaustion.
[Level 1 ( sub-level 9 )]
[XP : 3738 / 5120]
[Skills]
Combat Sense (including brief Overdrive)
Adrenaline Rush
................
The walls of the hub rose into view just as the sun dipped behind the ruined skyline.
Brock slowed his pace as he joined the stream of people returning from the outer zones—mercenaries, porters, scavengers, and a few Awakeners whose armor still bore fresh dents and dried blood. Compared to the chaos of the Time Rend, the hub felt almost claustrophobic. Orderly. Controlled.
Too controlled.
At the southern checkpoint, guards scanned his identification tag, their eyes lingering for a moment longer than usual when they saw his status.
Rank: Neutral
Reputation: 20
They waved him through without comment.
Inside, the noise hit him all at once—vendors shouting prices, Awakeners arguing over mission priority, porters dragging carts stacked with scrap and supplies. Brock headed straight for one of the unregistered brokers, the kind who didn't ask questions as long as you delivered.
The man behind the counter barely looked up as Brock placed the proof token on the table.
"Fourth run?" the broker asked.
Brock nodded.
A small terminal chimed.
Reward transferred: 200 credits
That was it. No praise. No record. No reputation.
Just money.
Brock stepped away, fingers tightening around the credit chip in his pocket. Illegal rends paid well, but they left him invisible. Worse—replaceable.
As he walked deeper into the hub, the contrast became obvious. Bronze-ranked mercenaries moved with confidence, their insignias granting them access to better vendors and guarded mission boards. Silver-ranked teams passed through secured corridors, escorted by military personnel.
He wasn't part of that world.
Not yet.
He stopped near the main mission hall, watching Neutral mercenaries line up for Tier 1 postings—warehouse sorting, perimeter patrols, supply escort, cleanup duty. Jobs that paid almost nothing and offered no XP.
But they offered something illegal rends never would.
Reputation.
Brock did the math again, slower this time.
Tier 1 missions were tedious. One credit a day. One reputation every three missions. Painfully slow.
But reputation stacked. Rank unlocked missions. Rank unlocked legal rend access. Rank unlocked leverage.
Illegal rends had made him stronger.
They would never make him legitimate.
His hand brushed the hilt of his sword. He thought of the valley—the moment his Combat Sense had flickered, the instant where instinct failed him. Power without stability was a dead end.
If I want to go further… I need the system to recognize me.
That night, Brock rented the cheapest room he could find—a narrow space with cracked walls and a flickering light. He sat on the edge of the bed, gear neatly stacked, weapons cleaned and stored.
No more illegal contracts for now.
No more gambling with instability.
He opened the public mission board and accepted his first Tier 1 posting of the new stretch.
{Warehouse sorting. One day. One credit.}
Brock exhaled slowly.
"The rest of the year," he said quietly. "I grind."
Not for XP.
Not for money.
But for the right to stand where real power gathered.