Zalam stood alone among broken stone and smoke.
The corpse of the Daybreaker lay at his feet, its body still faintly smoldering where shadow had burned through flesh and bone. The silence that followed felt heavier than the fight itself.
His shadow lingered too long.
It did not return to him immediately. It stretched, curled, tasting the air like a living thing before finally sinking back into place. When it did, a sharp ache flared behind his eyes.
Zalam staggered, catching himself on a headstone.
His chest burned—not from injury, but from something deeper. Hunger, maybe. Or absence. The world felt… thinner now, as if something fundamental had shifted and never fully settled back into place.
He exhaled slowly.
"So that's it," he murmured. "I'm alive."
The words sounded unfamiliar.
As he straightened, a chill crept over the cemetery. The fog that had begun to lift suddenly froze in place, unmoving, unnatural. Even the wind fell silent.
Zalam felt it then.
Attention.
Not from the dead.
Not from the world.
From above.
Far beyond the clouds, beyond the sky he had learned to hate, something stirred.
Light fractured across the heavens in thin, jagged lines—too precise to be lightning. Somewhere, a bell rang without sound. Somewhere else, a prayer went unanswered.
In distant cities, candles guttered out in temples. Statues cracked at the eyes. Holy symbols dulled, their glow fading like dying embers.
The gods were watching.
Zalam's fingers twitched.
He did not look up.
"If you're here to kill me," he said quietly, "you're late."
The pressure lingered—cold, vast, judging.
Then it receded.
The sky mended itself. The fog drifted once more. Whatever had been watching withdrew, not in defeat, but in calculation.
Zalam released a breath he hadn't realized he'd been holding.
His shadow stirred again, restless.
"So," he said, glancing at the corpse. "Guess I should move."
The city registrar's hall was loud.
Metal clanged. Voices overlapped. Awakened lined the stone floors—some proud, some nervous, some desperate for recognition. Zalam kept to the edges, his hood pulled low.
Above the entrance, a sigil burned faintly: AWAKENING REGISTRATION – MANDATORY.
He stepped forward when his turn came.
The clerk barely looked up. "Name."
"Zalam."
A pause. The air shifted.
The crystal on the desk flickered as he placed his hand upon it. At first, nothing happened.
Then the light dimmed.
The crystal pulsed—once, twice—before dark veins spiderwebbed across its surface.
The clerk stiffened.
"That's… odd," she muttered.
The device hummed louder, struggling, before abruptly stabilizing. A dull black glow replaced the usual brilliance.
"…Classification?" she said slowly.
The crystal hesitated.
IRREGULAR, the rune finally displayed.
The word sank into the room like a stone into water.
Several people turned. Someone swore under their breath.
The clerk swallowed. "Power type?"
The crystal flickered again.
NIGHT WALKER.
Silence.
The clerk cleared her throat. "You'll be assigned to the Night Walker Academy," she said, voice carefully neutral. "Training begins immediately. You are not to use your abilities in public until instructed."
She slid a metal badge across the desk. Black. Unmarked.
"Report at dawn."
Zalam took it.
As his fingers closed around the badge, his shadow twitched in approval.
…
That night, he stood outside the academy gates.
The structure loomed against the dark sky—tall spires of black stone, runes faintly glowing along its walls. No banners flew. No torches burned.
This was not a place for heroes.
Zalam looked up once, at the sky that had watched him earlier.
"They'll come," he said quietly. "Won't they?"
His shadow stretched at his feet, long and patient.
The gates creaked open.
Zalam stepped forward.
And somewhere far above, something smiled.
"Your treachery really doesn't stop… don't act like you'll get away with this"