The following night – Under the Hudson Rail Tunnel Ruins
Ezra could barely hear over the grinding steel and pulsing bass. The walls of the underground tunnel were a patchwork of crumbling brick, fungal growths, neon glyphs, and the ever-present scent of rust and ozone.
The Deathborn Market was nothing like he expected.
It wasn't just a black market—it was a sanctuary for the damned. A living, breathing ecosystem of those the system refuses: rogue necromancers, failed experiments, death cult merchants, monster part smugglers, and relic dealers that sold items banned by every government above ground.
Selene walked beside him, cloak fluttering with the occasional breeze from the ancient tunnel fans. Her hair was pulled back today, a thin scar just barely visible near her temple. She'd traded her dark combat uniform for something looser—flowing, but still armored, with a strange elegance to it. Somehow, in the shadows and glow of the underworld, she looked more like royalty than a rebel.
Ezra tried not to stare. He mostly failed.
"You keep looking at me like I'm about to explode," Selene said without glancing his way.
Ezra scratched the back of his neck. "You look different. Not bad-different. Just... like you belong down here."
She smirked, stopping at a stall where a hunched vendor displayed a spread of cursed rings and soul-bound bones in cracked glass boxes. "I do. This was my world before the Ashwalkers found me."
Ezra blinked. "Wait, you weren't raised in the faction?"
Selene picked up a rusted ring, studied it, then put it back down. "No. I was sold into a Hexbind Collective when I was twelve. One of their top breeders had a necrotic affinity but couldn't produce offspring with it. They thought my bloodline might spark something."
Ezra's stomach twisted. "Jesus."
She looked at him, eyes unreadable. "It didn't work. I killed them all when I was fourteen."
Ezra didn't speak. There was nothing to say that wouldn't feel hollow.
Selene moved on to another vendor. "The Market's neutral ground," she said. "But that just means no full-blown assaults. People still disappear here if they ask the wrong questions."
"And we're here to…?"
"Upgrade you," she said. "You've stabilized a Domain and unlocked Blood Echo. That's more than most necros manage in their first year. But if you're going to keep growing, you need tools. Supplies. Anchors. A ritual armament."
Ezra glanced down at his fingers. The cuts from the ritual had begun to scar, though they still throbbed when the System shifted.
He had changed. He could feel it—not just in the blood echo, but in something deeper. Like there was a current beneath his skin now. Waiting.
Ezra started to recall his powers in his mind:
Gravecall (Basic Summon):His first unlocked ability—channels mana to reanimate nearby corpses as simple undead. Each summon costs mental energy and a small hit to vitality. The longer they stay active, the more strain he feels.
Blood Echo (Passive):Triggered after his Domain trial. Whenever he spills his own blood, it grants him temporary influence over the field. It's not telekinesis or mind control—it's momentum. Gravity shifts in his favor. Corpses rise faster. Attacks become more precise. He calls it his "Battle Pulse."
Crimson Pact (Bound Trait):If he willingly sacrifices blood, he can bind it to a corpse to evolve it into a Crimson Thrall—undead with higher strength, rudimentary instincts, and minor regenerative capacity. It only works with his blood, and it weakens him significantly if overused.
Gravehold (F-Rank Domain):A subterranean base that provides corpse storage, resurrection support, and evolution functions. Accessible only by Ezra and those he marks.
"You're in your early phase," Selene continued, leading him into a quieter alcove. "But what makes you dangerous isn't raw power—it's the way your necromancy interacts with pain. I've never seen a Crimson Thrall that fought like yours."
Ezra lowered his voice. "It felt like… it wanted to protect me."
Selene stopped walking.
She turned, studying him carefully. "Ezra, did you name it?"
He hesitated.
"I called it Rook. I don't know why. It just felt right."
Selene stared. Then exhaled slowly. "Only necromancers with latent Graveborn Ancestry can name their Thralls and have them respond. It means… something in your bloodline was tied to the First War."
Ezra blinked. "What does that mean?"
"That you were never meant to be unranked," she said softly. "You were meant to be claimed."
Before he could respond, a shrill chime cut through the noise. Around them, some vendors began packing up, others watching the far arch of the tunnel nervously.
Selene stiffened. "Shit."
Ezra reached for the knife on his belt. "What's going on?"
"One of the Silent Bonewalkers is entering the market."
"A what?"
Selene took his wrist. "Come on. Don't look directly at it. And don't—under any circumstances—talk to it."
She led him quickly through the crowd as a bone-white figure entered from the far archway. Wrapped in blood-soaked linen, no eyes, no mouth, just a jagged X carved into its forehead. Even the other necromancers gave it space.
"They're arbiters," Selene whispered as they ducked behind a relic stall. "The old ones who survived the collapse. Half-spirit, half-code. They enforce the old Laws of Death."
"Is it looking for someone?"
"It doesn't look. It knows."
As if on cue, the Bonewalker turned its head in Ezra's direction.
And smiled—somehow, without a mouth.
Ezra froze. The sigil on his palm flared with pain.
Then, just as quickly, it moved on.
Selene waited until it was gone before speaking. "It marked you."
Ezra swallowed. "That's bad, right?"
"It means you're no longer unknown. Your path just became a threat to someone who remembers the old world."
Later that night, inside a stolen train car converted into a private chamber...
Selene laid out the equipment they'd bartered for:
A reinforced Ritual Bracer to control mana flow during summoning.
A vial of Ghoul's Mucus, used to anchor summoned undead to a physical location.
A map containing known F-rank Catacombs beneath the city that had yet to be claimed.
Ezra sat across from her, rolling the bracer over his wrist. It felt heavy. Solid.
"Thanks," he said quietly.
Selene didn't answer. She was watching him.
He looked up.
"What?"
"You're different when it's quiet," she said.
Ezra raised a brow. "Quieter?"
She smiled faintly. "No. Softer. You walk like someone who's been hunted before. You breathe like you don't want to be noticed. But when it's quiet, you're just… you."
He didn't know what to say. That no one had ever said something like that to him. That for years, silence had been his only friend.
Selene looked down, fingers tracing the edge of the bracer. "Do you regret it? Binding yourself to death like this?"
Ezra thought about the shelter. The fire. The voices that had screamed his name. The orphaned nightmares that filled his dreams.
"No," he said softly. "I think death was the only thing that ever answered me."
Selene met his eyes again. This time, there was something else there.
Not lust.
Not pity.
Curiosity. Concern. Respect.
She leaned forward slightly. Not enough to bridge the space, but enough that he felt the heat of her skin.
"If I'm ever taken," she said, "I want you to be the one who brings me back."
Ezra's heart pounded. "You think that's coming?"
Selene leaned back, her usual mask returning. "In our world, it always is."
Later still, back in Gravehold...
Ezra stood in the center of his domain.
The sigil glowed softly now, steady, like a heartbeat he'd finally synchronized with. Rook was there, hunched by the far wall—silent, but alert. His form had stabilized, plating bones over joints, adapting.
Ezra took a breath and raised his hand.
A shallow cut across the palm. A flick of blood. The ripple of power.
Two more skeletal figures rose from the bone piles.
But these didn't collapse like before. They waited. Steady.
He approached the nearest.
"Can you understand me?" he asked.
The creature's skull tilted. Then it gave a low, rattling grunt.
Crimson Link Achieved. Undead Intelligence Developing.You are now the Alpha of this Gravehold.
Ezra grinned.
It was working.
Piece by piece, corpse by corpse, he was building something. Not just an army—but a home.
A place the world had refused to give him.