"Hey... still alive? Why so quiet?" Alex's weak voice snapped Damian Vale back to reality.
"Cough... still breathing," he replied, wincing as the movement aggravated his injuries.
A sudden impulse surged through him—his [Shadow Erosion] ability urgently demanded he consume the corpse before him. He stepped forward, grasped the wraith's arm, and activated his power. Within moments, the massive body began dissolving into nothing.
Resisting the urge to immediately check his status panel, Damian turned to Alex. The man's health bar remained stubbornly fixed at 10%.
[70% HP: Minor injuries]
[50% HP: Moderate wounds]
[30% HP: Critical condition!]
[10% HP: Near death—30%, maybe 20% survival odds]
[5% HP: Barely enough time for last words... if that.]
These metrics applied to ordinary people. For Transcendents, even severe injuries couldn't extinguish their combat potential. At 10% HP, given Veylund's medical technology, this Watcher might... just might pull through.
Dragging his battered body closer, Damian heard Alex rasp: "Help me... lean against the wall."
The simple act of supporting the man drained what little strength Damian had left. His shadow abilities lacked physicality—their only confirmed use was training exercises—hence his current pitiful state.
"You're not Dawnhall, are you?" Alex wheezed between labored breaths.
"No." Damian studied the man's sightless eyes. Clearly, Alex didn't recognize him—understandable, given their only previous encounters were sharing an elevator. Identifying someone while blind would've been absurd.
"Figured," Alex chuckled, then winced. "Was wondering if you were a colleague. But struggling this hard against a Mid-Tier One Aberrant? Definitely not a Watcher."
"..." Damian's retort died in his throat.
"Joking... cough cough—" Alex's laughter dissolved into violent hacking, his complexion alternating between pallor and feverish flush. Swallowing blood, he grinned crimson-stained teeth. "Which university? What year?"
"North District Academy. Sophomore next term." Damian fabricated casually.
"Ah, junior!" Alex's eyebrows shot up with surprising enthusiasm. "Major? Arts or Combat?"
Damian blinked. Seriously?
Alex answered his own question: "Combat, obviously. Arts students can't handle Mid-Tier Ones." He rubbed his fingers together. "Got a smoke?"
"Just candy cigarettes."
"Those...? Fine, hand one over."
Damian produced half a stick from his pocket—the rest lay crushed on the battlefield. He broke it further, offering the smaller portion.
"You kids these days," Alex snorted.
"Budget's tight. Could scrape some off the floor if you want."
"Piss off." The Watcher's laugh dissolved into another coughing fit.
Silence settled between them until Alex spoke around the sugary stick: "First solo Aberrant kill?"
"Technically, yes."
"Lucky bastard." Alex exhaled imaginary smoke. "Combat-track students—born talents. Not like me. Subpar willpower aptitude. Even doped up in my twenties, can't handle a damn Mid-Tier One."
"Maybe save your strength? Help should come soon." Damian hesitated. His shadow-walking ability couldn't be revealed, but leaving Alex here might prove fatal.
Alex chuckled wetly. "Just want someone to talk to." He continued unprompted: "Our willpower—us paper-pushers—it's like cotton. Piles high, but scatters with the slightest breeze. When corruption comes flooding in... cough cough—" His health bar flickered dangerously.
"Any regrets?" Damian asked quietly. "Could've chosen regular arts track. And why'd a desk jockey enter the Shadow Layer?"
"Regrets? Hell yes." Another coughing spasm. "Could've been flirting with coworkers, training rookies... instead? Brain-fart decision lands me here, dying."
"Will you last till rescue? You look..." Damian trailed off.
Alex waved weakly. "Signal's out. Whenever they come. Don't try carrying me—next Aberrant we meet? You're appetizer-size."
Damian suppressed a sigh. The man's mouth never stopped.
"Listen," Alex grew earnest, "if you're back at campus, tell the Combat Department chair I failed him. Couldn't even kill this trash." He paused. "And thank the Abnormalities Studies vice-dean. But tell her to ease up on lecture intensity."
"Should I... take notes? Or maybe deliver this yourself later?"
Alex smiled ruefully. "Just things I needed to say. North District Dawnhall Academy..." His sigh carried decades of weight. Suddenly, he perked up: "Got more candy smokes? Make it spicy this time."
"All gone."
Damian's ears twitched—approaching footsteps. "Watchers coming. You're saved."
"My luck holds. Staying?" Alex asked.
"No."
"Go on then." A pained smile.
Nodding, Damian faded into the shadows—but not before glimpsing three Watchers arrive through his Voidpiercer Eye. Their leader checked Alex, then shook his head. Against the wall, Alex gave a final smile as his health bar plummeted—1% every few seconds—black veins writhing like earthworms beneath his skin.
The Watchers gathered the children, performing their solemn salute. Outside the Shadow Layer, pedestrians flowed past Damian standing frozen on the sidewalk.
"Cookies aren't selling today."
"Let's close early. New Year's coming."
"Another year, huh?"
Their chatter swirled around him as streetlights bisected his vision. The Dawnhall's creed echoed in his skull:
[Transcendents facing certain death must expend all remaining power.]
Compound No.3, codename: Horizon.
90% mortality rate. Last resort when all options fail.
We stand earthbound, gazing starward.
Our duty: guarding tomorrow's dawn.
One sentence in textbooks, countless lives in its shadow.
Transcendents remain human—just humans performing miracles.
We all gaze toward that horizon.
That is The Dawnhall.
…
"Watcher... Transcendent... Aberrant..."
Had that manual not hit him, had the system not activated—his life would be utterly different now.
An ordinary person...
Most ordinary people rarely encountered Aberrant incidents.
But conversely, once encountered, survival chances were slim.
Even a low-tier wraith—what Alex called "bottom-feeder trash"—could casually slaughter dozens if left unchecked.
What then of stronger Aberrants?
As Alex's corpse with its depleted health bar was carried away, the shadow layer emptied before Damian's eyes. He tightened his jacket... or what remained of it, barely more than tattered rags now. Best hurry home before catching a cold from the wind.
His steps quickened toward Meteor Heights, a mid-to-high-end apartment complex within Branwick Safe Zone. An orphan, yet his uncle Dave—a one-armed, taciturn Dawnhall clerk—had somehow secured him this unit.
Approaching the gates, Damian slowed. He turned for one last look at the distant crossroads, steeled himself, and entered.
The elevator ride up was uneventful. His phone hadn't survived the battle—not just the collected "resources" gone, but twenty-plus premium videos lost forever. The ache was visceral.
Key in lock. Turn. Click.
The door shut behind him. After that fight, only his keys remained.
No—that wasn't entirely true.
Consuming the Aberrant had triggered some manual response he'd yet to check.
Kicking off ruined shoes for slippers, Damian caught his reflection:
[HP: 50%]
What? This much?
Given his battered state—every step agony—he'd assumed 15%, maybe 20-30% at best. Yet half remained?
How had Alex endured at 10%?
The thought made Damian's hooded features twitch.
"Brutal," he muttered, moving to the kitchen.
Fridge open: two sausages.
Instant noodles from the cupboard.
"Where are the eggs?"
A voice from the couch froze him mid-reach.
"How'd you get my key?" Damian reflexively pulled his tattered clothes tighter.
"You only order takeout. Uncle Dave gave me one to check on you." Rina's tone sharpened. "No calls answered. No eggs bought—did you go hatching some yourself?"
Lights flicked on, illuminating Damian's silhouette—instant noodles in one hand, sausages in the other, clothes filthy and back full of holes.
"Get jumped in an alley?" Rina crossed her arms, stepping closer. "Turn around."
"Just... go to bed." He regretted not washing up first.
"Turn. Around." Her voice hardened with dawning alarm.
"I'm making noodles—"
A yank spun him violently.
Rina's breath caught.
Under the hood: hair matted with blood, face streaked with grime and dried gore. A vicious slash ran from ear to mouth—wraith claws. His sleeves weren't rolled up; they'd been shredded. Exposed skin showed lacerations, burst capillaries, deeper wounds barely scabbed over. Worst was the concave chest—definitely fractured ribs.
"I... forgot the eggs." Damian stepped back.
Rina blocked him, eyes blazing.
"What?" He avoided her gaze. "It's late. Liam will—"
"Where were you?"
"Nowhere. Stopped a mugging. Guy looked worse—cops barely recognized him as human." Damian forced a grin. "You should've seen my combos—left hook, right—"
Fingers brushed his wound.
He froze.
No SPA technician's $300 hand massage could compare to Rina's feather-light touch.
Silence.
One second. Two.
"Doesn't hurt," he lied, retreating. "Go sleep."
"I'm telling Uncle Dave."
"Don't."
"Street fighting at midnight—"
"Civil duty! Now scram."
"Make me." Her stubbornness wavered at his injuries—anger warring with concern.
"Exhausted. Need rest." Damian rubbed his temples.
"This needs a hospital."
"Looks worse than it is. We've got Dawnhall-grade meds—Dave 'procured' them."
Rina's lips thinned. "...Fine. I'll patch you up."
What followed involved more hissing than the actual wraith fight. An entire bottle of antiseptic and enough bandages to rival a mummy later:
"Still playing hero next time?" Rina jabbed his bandaged arm, drawing a wince.
"Nope. Won't even glance at trouble."
"Swear it."
"No."
"?!"
"People rubberneck. I'll just... look from afar."
"That's not—"
"Look. Not touch. Promise."
"...Better." She frowned, missing the subtext as she stood.
"Leaving? Bed's big enough—"
"Ugh!"
The door slammed. Alone, Damian stared at the ceiling, replaying the night:
"North District Dawnhall Academy... pass along my words..."
"Combat track... Abnormality Studies..."
"Wait—you never told me your name."
A realization struck.