You got it, brot
He needed to know.
He'd been playing it safe. Testing his powers only when others were watching. Calling weak Echoes, whispering "Arise" like it was still a question.
Not anymore.
The warehouse was abandoned—old, rat-bitten, with sun filtering in like judgment through a cracked ceiling. Dust hung in the air, clinging to the scent of something newly dead.
The Class A beast's body lay at his feet, still warm, its throat crushed, spine shattered.
Crispin looked down at the corpse.
No crowd. No allies. No System prompts.
Just him.
And the voice that came from somewhere deeper than breath.
"Arise."
The word struck the air like a drumbeat. The world didn't answer right away.
Then—
The body jerked.
Spasmed.
Its bones cracked inward before stretching outward, like it was trying to escape itself. Its skin darkened, peeled. The beast let out a wet, snarling whimper as it clawed at its own skull—then stopped.
It rose.
Slowly. Reluctantly.
But it rose.
Its eyes weren't the empty blue-white of most Echoes. These burned a muted gold, flickering like a dying star. Its posture wasn't submissive—it was tense. Coiled.
"Name," Crispin ordered, testing it.
The Echo didn't answer.
It only watched him.
Studying him.
Its claws clicked softly against the cement floor.
"You killed me," it said finally, its voice warped and metallic.
Crispin stiffened.
Most Echoes didn't speak.
Certainly not like this.
"I own you now," he said. "Obey."
It tilted its head. "Not forever."
Then it knelt.
And the moment it did, Crispin felt something break inside him.
Power wasn't supposed to look like that.
So close to rebellion. So close to prayer.
The Ghost Between Worlds
Back in his crumbling apartment, Crispin sat cross-legged on the floor. His hoodie was bloodstained. His ribs still ached from the last Gate, and his system interface flickered at the edges of his vision.
Yara was asleep down the hall. He could hear her soft breathing, the occasional rustle of her turning in bed.
He closed his eyes and whispered into the system.
Gatewalk: Activate.
Anchor point: Kill-mark — Gate 91.
The world peeled back like a page on fire.
Then silence.
Then cold.
Where the World Forgot to Exist
Sector 91 had changed.
When he first cleared it, it had been just another broken Gate, full of shattered buildings and smoking ash.
Now… it was something else entirely.
The ground was scorched black. The walls had grown strange roots, pulsing softly beneath concrete. The sky above wasn't blue or gray—just a swirling, empty void.
And at the center, rising out of the cracked stone—
An altar.
Crispin approached it slowly.
It hadn't been there before.
It was built from the bones of monsters and hunters alike, fused together into a structure that screamed with silent intention. At its top, a symbol was etched in crimson steel.
A Gate.
Wrapped in red chains.
Umbra.
He didn't need a manual to know it.
Then he saw the writing—carved beneath the symbol in jagged, inhuman script. And yet somehow, he understood it instantly.
"You are not a glitch.
You are the correction.
The System fears what it cannot undo."
The words vanished as soon as he read them. Burned into his mind. Like they'd always been there.
The Breaking Point
Later, at HQ.
Crispin stood in the sparring yard, sweat dripping from his face. His Echoes stood in a loose ring around him—quiet, obedient, and wrong.
Arlen watched from the side, jaw tight, eyes stormy.
"You're not even trying to train anymore," Arlen muttered. "You're just showing off. Intimidating people."
Crispin gave him a look. "It's working."
"This isn't funny, man." Arlen stepped forward. "Yara told me you haven't spoken to her in three days."
"I've been busy."
"You're changing."
"I'm surviving."
"You're scaring people, Crisp."
"Good."
The word came out colder than he expected. But he didn't take it back.
Arlen's face fell. "You think that's what this is all about? Being feared?"
"I think the only thing more dangerous than being weak," Crispin said, "is being ignored."
Silence.
Then the sirens wailed.
UNCLASSIFIED GATE DETECTED DISTRICT 4
LEVEL: UNSCALABLE. DO NOT APPROACH.
THIS IS NOT A DRILL.
Everyone stopped.
Everyone stared.
Crispin turned toward the gate map without hesitation.
Arlen grabbed his arm. "Don't. You don't even know what's in there."
"I don't need to," Crispin replied.
He pulled his arm free.
"Because it knows what I am."
District 4
The Unclassified Gate didn't shimmer like normal ones.
It throbbed.
It pulsed like it was alive, its surface writhing with red chains and glyphs no one had ever seen before.
The Guild was holding back all S-Class Hunters. Orders from above.
Crispin ignored them.
He walked straight past the barricades, Echoes marching behind him like shadows given shape.
Cameras zoomed in. Drones circled overhead.
No one stopped him.
The Gate opened—not like a door.
Like a wound.
And he walked in.