The day, unsurprisingly, didn't end well for Kael.
He stood in line, dead-eyed and half-asleep on his feet, waiting for the next ARC assistant to acknowledge his miserable existence. His spoils—six cracked crystalline cores, and the partially melted fang of some overgrown rift-wolf—rested in the blood-smeared sack at his feet. Hard-earned. Barely worth the effort. Probably wouldn't even cover next month's rent in his rat-hole of an apartment.
The ARC Division building he was in, if you could even call this collapsing concrete block a "building", was located in the ass-end of Ashgarde City, one of the last forty-five mega-cities still standing after The Calamity. Yeah, that Calamity. The one where reality shattered into chaos and nearly wiped humanity off the face the earth. Over four centuries ago, rifts tore through the sky like angry gods clawing at the atmosphere, unleashing hellspawn with teeth, claws, and a taste for human screams.
Half the population vanished in the blood-soaked opening act before the world's militaries realized nukes didn't mean jack when fighting something that bled acid and laughed at physics.
And then came the "gifts." Corruption disguised as evolution. Some humans, lucky bastards, started developing abilities, powers that made them just barely dangerous enough to survive the endless nightmare. They were called Hunters now, glorified scavengers and living weapons, all leashed by the ARC Division.
Humanity took thirty-three long, screaming years to beat the invaders back. Not win, but survive. Barely. And the reward for all that effort? A world wrapped in metal cages and reinforced isolation. Each city now had walls taller than most skyscrapers, powered by tech so advanced it might as well have been magic. Probably was. Kael never cared enough to ask.
He shuffled forward as the line inched ahead, the flickering fluorescent lights above him buzzing like dying hornets. The ceiling tiles were stained with mildew and something far more suspicious. White floors? That was a joke. They were a patchwork of grime, cracked linoleum, and things that had once been food—or maybe rats, hard to tell at this point. The walls were streaked with black mold, and some unknown fungus was having a renaissance in the far corner near the broken vending machine.
Even with his black rebreather mask strapped tightly over his face, the scent of piss, burned plastic, and old blood wormed its way in. Kael gagged and swore under his breath.
For an organization that billed itself as humanity's last line of defense, the ARC Division sure didn't give two shits about ambiance, or hygiene. Or the people keeping their machines running and monsters dead.
As long as you paid your tribute—uh, taxes—they'd let you rot in the gutter with a smile.
The ARC Division hadn't always been the top dog. After the world crumbled, dozens of factions clawed their way out of the ashes, trying to make something resembling order. Most of them ate each other alive in a frenzy of blood and bureaucracy. The ARC Division just happened to be the nastiest predator in the room, and the most organized.
Now they ran the show.
There were five divisions within the ARC behemoth. Division 1 was the PR-friendly mask they showed the public, dealing with civilian concerns and support for registered Hunters like Kael. The friendly face. The customer service smile. Division 2 handled the profits, buying and selling magical and scientific relics scavenged from rift zones. It was less "finance" and more "legalized looting with contracts."
Division 3 was the lab-coat brigade—R&D, pharma, tech development, and experimental bullshit that probably shouldn't exist. Kael once delivered a package there. Didn't sleep for a week afterward. He still had nightmares about the jar that blinked at him.
Division 4 was where the real enforcers lived. Military grunts, city guards, ARC patrol drones, and local cops who didn't ask questions. And Division 5? That was where the nightmares were born. Assassins, spies, and the shadowy people who handled "containment" when things went wrong. Or when people like Kael got too curious.
Together, the ARC Division was the spine of humanity's survival. Or, as Kael liked to think of them, a spine made entirely out of bones they didn't ask permission to break.
He looked down at his sack of spoils again. Hopefully, he'd get enough credits to buy a decent meal. Or a new pair of boots that didn't have holes. Or a bullet for later, just in case optimism ever came back from the dead and needed killing.
As Kael neared the counter, the universe, in its infinite spite, decided his day hadn't sucked enough yet. A voice boomed behind him, loud enough to wake the dead, and piss them off.
"Christ! What's that smell... oh wait, it's just a half-breed mongrel."
Laughter echoed through the dilapidated ARC Division hall like rats scattering through rusted pipes. It wasn't clever. Not even original. But hey, why let creativity get in the way of being a grade-A asshole?
Kael didn't flinch. Didn't turn around. He wasn't in the mood to collect bullet holes as souvenirs today. Picking a fight here, in the beating heart of the ARC bureaucracy, was suicide by paperwork and plasma rifle. The guards posted near the doors and counters weren't known for their patience or negotiation skills. Their black ARC battle suits looked sleek, sharp, and professional, right until the moment they turned you into a smoking crater. If you were lucky, they'd cremate your corpse in one of the automated trash incinerators. If not, well... let's just say Ashgarde Reach's rats had expensive tastes.
Unfortunately for Kael, not reacting was an invitation. A sharp flick cracked against his pointed ear.
Pain lanced through his skull. He spun, hackles up, a low growl vibrating from deep in his chest. His yellow eyes flared, and his fingernails elongated into vicious, metallic claws. The kind that could peel through steel like soggy cardboard.
Behind him stood the usual trio of degenerate Saturday morning cartoon villains. The ringleader—Potbelly McDickface with a bright purple Mohawk—grinned smugly, hands raised in mock surrender. His two sidekicks snorted with laughter, standing behind some poor bastard in the line who clearly wanted nothing to do with the unfolding drama.
"Aww, the little mongrel growls," Purple Hair taunted, voice soaked in condescension.
Kael said nothing, just stared. A dead, flat stare that said: I've buried better men than you. And I didn't even need a shovel.
This was his life. The daily circus of slurs, stares, and snide comments. Half-breed. Mongrel. Aberration. The world made sure he never forgot what he was. Half-human, half-Lycan—emphasis on the half. He wasn't a "real" Lycan. Not by their standards. The purebloods from Fen'Raahl could shift into towering beast forms and tear through armies. Kael? He got the teeth, the claws, and the attitude... but not the full transformation. No furred war-form. No majestic power surges. Just a permanently pissed-off guy with freakish features and a family history nobody gave a damn about.
His hair—thick, black, and untamable—fell to his shoulders like a ragged mane. Kael's ears were pointed and sharp, poking through his mess of curls. His eyes glowed that lowborn Lycan yellow, despite his noble bloodline. Not that it mattered here. Lineage got you jack if you couldn't sell it.
He was about to offer the purple-haired jackass a lesson in Lycan anatomy, specifically how many fingers he could live without—when a sharp click rang out, followed by the deep, ominous hum of a primed ARC plasma rifle.
"Back off. Now. All of you." The voice belonged to one of the ARC guards, standing at the ready near the front counter. His rifle was up, safety off, and he looked about as done with this crap as Kael was. "Or we'll drag your corpses out of here and feed 'em to the furnace."
He turned his helmeted head toward Purple Hair.
"Anderson. We've warned you about targeting other scavengers. You're one strike away from losing your license. Care to test how far my patience stretches today?"
Anderson, the walking embodiment of body odor and bad life choices, sputtered something under his breath and backed off, motioning to his two walking stereotypes to follow.
Kael blinked. Huh. That was new. Usually, he was the one getting the threat. He half-expected the guard to turn and cuff him out of habit. But nope. Just... defended. Huh. Before Kael could process the small miracle, the bored voice of another clerk cut through the tension.
"Next!"
Kael stepped forward, claws retracting, mask filtering in the scent of old piss and victory. Maybe the day wasn't a complete waste after all. Still smelled like garbage, though.
🐺⚙️"༒ The Howl of the Forsaken ༒"⚙️🐺
The doors of the ARC Division hub hissed shut behind Kael, sealing off the bureaucratic hellhole and spitting him out into a slightly worse one.
The air outside, if you could even call it that, hit him like a rotting corpse to the face. Thick with rust, decay, and the ever-present perfume of chemical death, it was a cocktail brewed perfectly for lung failure. He muttered a curse and adjusted his re-breather mask, popping off the filter to check its status. Spent. Of course it was. Because the universe clearly hated him.
With a sharp flick of his wrist, he tossed the dead filter into a nearby trash unit that wheezed as if it had asthma. Then he rummaged through the inside pocket of his weather-beaten jacket until his fingers found the crinkled wrapper of the last fresh filter. Sliding it into place, Kael grunted, knowing full well this meant he wouldn't be buying actual food for the next week. Goodbye protein packs. Hello synthetic soy slop.
So much for saving up. Another plan strangled by reality.
Ashlung Syndrome, because apparently breathing was a privilege in Ashgarde Reach. The degenerative lung disease loved hanging out in cities like this, born from Rift-corrupted air, magical residue, and a hearty dose of monster spores. A little gift from the apocalypse to say, "You survived the Calamity? Cute. Try surviving us."
The disease mainly targeted humans and hybrids who couldn't afford top-tier filters. Lycans, Vamps, and Demonic types? They got a genetic hall pass. There were even whispers, half-conspiracy, half-likely-truth, that the disease was cooked up in a lab to "trim the weak." If so, Kael figured he was on somebody's shortlist.
He shook off the thought and started toward the nearest pharmacy, dragging his boots through muck that might've once been pavement. His last nano-fiber filter would only last a week. If it died, so did he. At least he wouldn't have to pay taxes anymore.
"Great. Another twenty credits down the drain." He muttered bitterly as he lifted his wrist and activated his HUD. A flickering teal display blinked to life, projecting his ID and balance for the world to mock.
234 credits. A king's ransom in a landfill.
Kael sighed, rubbing his face with one gloved hand as he looked up at the eternally smog-choked skyline. Towers loomed above him like dying gods—their once-futuristic silhouettes now chipped, grimy, and scarred from centuries of decay. Hover vehicles zipped past overhead like they had somewhere better to be, which, frankly, everything did.
If it weren't for the soul-crushing taxes slapped onto all low-tier Hunters, Kael might've been able to afford luxuries like new flow-rider boots. Or maybe a comms bracelet that didn't short out in the rain. The ARC Division snatched 40% of every artifact, creature core, and alchemical scrap he brought in. A generous cut, if your definition of generosity included daylight robbery and a middle finger.
Even after all this time, Kael was still stuck at E-Rank. Scavenger class. Bottom of the barrel. Dirt of the gene pool. People called folks like him "the weak," which was generous, honestly. Kael had gotten his system at thirteen, same age the nightmare started, but never awakened a gift. No flashy abilities, no cool powers. Just a glorified status screen and the nagging sense of cosmic abandonment.
And another kick in the ass; he couldn't even fully shift into a Lycan. Born from noble blood, tossed out like a diseased mutt. The Lycan Imperium had shown him the door and slammed it behind him.
Lost in thought, he almost didn't hear the whispered voices coming from a shadowy alcove ahead.
"Let's wait until the mutt walks past us and then kill him. He must have a credit chit on him."
Subtle as a brick.
"And what of the ARC Guards?"
"Oh, please. They don't give a shit. As long as the half-breed doesn't bleed out on their floors, they won't care."
Kael stopped mid-step. Lovely. Just what he needed, getting jumped by a bunch of bargain bin thugs on a day already circling the drain.
He glanced toward the shadowed alley, considering his options. Three of them, judging by the heartbeats and breath patterns. Probably D or even C-rank Hunters. Which meant they had abilities. Kael had... sarcasm and a snarky attitude. Great.
He stepped to the side, boots squelching in the sludge as he moved toward the rail and looked down.
Twenty levels above the poison line. Right where filth and desperation danced their toxic waltz. The lowest part of Ashgarde Reach where people could still exist without turning into chemical soup. Anything below this? Vacuum-sealed zones patrolled by drones and death. If you didn't have a full-body battle suit, your skin peeled faster than fruit in a juicer.
And Kael? He couldn't afford the suit, or the juicer.
Seeing no way out other than fighting and dying for the grand prize of a half-eaten protein bar and 234 credits, Kael did what any self-respecting coward with a shred of self-preservation would do, he jumped.
With a sharp hiss, his boots shifted into hover mode, thrusters sputtering like they were just as sick of this city as he was. Kael vaulted over the railing without so much as a second thought, flinging himself toward a wall of sulfurous gas thick enough to peel paint off steel—and skin off bone.
"Welp. Here's to not turning into goo today."
For a terrifying second, gravity remembered it was in charge. Then, with a jolt and a hum, the boots' gravity dampeners kicked in, enveloping his feet in a pocket of condensed force that moved like water. It was like surfing on air if the ocean were made of invisible sludge and the board was ten years past its warranty.
He dropped past the fortieth level, the city's flickering neon signs blurring around him, casting everything in a sickly rainbow glow. Somewhere behind him, the confused voices of the would-be muggers echoed faintly through the metal canyons of Ashgarde Reach.
"Where'd he—what the hell?! Did he jump?!"
Yes, genius. I jumped. Kael grinned bitterly. Try looting a corpse that doesn't leave one.
He let the boots carry him on the glide path toward home, or at least the roach-infested hovel he rented that barely qualified as shelter. Home was a strong word. "Mold-palace" felt more accurate. But it had walls, a door that mostly locked, and one flickering light panel that hadn't shorted out yet. In this city, that was practically luxury living.
With the thugs fading into the haze behind him and the poison line below, Kael angled himself toward the dim cluster of lights that marked the lower-tier residential zones. His ribs ached from holding his breath, and the boots were already whining from overuse.
"C'mon, baby," he muttered, patting the side of one like it could hear him. "Just hold it together till I hit the landing pad. Then you can die. We both can."
And that was the dream. A soft crash landing, a cup of hot sludge that passed for coffee, and maybe a night without something trying to eat him in his sleep.
Maybe.
*** End Of Chapter 1 ***