The world, as they knew it, died not with a bang, but with a chilling, slow-creeping sigh. It was a disease that spread not through the blood, but through the soul. They called it the Sundering, a time when the dead, in their countless numbers, began to walk among the living. It wasn't a sudden, apocalyptic event, but a gradual, horrifying bleed-through of the spiritual into the physical. At first, it was whispered tales from remote villages, then confirmed reports from major cities, and finally, a universal truth. The veil between the living and the dead had thinned to a membrane, then shattered completely, and the Hallowed, a blasphemous mockery of humanity, rose.
For a generation, the gods had been silent. Their temples stood in ruins, their priests' prayers went unanswered. It was a final, bitter abandonment. The Hallowed, with their milky, sightless eyes and shambling gait, were the proof of the divine's disdain. They were not spectral ghosts, but solid, walking horrors, their rotting flesh a perverse echo of the lives they had lost. They were driven by an insatiable, mindless hunger for life, and they were everywhere.
Before the Sundering, Arthur had been just a boy. He grew up in the sprawling, bustling metropolis of Veridia, a city of steel and glass that now lay in skeletal ruins. He remembered the laughter, the smell of freshly baked bread from the corner bakery, the comforting hum of a world at peace. His parents were simple, kind people—a weaver and a scholar—who had taught him to appreciate the small beauties of life. He learned to read by the dim light of a kerosene lamp, his father's hand tracing the words on ancient scrolls, and he learned to mend by the deft movements of his mother's loom.
Their lives, like so many others, were a quiet tragedy. The Hallowed came for his mother first. She was a gentle soul, and when the Hallowed, a neighbor she had known for years, shambled into their home, she didn't scream. She simply stood, a look of profound sorrow on her face, and let it take her. Her body became a husk, and her essence, her soul, vanished into the ether. Arthur, hidden beneath a table, had watched, his small hands clasped over his mouth, a silent witness to a horror he was too young to comprehend.
His father, a man of intellect and kindness, became a man of steel and cold resolve. He taught Arthur how to survive. He taught him how to be silent, how to move through the city's labyrinthine alleys unseen. He taught him to scavenge for food, to recognize the signs of a fresh kill, and to use the shadows as his shield. He was his last beacon of humanity, the only person left in a dying world who could still smile, even if the smile was a fragile, weary thing.
The end of his father's story was no less brutal. He sacrificed himself, drawing a horde of Hallowed away from Arthur, who was trapped in a collapsed building. He had promised to return, but Arthur, peering through a cracked window, watched as the horde swarmed his father, their rotting hands tearing him apart. The last image he had of his father was a flash of defiance in his eyes, a final, selfless act to save the last piece of a family that was already lost.
Five years had passed since then. At nineteen, Arthur's face was no longer that of a boy. It was a grim mask, etched with the scars of a life lived on the run. The laughter of his childhood was a distant, painful memory. The city he once loved was a mausoleum now, its concrete canyons silent except for the shuffling of feet that did not belong to the living. His only companions were the rustling wind and the ever-present stench of decay. His hands, once used to turning the pages of books, were now calloused from the hilt of his short sword, a scavenged piece of steel he kept meticulously sharp.
He had become a master of survival, a ghost in the ruined city. He moved with a quiet grace, his senses constantly alert. He knew the layout of every abandoned building, the quietest routes through the city, the hidden caches of food and water. He was a survivor, and that was all that mattered. Or so he had told himself.
But the emptiness was a constant companion, a hollow ache in his chest that went deeper than physical hunger. It had started a week ago, a faint whisper in the back of his mind, a promise of something more. He had felt it before, in fleeting moments, but he had always dismissed it as a product of his grief. Today, however, as he huddled in the skeletal remains of a bookstore, the whispers were a cacophony, a thousand voices promising salvation.
A shuffling sound echoed from the street below. A single Hallowed. It was a recent one, judging by the tattered remains of a business suit clinging to its gaunt frame. Its eyes, milky and blind, turned toward the bookstore, a flicker of something ancient and predatory passing through them. Arthur's hand instinctively tightened on the hilt of his short sword. He could easily dispatch this one. He had killed dozens, hundreds, over the past five years. It was a simple, brutal ballet of steel and rot.
But the whispers intensified, no longer a faint chorus but a unified, powerful thought. "You can have it," it hissed, a single, compelling voice that spoke only to him. "Its life, its strength, its essence. Take it. Consume it. Become stronger."
He knew what they meant. He had seen the others, the ones who had given in to the whispers. They were known as the Revenants. They could see the souls of the Hallowed, shimmering, ephemeral lights. And they could consume them. The process was sickening to watch. A Revenant would kill a Hallowed, and then, with a horrifying, unnatural twist of the hand, they would tear the shimmering soul from its husk. A flash of light, a guttural scream, and the soul would be gone, absorbed into the Revenant's body. They became faster, stronger, and more resilient with each soul they devoured. But their humanity… it was a fleeting thing. The more they consumed, the more their eyes hollowed out, their skin grew ashen, their empathy vanished.
Arthur had always sworn he would never become one of them. He had seen the cost. He had witnessed a kind man he once knew, a father of two, tear the soul from a Hallowed with a cold, detached efficiency that was more terrifying than the Hallowed itself. The man's eyes had been dead, his face a mask of emotionless cruelty.
But the hunger was a physical force now, a sharp pain in his chest that felt as if his very being was trying to escape. He looked down at the Hallowed, its milky eyes fixed on his position, a low, rasping groan emanating from its throat. And for the first time, he didn't just see a monster. He saw a faint, golden flicker where its heart should have been. The Hallowed had a soul, a twisted, corrupted thing, but a soul nonetheless.