The city never looked the same after dark. From his window, Ezra watched as flickering holo-ads illuminated the broken streets like ghostly flames. The distant wails of sirens and the low hum of drones mixed with the ever-present murmur of the restless crowds below. Somewhere deep beneath the surface of New York, something waited.
The Lost Sanctum.
A place buried in legend and shadow.
Ezra clenched the worn map tightly. The holographic runes pulsed faintly in the dim light, revealing a route through the labyrinth of Old Manhattan's ruins — a city swallowed by time and decay since the Surge shattered the world.
He was no stranger to those ruins. As a child, he had scavenged there, avoiding patrols and the monsters that prowled the dark corners. But the Lost Sanctum was different. It was said to be a nexus of necromantic power, a place where the veil between life and death was thinnest. To reach it, he would have to venture beyond the safe zones, through crumbling streets haunted by echoes of the past — and other survivors.
Ezra packed lightly but deliberately. His trusted bone shard pendant hung heavy against his chest, and his summoning talisman sat nestled among the few supplies he carried: ration packs, a makeshift weapon, and a small vial of purified water. Ash paced anxiously by the door, nostrils flaring at unseen scents, while Skulk's eyes gleamed in the low light, alert.
There was no time to waste. Every moment spent preparing was a moment others could use to beat him to the prize.
He pulled his coat tighter, swallowing a breath of cold, stale air as he stepped into the night.
The Lower Sectors were a maze of shadows and danger. Patrol drones buzzed overhead, scanning for unauthorized movement, while gangs carved out their own territories, their turf wars a constant undercurrent of violence. Ezra moved swiftly but cautiously, every step measured.
As he reached the outskirts of the known zones, the landscape shifted. The towering skyscrapers gave way to skeletal remains of buildings — their shattered windows like empty eyes staring into oblivion. The streets were cracked and uneven, strewn with debris and the remnants of a world long lost.
The air here was thicker, heavier, as if the ruins themselves held their breath.
It was here, in the heart of desolation, that the whispers began.
Soft at first — like the rustling of dry leaves. Then clearer, almost words.
Ezra's skin prickled. He stopped and closed his eyes, listening.
"Ezra…"
The voice was faint, carried on a breeze that smelled of decay and earth.
"Ezra, you belong…"
His heartbeat quickened.
"Not yet," he whispered, shaking his head.
Ash growled low in his throat, and Skulk crouched, muscles tensed.
"Show yourself!" Ezra demanded.
Silence answered him.
Pressing forward, he entered a collapsed subway station, its tunnels yawning like the mouth of a beast.
The map indicated the Lost Sanctum lay just beyond.
Shadows shifted along the cracked walls. Ezra raised his hand, summoning a skeletal hand that emerged from the ground beside him. The bone-walker obeyed silently, its hollow eyes scanning the darkness.
A faint glow pulsed ahead — a cluster of strange runes etched into the walls, shimmering with otherworldly light.
Ezra stepped closer, tracing a finger over the symbols. They resonated beneath his touch, warmth spreading through his veins.
Suddenly, the ground trembled.
A low growl echoed from the depths.
From the shadows emerged figures — gaunt, pale, their eyes glowing with unnatural hunger.
Undead.
But not the mindless bone-walkers Ezra summoned.
These were something else.
Feral, twisted, remnants of humans long gone but cursed to linger.
Ezra's heart thundered.
He drew upon his strength, summoning another skeletal warrior — taller, stronger, imbued with his growing power.
The creatures lunged.
The battle was brutal and fast. Ezra's summons clashed with the feral undead, bones cracking and flesh tearing. His own strength surged with every strike, but the creatures were relentless. One lunged for him, claws slicing through the air.
Ezra barely dodged, his pulse pounding as he slammed a fist into its skull. The creature shrieked and dissolved into dust, but more took its place.
In the chaos, Ezra felt a sharp pain — a claw grazed his arm, breaking skin and drawing blood.
He gritted his teeth and roared, calling forth a wave of bone shards that exploded around him.
The undead staggered back, giving him a moment to breathe.
As the dust settled, a new voice echoed — cold, commanding, and cruel.
"Impressive, Hollowborn."
Ezra spun around.
From the darkness stepped a figure clad in tattered armor, eyes glowing with the same eerie light as the feral undead.
A rival necromancer.
The stranger smiled, revealing sharp teeth. "You think you're the only one chasing the Lost Sanctum? Others have been watching you, waiting for the right moment to strike."
Ezra tightened his fists. "I don't have time for games."
The necromancer laughed, dark and hollow.
"Then you'll die chasing power you don't understand."
With a flick of his wrist, a swarm of shadowy skeletons rose from the ground, surrounding Ezra.
The battle resumed, fiercer than before.
Ezra fought with everything he had — strength and necromantic summons weaving together in a deadly dance. But the rival was skilled, pushing him to his limits.
Blood dripped from his wounds, breath ragged.
And then, amidst the chaos, the stranger's gaze locked onto the bone shard at Ezra's neck.
"You carry a legacy you don't deserve."
Ezra's vision blurred.
The stranger's voice was a poison, but Ezra found a reservoir of defiance deep within.
He would not be broken.
Not yet.
Hours later, battered and bruised, Ezra stood alone amidst the ruins. The rival necromancer had vanished, leaving behind only echoes.
His summons had vanished with the night, and the map in his hand flickered uncertainly.
The Lost Sanctum was real.
And so was the danger that guarded it.
Ezra wrapped his arm, grimacing at the sharp sting of his wounds.
He was stronger than yesterday, but the path ahead was filled with shadows — rival hunters, undead horrors, and secrets that threatened to consume him.
Yet beneath the pain and exhaustion, a fierce spark burned.
He would reach the Lost Sanctum.
He would unlock the power he needed.
And he would protect the fragile hope of family and future — no matter the cost.
As dawn bled into the sky, Ezra's eyes hardened with resolve.
The dead remembered him.
And soon, the world would learn to fear the name...
Hollowborn.