They say when The Surge hit, it broke the rules of reality.
Skies cracked open like glass, vomiting torrents of raw code and arcane light. Cities drowned in blue fire. Birds dropped mid-flight. Satellites fell from orbit like dying stars. People caught in the crossfire either Awakened… or melted into corrupted sludge.
That was fifteen years ago.
Now, the world's a game you don't get to stop playing. Ranks. Stats. Classes. Skills. Monsters. Gates. Levels. Quests.
You wake up one day a nobody, and if you're lucky, maybe you'll die with a title.
Ezra Vale was still a nobody.
"MOVE IT, SHITBORN!"
The boot struck his ribs like a hammer. His body skidded across the cracked asphalt, gravel grinding into his cheek. Blood filled his mouth. His lungs wheezed on empty.
"Not even worth looting," someone else spat.
Laughter followed.
Five of them this time — F-rankers from the Crimson Pike Guild. They wore torn red jackets, each adorned with a jagged needle emblem stitched to the shoulder. Every one of them had a basic weapon and a system panel that gleamed like pride on their wrists.
Ezra had none of that.
No wristband. No system. No status window. No class.
Just blood in his mouth and a bag of rotten bread he hadn't let go of fast enough.
"You know what I think?" said the leader, a guy with dyed silver hair and way too much eyeliner for the end of the world. "I think we do the runt a favor."
He drew his blade — a rusted short sword, but coated with a faint shimmer of [Sharpness I].
Ezra's pulse stuttered.
"Hey, he's not even Awakened, man," another said, suddenly uncomfortable. "He's not tagged. Killing civvies is a Guild offense if—"
"If no one finds the body," the leader interrupted. "Right?"
Ezra rolled onto his back, one hand pressed to his ribs, where a bruise bloomed like a cancer. The bread was long gone. The pain was spreading. So was the fear.
But it was the anger that kept him conscious.
They always came like this. Loud. Entitled. Weak men who thought their F-rank meant they were gods.
Ezra had never Awakened.
Not during The Surge.
Not during any of the hundreds of Gate incidents since.
Not when he nearly drowned in a toxic flood.
Not when he buried ten friends from the orphanage.
Not even when he watched a Bone Ghoul eat Sister Miriam alive.
Nothing.
But as the blade rose toward his neck — something cracked.
Not outside. Inside.
His vision went black. Not the way it does when you faint, but like all the light had been sucked out of the world.
System Installation Complete.
…
Initializing Class Synchronization.
…
[Dual-Class Candidate Detected]
…
Class 1: Necromancer – Confirmed
Class 2: Brute – Confirmed
…
Welcome, Ezra Vale. You are Rankless. You are Nothing.
…
Prove us wrong.
He woke to screaming.
His body moved before he processed why. One of the F-rankers had fallen backward, twitching violently, foaming at the mouth. Another was screaming as something pulled him down into a crack in the street.
The silver-haired leader turned, wild-eyed. "Wh–what the hell is this?!"
Ezra stood.
His body didn't hurt anymore. In fact… it felt full. His muscles vibrated with tension, like a bowstring drawn too tight. His vision was sharp, unnatural. His thoughts were calm.
There was a black glyph hovering in the air in front of him — a floating circle of jagged script burning with faint violet light.
And all around him, shadows twitched.
Bones snapped. Flesh stretched. From a nearby storm drain, something crawled out — a rotted rat the size of a small dog, eyes glowing with green fire.
[Undead Summoned: Sewer Bone-Rat (F-Rank)]
Ezra blinked. "Did I…"
[Skill Activated: First Summon — Death Answers the Call]
The ground beneath the dying thug cracked open. A hand clawed out — pale, emaciated, ending in black fingernails. Then another. Then a skull.
The first undead rose. A Bone Walker.
Hollow eyes. Missing jaw. Broken ribs. But it stood beside Ezra like a loyal dog.
The leader turned and ran.
Ezra raised a hand.
He didn't know why. He didn't even try to cast anything.
But the Bone Walker responded.
Its arm twisted unnaturally, then hurled a javelin made of its own spine. The sharpened vertebra struck the fleeing thug's leg.
He fell.
Ezra approached.
The man screamed something — a name? a curse? Ezra didn't hear it.
What he did hear was the system:
[Skill Gained: Bone Armament (Level 1)]
[System Alert: You have taken a life. Morality Check… FAILED.]
Penalty: None. Reason: Self-Defense (Verified).
Rank Progress: 1% → 4%
He stood over the bleeding man, breath slow.
"I didn't mean to," Ezra whispered.
LIE DETECTED.
The Bone Rat skittered up his leg and sat on his shoulder. The Bone Walker slowly crumbled into dust.
Ezra turned his eyes to the skyline.
In the distance, beyond the broken towers of New York Sector-12, another Gate shimmered — pulsing with red.
And in that moment, with blood on his hands and a dead man at his feet, Ezra Vale felt something dangerous stir inside him.
He was no longer nothing.
Later that night, huddled in the back of a collapsed tunnel, Ezra stared at the small black panel hovering in front of his face.
It flickered — glitchy, unstable — like the system itself wasn't sure he should exist.
———————————————
Name: Ezra Vale
Level: 1
Rank: —
Classes: [Necromancer] / [Brute]
HP: 120/120
MP: 30/30
STR: 9
VIT: 7
INT: 4
WILL: 5
AGI: 5
Luck: ???
Skills:
- Bone Armament (Lv. 1)
- First Summon (Passive)
- Strength Surge (Lv. 1)
- Unlocked Soul Slot 1: Empty
———————————————
He had no idea what half of it meant.
But he knew this: he had two classes. That was unheard of. Illegal in some Guild territories. Impossible, supposedly.
And even stranger, he could feel them both.
When he focused on strength, his body tightened — muscles coiled, grip stronger, breath deeper.
When he focused on death, his eyes itched, and he could feel bones in the walls, bones in the dirt, bones underneath the city.
Ezra looked down at his hand.
It was trembling — not from fear.
From anticipation.
"Let them come," he whispered to the shadows.
The Bone Rat on his shoulder clicked its teeth.
Ezra smiled