By the end of the week, his name had crossed borders.
It moved like a rumor but settled like prophecy.
Guild whisper nets lit up with flagged phrases: "unlicensed necromancer," "ghostbound echo signature," "extreme anomaly – Graves."
Some still doubted. Said the footage was altered. Said no seventeen-year-old could breach a Tier-3 dungeon alone and return with untraceable summons at his back.
They said it until their people went missing.
They said it until the dead started whispering back.
They said it until one by one… they stopped saying anything at all.
Malik Graves walked down the center of Hollow Market like he owned it.
Not in arrogance.
In clarity.
There was no wasted movement. No glances cast over his shoulder. His steps were quiet, deliberate, yet impossibly loud in the minds of everyone who saw him.
Naomi walked at his side, hands in her pockets, flame coiled beneath her skin. Elaris followed several paces behind, the feathers of her cloak trailing sparks across the cobblestones. Anacaona and Obsidian remained hidden, as requested.
Let them wonder, Malik had said. Let their imagination work harder than we ever have to.
A street vendor stopped mid-call as he passed.
Two Reapers stepped aside.
No one made eye contact.
Except one.
She stood in front of a bookstore's shattered window. Hooded. Cloaked in a veil of colorless cloth. Her face was hidden behind a smooth black mask, but her energy was loud—chaotic, unstable.
Naomi clocked her immediately.
"Guild," she whispered.
Malik didn't stop.
"Let her move first," he said. "If she's smart, she won't."
She moved.
Not toward them.
Around.
A slow, fluid step into their path, hands still at her sides.
The mask glinted under the rusted neon light.
"Malik Graves," she said. Her voice was modulated, artificially altered. "You've interfered with three Guild operations in the last week. You are operating as an unlicensed Echo-class necrosummoner. You are hereby ordered to stand down and submit to Echo stabilization protocol."
Malik's expression didn't change.
"Did you practice that?" he asked.
The woman tilted her head slightly. "This is not a request."
"No, it's not," he said. "But it is a mistake."
Behind her, the alley twisted.
Not physically.
Spiritually.
A low growl rumbled beneath the street.
Then came Obsidian.
Rising from the shadows like a forgotten sin, eyes glowing red, ribs clacking with impatience.
People scattered.
Vendors ran.
Windows slammed shut.
Still, Malik didn't move.
The agent raised her hand, a glyph appearing at her palm.
Too late.
Malik was already in front of her.
He didn't run. Didn't blink.
One step.
That's all it took.
He grabbed her wrist mid-cast, twisted gently—not enough to break it. Enough to disrupt focus.
The glyph flickered and died.
His voice dropped to a whisper.
"You came here thinking I was a problem to contain. Let me correct you."
He released her and stepped back.
Obsidian circled.
"You're looking for another runaway Reaper, someone who got too strong, too fast. I'm not that."
He extended his hand.
From the shadows, Elaris stepped forward, blades drawn in silence.
"I'm what comes after the Reapers fail."
The agent hesitated.
Then launched backward—an emergency blink spell ripping her from the scene in a pulse of light.
She was gone.
Naomi exhaled. "She'll be back."
Malik nodded. "Let her bring more."
Two hours later, they stood in the broken church on the south side—what used to be a Guild recruitment hub before the Collapse. Malik ran his fingers along the cracked altar, eyes unfocused.
Anacaona emerged from the shadows.
"She was Tier 3. Reinforced sigils. Combat class."
"I know."
"You let her go."
"She was bait."
Naomi turned. "What kind of bait?"
Malik tapped the altar once. "The kind that leads you to the net."
That night, they didn't wait for the Guild.
They attacked first.
Zone 12, South Ward.
A temporary Guild strike outpost masquerading as an old post office. Hidden behind privacy wards, three agents on-site, one Beacon Core.
Malik entered without warning.
The first agent didn't even scream. He simply fell asleep.
The second tried to draw a blade—Obsidian ate it mid-motion.
The third? He ran.
Malik didn't chase.
He walked to the Core—a glowing orb suspended in a cage of silver chains. A pulse of stored Echo, used to send data and track spiritual anomalies.
He placed his hand on it.
And rewrote it.
Glyphs swirled. Memory bent.
By the time the Guild reaccessed the feed, Malik Graves had become a shadow.
A blur.
An error code.
At midnight, four names disappeared from the Guild Registry.
No explanation.
No trace.
Just a note.
"He warned you."
The next day, Guild operatives set fire to three slums trying to flush him out.
Malik watched the smoke rise from the rooftop of a convenience store.
Naomi paced. "We can't just do nothing."
"I'm not," Malik said. "I'm calculating."
"They're hurting people."
"They're trying to make me move. That's their mistake."
He turned toward the east.
"They think this is a chase. It's not."
"What is it then?"
He stood, cloak fluttering in the breeze.
"It's a war declaration."
At dawn, he stepped into the heart of the Guild-controlled echo basin.
Zone 3.
Fortified.
Shielded.
Unbreachable.
Malik walked through the barrier like it was paper.
He didn't raise his hands.
Didn't shout.
Just looked at the guards posted outside the control center.
"I'm here to deliver a message," he said.
"What message?" one guard barked, already reaching for a comm rune.
Malik pointed skyward.
"Look up."
The man hesitated.
Then obeyed.
A glyph blazed in the clouds above.
"GRAVES."
The city felt it.
All of it.
The glyph pulsed with Echo so raw, so personal, that it bypassed filters and wards alike.
Thousands heard it.
Hundreds felt it.
Dozens recognized it.
And a few…
Started to fear it.
That night, Reaper dossiers across four regions were updated.
Risk Level: Black
Subject: Malik GravesKnown Aliases: Ashen Sovereign (theoretical)Status: UncontainedClass: Echo Anomaly Tier 5 (est.)Tags: Summoner (Obsidian Class), Unknown Allegiances, Potential Sovereign Candidate
Notes:
Observed to command advanced unbound summons
Operates with military-level tactical planning
Does not issue warnings twice
Do not engage without executive authorization
Somewhere far from Hollow Market, in a cathedral made of light and mirrors, a woman sat beneath a crown of stars.
She opened a dossier.
Saw the name.
Closed the file.
And whispered to the empty room:
"So… he's returned."