The air was thick with smoke and screams. Moscow's skyline pulsed red, a slow, steady beat of flames against the fading blue dusk. Damian moved through it like a shadow, hood up, face hidden behind a matte black mask. The wind tugged at his sleeves, carrying the smell of blood and burning plastic.
And something else that knotted his gut.
Fear. Pure, raw fear.
"Move! MOVE!"
A Russian soldier shoved past, dragging a limp civilian. The civilian's head lolled at a broken angle dead weight. The soldier's hands shook so bad he barely held on. Across the alley, another soldier sprayed bullets wildly eyes wide, gun rattling, clearly about to lose it.
Damian didn't flinch. He kept walking.
But his heart hammered just as hard. The gate had been open maybe thirty minutes, and it had already spilled them out. The air felt wrong—thick and charged, like breathing through wet cloth.
Lesser demons. Around ten had slipped through so far the first wave. Gray-skinned, eyes like holes ripped through reality. Fast but dumb. Instinct-driven killers with the smarts of rabid dogs.
Trash tier.
But that wasn't what shook him. No, it was this weak-ass body that kept betraying him.
The memory hit like a punch seventeen years ago, standing in this same city, watching it burn, powerless. Just another face in the crowd.
Not this time.
He ducked into a parking garage two blocks north. Empty. Thank God. The quiet felt sacred after the chaos, broken only by distant gunfire and collapsing buildings.
He reached under his coat and grabbed the blade he'd picked up in Prague. Some sketchy dealer promised "quality steel." Cheap carbon steel, held together with electrical tape wrapped tight around the grip. It'd snap after five hits maybe less.
His fingers traced the worn handle. A piece of shit weapon for what was coming.
"Whatever," he muttered, voice cracking. "It's not the weapon that kills."
He'd said that same line seventeen years ago. Right before everything fell apart.
Crouched behind an overturned SUV, breath ragged, that first fight with the swarm in the square had hit harder than he wanted to admit.
His wrist was already purple and swollen. He'd blocked too slow misjudged by a split second. In his old life, he'd have seen that coming miles away. Countered it. Turned it into an opening.
That split second almost killed him.
Seventeen years of experience, but this body was seventeen years behind. Weak joints, no stamina, zero conditioning. He had the knowledge, but couldn't pull the moves. Like trying to do surgery with hands that wouldn't stop shaking.
Made him want to scream. To punch something. Knowledge meant nothing if your body couldn't keep up.
A screech cut through the garage—wet and bone-deep. Echoed off the concrete like it was everywhere at once.
One had followed him.
Class F demon. Two meters tall, built like a scarecrow nightmare. Sickle claws made to tear flesh from bone. Blind, but could smell CO2 from a hundred meters away.
It could smell his fear.
He held his breath as it crashed onto the car above. Metal groaned and buckled like a crushed can. It sniffed a wet, rattling sound then dropped down with a squelch.
He heard every step. Every breath. Claws clicking on concrete.
Weak spot: chest cavity, left side, between second and third rib. Rupture that sac and it was dead. Miss and he was fucked.
The knowledge was there, crystal clear. But knowledge meant nothing if his body wouldn't listen.
He counted steps. One. Two.
The demon paused, head tilting.
Now or never.
He moved fast and low, blade slicing upward—but the bastard twisted faster than anything that size should move. The blade caught its side, spraying black blood.
It shrieked, slashing back with reflexes that made him look slow. Damian ducked but not fast enough.
Claws raked his back, tearing coat and skin like paper. Fire shot up his spine.
"Shit!"
This pain was different. No buffs. No dampeners. Just raw agony that made his knees buckle.
He rolled under another car as it lunged, came up behind it, hand shaking like a leaf.
One shot. Miss and die.
Faces flashed through his mind the ones he couldn't save. The kids. The mothers. The fathers who never came home. All staring at him with accusing eyes.
Not again.
He drove the blade into its back with everything he had.
Missed the sac by an inch.
Fuck!
The demon went berserk, flailing. Its claw caught his side and sent him flying into a concrete pillar.
His head cracked hard. Stars exploded behind his eyes. Copper in his mouth. Warm blood trickled down his scalp.
He coughed up blood. The blade was gone snapped off in the demon's back, just like he knew it would.
It still moved, still dangerous. Black blood leaking like motor oil.
His body wasn't working anymore. Legs felt like jelly. Vision swimming.
He dragged himself up and pulled a kitchen knife from his boot. A fucking kitchen knife against a demon from hell.
He almost laughed. The joke of it once called the Ghost, now reduced to kitchen cutlery.
But no hesitation. For them. For all those faces that haunted his dreams.
He limped forward and rammed the knife straight into the demon's mouth, punching through to the back of its skull.
The demon jerked once and dropped.
Damian stood there, sweat and blood running down his face. Coat torn to shreds. But alive.
Barely.
He yanked the knife free. The demon's blood smoked, eating the concrete like acid.
This wasn't the Ghost. The Ghost was forged in fire and endless fights. This was just the spark trembling and weak.
He pressed torn cloth to his wounds, biting back a scream. The cloth came away red.
Focus. What next?
Outside, more screams. More chaos. Military mechs powering up.
Wouldn't matter. They'd lose. Always did.
He'd watched this scene play out seventeen years ago. Brave people dying because they didn't get what they were facing. Guns were just fireworks to these things.
Unless he changed it. Pushed past the pain and limits.
He forced himself up. Legs shaking.
Then a buzz in his vision.
Blue text flickered:
[Global System Message: Quest Progress Updated.]
Moscow Gate Incursion Phase 1 complete.
Level Up!
[Level: 2]
STR +5 | DEX +5 | INT +2
Phase 2 begins in 5 minutes.
Warning: Demon Hounds entering field.
Penalty for failure: Civilian death count exceeds 10,000.
Five minutes. Ten thousand lives.
The math was brutal and simple. If he fails, they die.
He limped to the garage edge, looking down at the chaos. His bloodied reflection caught in broken glass hollow-eyed, like death.
Smoke everywhere. Screams like prayers to deaf gods.
The hounds weren't here yet, but soon would be. Their howls could shatter windows blocks away.
"I don't have time to rest," he muttered, legs barely holding him.
Doesn't matter. People were counting on him. People who'd never know his name or sacrifice.
He tied the cloth tighter, pulled so hard he gasped. Bit down the scream.
Every inch of him begged to stop. To let someone else be the hero.
But his eyes stayed sharp.
This wasn't about pride or revenge. It was debt.
He'd failed in other places before. Watched the cities burn, powerlessly. Remembered the faces. The corpses in the streets. The silence after the screams stopped.
When hope died.
This time, he'd move before the silence came.
A howl echoed across the city long, mournful, hungry.
Phase 2 had started.
But something was wrong. The howl was different. Deeper than he remembered.
The ground beneath him vibrated like a subway train passing.
Except Moscow's metro had been shut for hours.
He peered through smoke, trying to understand. The demon hounds should be spreading out, hunting in packs. Instead, they were… gathering? Moving toward something.
His blood ran cold.
They weren't hunting randomly. They were being controlled.
"Shit." He gripped the kitchen knife tight. "There's a controller."
As far as he remembers there was no controller controlling the hounds, not like he was there before he regressed.
That changed everything. Lesser demons were bad, but a controller meant this wasn't a random attack. Someone or something was running this.
The system message blinked again:
Sub-objective detected: Eliminate Pack Leader before civilian casualties hit limit.
[Reward: +2 Skill Points]
[Minor Healing Potion]
[Current civilian deaths: 47]
Forty-seven people already dead.
Before his regression there were so many casualties in Moscow even the government couldn't count all of them.
Things started to change. All because of him.
He started moving before he fully decided. Muscle memory took over. Pain flared in his ribs, but he pushed.
The stairwell down from the garage was dark, dripping, filled with distant screams. His footsteps echoed, making him wince. Stealth was impossible with busted ribs.
Halfway down, a low growl crawled up his spine. Not the usual high-pitched freaks. Something bigger.
He pressed against the wall, trying to slow his breath. The growl came from street level, about thirty meters away.
Another message popped up:
[Warning: Pack Leader detected. Class C Demon. Recommended party of 4-6 for fight.]
Four to six people. And here he was, alone, half-dead, armed with kitchen cutlery.
"Does this shitty system always has to be this annoying!" he whispered.
But as he crept toward the street, something felt familiar. Shadows moving. The smell sulfur mixed with rotten flesh came closer as he walked forward.
He'd fought this exact demon before. Not just the type this one. He knew by the way it moved, how it breathed.
Seventeen years ago, in this district, demons slaughtered countless civilians before the gates were pushed back. He never forgot those faces. Never stopped seeing them in his nightmares.
Now, the death toll was already at forty-seven and climbing.
And now it was back.
The knife felt heavy in his hand as he stepped into the street. Every instinct screamed to run. But he'd run enough seventeen years ago.
Time to finish this shit.
[Level: 2]
STR +5 | DEX +5 | INT +2
[User: Damian Voss]
[Passive ability: Void]
[Ability: Shadow Step]
[New Quest: First Flame Ignition]
[Location: Gate in Moscow]
[Penalty: System Delay for all others]
[Reward: ???]
[Time limit: 137 Hours]