The alley was a wound in the city's skin, a narrow, festering gap between the academy's pristine stonework and the grimy brick of a neighboring dormitory. It smelled of refuse and stagnant water. A single, caged lantern high on the academy wall sputtered, casting long, dancing shadows that writhed like living things. It was a place designed for quick exits and forgotten things. A perfect place for an ambush.
Zero walked into it without hesitation.
His heart was a cold, steady drum in his chest, a stark contrast to the frantic, panicked fluttering of the ghost of Ashe within him. Every instinct from his first life screamed at him to take the long way around, to avoid the confrontation, to hide in his room until morning.
He ignored it. Weakness was a luxury he could no longer afford. He had made a statement in the Great Hall, a public declaration of his new existence. To back down now would be to erase it, to admit it was a fluke. And Zero did not deal in flukes. He dealt in calculated outcomes.
He was halfway down the alley when they appeared. Just as he'd predicted. One materialized from the deeper shadows ahead, a hulking silhouette against the streetlights beyond. The other stepped out from behind a stack of rotting crates near the entrance, blocking his retreat. They were Marcus's cronies. The taller one, Gregor, had a cruel, broken-nosed face. The shorter, stockier one, Pike, had small, mean eyes that darted around nervously.
"Nowhere to run, little Porter," Gregor grunted, cracking his knuckles. The sound was unnervingly loud in the enclosed space. "Lord Marcus was… displeased with your little stunt. He sent us to collect a debt."
"He said to break your legs," Pike added, a greasy grin spreading across his face. "But he didn't say how slowly we had to do it."
Zero stopped, his worn porter's pack still slung over his shoulder. He slowly scanned the alley again. Overflowing trash bin to his left, three meters away. A pile of loose bricks from a collapsed section of wall to his right, five meters. A drainpipe running up the dormitory wall behind Pike. He cataloged every detail, every potential weapon, every escape route.
He looked at Gregor, then at Pike. His face remained a mask of calm indifference. "Tell Marcus I'm not interested in paying."
Gregor laughed, a harsh, grating sound. "Not interested? That's funny. You're gonna be screaming your interest in a minute."
The two thugs began to advance, spreading out to flank him. They were confident, moving with the lazy swagger of predators who knew their prey was trapped. That was their first mistake.
Zero's mind was a shard of ice. He knew he couldn't win a straight fight. He was physically weak, untrained, and his only real power was a chaotic, unpredictable anomaly he barely understood. Brute force was their language. His would have to be precision and cruelty.
He focused on Pike, the one closer to the entrance. The weaker link. The more nervous of the two.
"You're getting paid for this, I assume?" Zero asked, his voice conversational, cutting through the tension.
Pike hesitated, thrown by the question. "Of course we are. Ten silver."
"He's underpaying you," Zero stated, as if discussing the weather. "For breaking the legs of a student on academy grounds? The expulsion fine alone is twenty gold. He's using you."
"Shut up!" Pike spat, but a flicker of doubt crossed his face. Zero saw it. The crack in the armor.
That was all he needed.
In one fluid motion, Zero shrugged his heavy porter's pack off his shoulder. He didn't drop it. He swung it, low and hard, using its momentum. It wasn't aimed at Pike's body. It was aimed at the loose gravel and filth on the alley floor.
The heavy leather bag slammed into the ground, kicking up a blinding spray of dirt, dust, and God-knows-what else.
Pike instinctively flinched, raising a hand to shield his eyes. It was a fatal, half-second reaction.
Zero exploded forward. He didn't charge like a warrior. He moved like a terrified animal, low to the ground, a desperate scramble that was clumsy and utterly without honor. He ignored Gregor completely, his entire being focused on the single, momentary opening Pike had given him.
He slammed his shoulder into Pike's knee, not his torso. The Brawler was built for absorbing body blows; his stance was his weakness. Pike grunted in pain, his leg buckling as he stumbled backward, his balance shattered.
Zero didn't stop. He drove forward, ramming Pike against the brick wall. The Brawler's head connected with the masonry with a wet, hollow thud. Pike's eyes rolled back in his head, and he slid to the ground in a boneless heap, unconscious.
One down.
"You little bastard!" Gregor roared, his shock turning to fury. He charged, his movements faster, more serious now.
Zero spun around, his heart hammering against his ribs. There was no time for a plan, no time for clever tricks. Gregor was on him, a mountain of muscle and rage. A huge fist caught Zero high on the cheekbone, and the world exploded in a flash of white-hot pain. He was thrown backward, his head slamming into the opposite wall. His vision swam. The taste of blood, sharp and familiar, filled his mouth again.
Gregor was on him in an instant, grabbing the front of his tunic and lifting him effortlessly off the ground, pinning him against the bricks. The Brawler's face was inches from his, contorted in a furious snarl.
"No more games," Gregor spat, his breath hot and foul. He drew back his other fist for a final, bone-shattering blow.
Zero's mind screamed. He was pinned. Out-muscled. This was it. This was how he died. Again.
Ashe's terror was a paralyzing ice. But this time, something else was there with it. The cold, diamond-hard rage from the void. It didn't just want to survive. It wanted to win.
His left hand, pinned but still free to move, scrabbled desperately against the grimy wall. His fingers brushed against something hard and cold. The overflowing trash bin. His hand closed around the neck of a broken bottle, the jagged edges slicing into his palm. He didn't even feel the pain.
He acted on pure, murderous instinct.
He drove the shattered bottle forward and up, plunging it deep into the soft, unprotected flesh of Gregor's thigh.
The Brawler screamed, a raw, animal sound of shock and agony. His grip on Zero's tunic loosened. His fist, which had been about to cave in Zero's skull, faltered. Blood, dark and thick, began to gush from the wound, soaking Gregor's trousers.
Zero didn't give him time to recover. He wrenched the bottle free with a sickening, tearing sound and stabbed again, this time into the Brawler's side. Gregor howled, stumbling back, clutching at his wounds.
Zero fell to the ground, gasping for air, his body screaming in protest. He looked up at the wounded Brawler. Gregor was staring down at his own blood, his face a mask of disbelief and terror. The predator had become the prey.
That look of fear… it was a heady, intoxicating poison. Zero scrambled to his feet, a feral snarl twisting his lips. He was no longer a scared boy. He was the thing in the dark that the monsters were afraid of.
He lunged forward, grabbing a loose brick from the pile he had cataloged earlier. Gregor tried to back away, but his wounded leg gave out. He fell to his knees, his hands held up in a pleading gesture.
"Wait… please…"
Zero brought the brick down on the side of his head.
There was a dull, wet crack. And then silence.
The only sound in the alley was Zero's own ragged, desperate breathing. He stood over the still form of the Brawler, the brick heavy in his trembling hand. He had done it. His first kill. It hadn't been clean. It hadn't been cool. It had been ugly, clumsy, and terrifying. It had been necessary.
A familiar, chilling shimmer appeared in his vision. The corrupted blue window.
[TARGET ELIMINATED: C-RANK BRAWLER.]
[MALICIOUS INTENT CONFIRMED. THREAD OF FATE SEVERED.]
[ABSORBING REMNANT ECHO...]
A wave of vertigo hit him as he felt a phantom sensation—a ghost of Gregor's thuggish arrogance, a flicker of his fear—pass through him and dissolve into nothing.
[ERROR! SOUL DATA INCOMPATIBLE WITH HOST... CORRUPTING...]
The text flickered wildly.
[SKILL 'LESSER STRENGTH BOOST' HAS BEEN CORRUPTED.]
[NEW SKILL ACQUIRED: FLESH DEVOURER'S STRENGTH (PASSIVE, LVL 1)]
A new window opened, displaying the skill's description. The text was a sickly, predatory white.
[Flesh Devourer's Strength: You are a predator. You are a scavenger. You are what waits in the dark. Gain a permanent, minuscule increase to your base Strength by consuming the flesh of your slain enemies.]
Zero read the words once. Then twice.
Consuming. The. Flesh.
A wave of absolute, soul-deep revulsion washed over him. His stomach heaved. He turned away from the body and threw up, the contents of his stomach spattering against the grimy alley wall. He retched until there was nothing left, his body shaking uncontrollably.
He looked at his hands—one sliced open and bloody, the other covered in brick dust. He looked at the corpse on the ground. He thought about the description of his new, monstrous "reward."
This wasn't a gift. It was a curse. He wasn't just a killer. His very System was compelling him to become a ghoul.
He leaned against the cold brick wall, his legs threatening to give out, and stared into the darkness. He had won the fight. But in the chilling silence of the alley, he had the horrifying suspicion that he had just lost something infinitely more important: the last piece of the boy named Ashe.