The library still smelled of sweat and melted wax. After the miracle, no one dared leave. Survivors huddled against the walls or sat cross-legged on the carpet, clutching backpacks and scavenged blades. Candles guttered low, throwing trembling halos across the shelves, and every flicker stretched too long, as if the darkness itself wanted in.
Ethan sat against a shelf, legs trembling, shirt damp with sweat. The glow under his skin had dimmed to an ember. Each shallow breath reminded him how much of himself he'd burned away.
Marcus loomed beside him like a sentry, crowbar balanced across his knees.
"Try to sleep," he muttered. "I'll keep watch."
Ethan tried to smile, but the weight of a hundred eyes pressed down. They weren't just looking at him—they were measuring him, wondering if the man who could drag someone back from death might someday decide not to.
Kira paced by the door, arms folded tight. Her form blurred once, then snapped clear again, the faint shimmer of phasing fading from her outline. Ravi sat cross-legged on a crate, pipe across his lap, scribbling on the back of a torn flyer with the stub of a pencil. His cracked glasses caught the candlelight as he muttered calculations to himself.
And across the room, wrapped in a threadbare blanket, sat the man Ethan had hauled from oblivion.
Caleb.
He shivered though the air wasn't cold, eyes darting as if afraid the walls might reject him.
It was his whisper that broke the hush.
"He brought me back," Caleb rasped. "I was gone. I remember the hunger—the claws—then light. And I could see again."
Gasps rippled through the crowd.
A woman by the barricaded windows shot to her feet. "That wasn't healing," she snapped, finger stabbing toward Ethan. "You interfered! That thing was one of them—and you dragged it back. What if it turns again?"
The fear spread like kindling. Some nodded, faces pale; others whispered prayers of thanks.
Marcus rose slowly, broad shoulders filling the aisle. "He saved a man," he said flatly. "If you don't like it, the door's right there."
"Easy," Ravi cut in, voice steady as chalk. "Yelling won't fix this. We need to share what we know. We're not the only ones who had to choose last night. Let's talk about those choices."
The noise thinned. Only the crackle of candle wax answered. Then Caleb lifted a trembling hand.
"I saw five," he whispered. "Same as him." He nodded toward Ethan.
A stunned murmur rolled through the room.
Ethan's pulse stuttered. He wasn't alone.
Marcus frowned. "I had two. Titan-Blood and something else. Picked Titan-Blood—best decision I ever made."
Kira halted mid-pace. "Three for me. All about speed. Phase-Strider fit."
Ravi tapped his pencil. "Four for me. Mind-Warden, Neural Savant, a few others. I took Savant—foresight, probability."
Then others spoke, one by one.
A wiry man near the back raised a grease-stained hand. "Mine said Gearwright. Bond with machines, fix or weaponize them."
An older woman, soil still under her nails, murmured, "Verdant Caller. Plants, growth. I thought it was a trap."
A carpenter near the barricade added, "Warden of Timber. Could shape wood, raise walls. But I picked Titan-Blood—figured strength keeps you alive longer."
The hall erupted—astonishment, jealousy, awe tangled together.
Ravi scribbled furiously, eyes fever-bright. "It tailors the paths! Backgrounds influence options—mechanic, botanist, carpenter… The system isn't random; it's adaptive."
"And him?" the sharp-voiced woman demanded, pointing again at Ethan. "That Fifth Path—what trade is that?"
Silence fell like a blade.
Ethan forced himself upright despite the tremor in his legs. "I didn't ask for it," he said quietly. "I don't know why I saw it. But it isn't endless. When I brought Caleb back, I felt something lock inside me. Like a door slammed shut."
Marcus squinted. "A limit?"
"Yeah. A cooldown. Maybe tomorrow I can try again—but not tonight."
The murmurs fractured into argument.
"That's a gift from the gods!"
"No—it's dangerous! He's bending rules that aren't his!"
Marcus slammed the crowbar against the floor. The clang cut through the shouting. "One miracle a day is still more than any of you can manage. Show some respect."
Kira's voice slid in, sharp and practical. "Or one miracle that paints a target on us. Word gets out, and every raider left alive will come looking for their own resurrection."
Ethan's gut twisted. She was right. The gift didn't feel like grace—it felt like a mark.
"Then we make rules," Ravi said, standing. His tone carried authority he hadn't used before. "One reversal a day. Ethan doesn't drop below half essence unless it's life-or-death. And we vote before he uses it."
The woman by the window sneered. "So he plays god, and you three are his priests?"
"Better that than chaos," Ravi snapped.
Voices collided again—pleas, threats, gratitude—until Marcus roared loud enough to rattle the rafters.
"Enough! You trust him, or you leave. Those are the lines."
The silence afterward wasn't peace; it was exhaustion wearing a mask.
By the time the candles burned low, they'd set watch shifts, divided rations, and carved out a fragile truce. Ethan sagged back against the shelf, eyelids gritty. The hum beneath his skin had steadied, his essence hovering somewhere near half-full.
That was when the air changed.
The flames bowed as if pressed by invisible palms. A low vibration threaded through Ethan's skull; even the books seemed to whisper. Then a voice filled the hall—not loud, not soft, just everywhere.
> "You have endured the first night. The trial continues."
The sound vibrated through bone. Several people screamed; others dropped to their knees.
> "Sanctuaries will arise—harbors against the dark.
But in seven days, the wild will wake.
Beasts shall join the hunt."
The pressure lifted. Silence crashed down in its wake.
Then came the panic.
"Sanctuaries? Safe zones?"
"Where?"
"What kind of beasts?"
"They're sending more after us!"
Ravi clutched his notes like a lifeline. "If sanctuaries are forming, they'll draw crowds. Supplies will vanish overnight. We move now."
Marcus nodded grimly. "If we stay, we starve behind these walls."
Shouts overlapped—fear, refusal, hope.
Ethan forced his voice above the noise. "If my sister and niece are alive, they'll head for those sanctuaries too. I'm not waiting here for the city to burn."
That stopped them. Not everyone agreed, but a dozen raised their hands, swearing to follow. Others stayed behind, clutching the shelves as if knowledge could protect them.
Dawn crept pale through the cracks in the barricades. The group worked in silence—tying cloth over mouths, taping sleeves, filling bottles. Fear hung thick, but hope had shape now: a direction.
Ethan lay back against the wall, eyes half-closed. The city's distant fires painted the ceiling red.
Beside him, Caleb stirred beneath his blanket.
"When I chose again," he whispered, voice thin, "I saw all five."
Ethan's breath caught. "All five? Again?"
Caleb nodded weakly. "Not just Titan-Blood. Every path. Like the system gave me another roll."
Ethan stared upward, heart pounding in his chest.
He wasn't the only one anymore.
The Fifth Path wasn't his miracle alone.
And if the system was offering second chances—then it was still watching, still judging, still deciding who deserved to rise.