Chapter 1: The Shattered Dawn
The sun had long since abandoned the sky, its last embers swallowed by the encroaching twilight. Only the faint glow of the fractures remained, casting an eerie luminescence across the wasteland that had once been the thriving heart of a bustling city. Now, it was a desolate landscape of crumbling buildings, twisted metal, and shadows that seemed to writhe with a life of their own.
Deon stood on the edge of a shattered rooftop, his sharp eyes scanning the horizon. The air was thick with tension, a palpable sense of dread that hung over the world like a shroud. Below, a Class 2 fracture pulsed with malevolent energy, a jagged wound in the fabric of reality. It was one of the larger ones, spewing forth a steady stream of demons into the ruined streets.
His hand tightened around the hilt of his blade, a weapon forged from the bones of a fallen wraith. It thrummed with power, a perfect match for the dark magic that coursed through his veins. Deon had been one of the first chosen by the system, his transformation into a massive black mamba, a fitting reflection of the lethal magic he wielded. Death itself had become his ally, a silent companion that whispered in his ear as he hunted the creatures that crawled from the fractures.
Behind him, the sound of quiet footsteps approached. Deon didn’t need to turn to know who it was. The presence of his two companions was as familiar to him as his own shadow.
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Sam, a wiry figure draped in a tattered cloak, came to stand beside him. His eyes, glowing faintly with the telltale signs of psychic power, were fixed on the fracture below. His lips curled into a grim smile as he watched the demons claw their way out of the rift, their twisted forms illuminated by the sickly light.
“We’re going to need more than just blades to handle this one,” Sam muttered, his voice laced with a mix of excitement and trepidation. The system had granted him psychic magic, a force that allowed him to bend the world to his will. He could lift boulders with a mere thought, send enemies flying with a flick of his wrist. But even with that power, the demons were a constant threat—a relentless force of destruction that pushed them to their limits.
Deon nodded, his gaze never wavering from the rift. “We’ve handled worse. Besides, James is almost here.”
As if on cue, a low growl echoed through the air, reverberating off the crumbling buildings. From the shadows emerged a towering figure, his silver eyes gleaming with a predatory hunger. James, the prince of a fallen kingdom, and the last of his line. The fracture that had claimed his father had also claimed a piece of James’s soul, twisting him into something both more and less than human. Blood magic flowed through him, a dark gift that allowed him to control the very essence of life. His transformation into a werewolf had only enhanced his already formidable power.
“Sorry I’m late,” James rumbled, his voice deep and gravelly. “Had to deal with a few stragglers on the way.” He wiped the blood from his claws, the crimson liquid evaporating into the air as his magic absorbed it.
“Perfect timing,” Deon replied, a hint of a smile playing at the corners of his lips. “We were just about to start the party.”