Story Title :- Veins of the Abyss
Chapter 2: Ashes and Protocols
The rain had stopped by morning, but the silence it left behind felt wrong—like the city itself was holding its breath.
The boy rose from the cathedral ruins, steam still rising faintly from his skin. His body felt different now—stronger, sharper, heavier. Every movement buzzed with restrained violence, like there was something inside him eager to break loose.
He wasn’t used to power.
He wasn’t used to feeling anything but hunger and fear.
But now, those things sat behind him like shadows that no longer mattered.
He left the cathedral as the first light crept across the skyline, barely breaking through the ash-hung clouds. And as he stepped into the street, the world seemed... aware of him.
The system’s voice returned, emotionless as death.
Soul points?
He frowned.
“How do I get more?”
Of course.
Nothing came free.
He moved fast through the lower blocks, heading west—toward the Market Graves, where the outcasts traded what little they had for food, ammo, and rumors. He needed gear, maybe information. Something to anchor himself.
But even as he passed through alleyways and broken plazas, people turned to stare. Some whispered. Others ran.
Because his eyes glowed faintly now. Because the glyphs on his skin hadn’t faded.
Because the world knew what he was.
And that meant they’d come for him soon.
The Market Graves were alive with desperation.
Vendors sold rusted tech and questionable meat beneath tarps soaked with rainwater. Mercenaries lounged near burn-barrels, their guns stitched together from old war parts. Children watched him from rooftops, hands wrapped around slingshots and scrap-knives.
He kept his hood up and moved fast.
Then he heard the word that made him stop cold.
“Godmarked.”
He turned, eyes narrowing.
A man in a leather cowl was speaking to a crowd, voice loud, hands stained with ink and prayer symbols. He stood on a crate, preaching.
“They say the Godmarked are monsters—tainted! But I say they are harbingers! Proof that the Old Ones stir beneath the Abyss once more! That the Dominion lies! That divinity is not granted by purity, but by pain!”
Some people cheered.
Others looked scared.
The boy listened silently.
“You,” the preacher said suddenly, locking eyes with him, “you feel it, don’t you? The itch beneath your bones. The hunger in your blood. You’ve touched it.”
He froze.
The crowd turned to look.
“Come,” the preacher said, extending a hand. “Let the world see what the Dominion fears.”
The boy’s instincts screamed. Trap.
He turned and bolted.
Gunfire cracked behind him. The crowd screamed. He ducked under a stall, leapt over crates, kicked off a wall, and vanished into a side alley just as bullets shattered stone behind him.
“Protocol 002,” he whispered.
Time slowed.
Every droplet of water falling from a broken pipe looked frozen in air. Every heartbeat echoed like thunder. His vision sharpened into microscopic clarity.
He turned as three men followed him into the alley, dressed in black robes and Dominion armor—enforcers.
The first lunged with a chain-blade.
He sidestepped effortlessly, grabbing the man’s wrist and twisting until it snapped. Then he drove his fist into the enforcer’s chest.
The punch detonated the enforcer’s torso in a shower of gore.
The second swung a halberd—too slow. The boy ducked and slammed his elbow into the man's jaw. Bone cracked. Teeth flew. He kicked the third into a wall hard enough to crack the concrete.
The bodies twitched once… then went still.
Blood pooled around his boots. His breathing slowed.
Then the pain came.
A backlash, like static in his bones.
He staggered out of the alley, wiping blood from his eyes.
The preacher was gone. So was the crowd.
Only the corpses remained.
By nightfall, he returned to the cathedral, clothes wet with blood, soul points reduced to one, and his mind reeling with questions.
What was the Crimson Code?
Who had designed the system buried in his flesh?
And what was the Abyss?
As he stared into the shattered altar mirror, he saw something new.
A flicker behind his eyes.
A shape.
A whisper.
Not from the system—but from something else.
“You were not chosen. You were built.”
Then, from the darkness of the cathedral, a voice spoke aloud. Cold, feminine, and cruel:
“You’re not the only Godmarked in this city, boy. But you might be the only one stupid enough to wear your glyphs in public.”
He spun.
A figure stepped from the shadows—tall, cloaked, a mask of bone over her face and a sword carved from obsidian in her hand.
“Who are you?” he asked, tensing.
She raised the sword slightly, its edge humming with hunger.
“I’m the one who kills you… if you fail my test.”
Then she moved.
Faster than any human had the right to be.
And the boy met her head-on, system burning in his blood.
End of Chapter 2
