A Name That Means Nothing

The body was faceless.

Not in the literal sense—his features were still there, frozen in the stillness of death—but Dion didn't recognize him. He felt a moment of familiarity, a nagging sense that he'd seen this person before. But that wasn't unusual.

In RidgeFort's outer district, where survival meant working together in one way or another, faces blurred over time. Everyone had crossed paths at least once. Maybe they had bartered at the same stall. Maybe they had hunted in the same ruins, competing for scraps. Maybe they had never spoken, just shared the same desperate existence.

Either way, the dead man was no one special. Just another body in a city that saw too many.

But the tension in the air said otherwise.

Dion's eyes shifted from the corpse to the commotion ahead. The people gathered around weren't just looking at the body—they were watching something. Someone.

The crowd kept their distance, a loose circle of wary onlookers. In the center, standing in front of the exchange shop, was a man.

Tall. Proud.

His presence alone was enough to command attention.

Dion studied him with idle curiosity. The man had sharp features—not quite beautiful, but striking in a way that made people look twice. His dark hair was neatly cut, a contrast to the usual unkempt mess of the outer district. He wore a coat that was too fine for this part of RidgeFort, its fabric thick and sturdy, lined with reinforced stitching. Not ostentatious, but well-made. Expensive.

Beneath him, a man knelt.

Unlike the one standing, this one was disheveled—dirt on his clothes, a tear along his sleeve. His posture was rigid, his jaw clenched, as if he were balancing between submission and defiance. There was an undeniable tension in his body, a battle between respect and scorn.

Dion moved closer, trying to catch what was being said.

But the words didn't carry.

The crowd was silent, but not completely. Whispers floated through the air, hushed voices trading speculation.

Dion focused, listening.

"…kept bragging he was related to the Devas."

"…thought his name alone could carry him…"

"…killed over an argument, just like that."

That made Dion pause.

A distant family member of the Deva family?

It wasn't uncommon for people to claim lineage to the ruling bloodline. The Devas had ruled since the unification, and their name alone carried weight. Even distant relations—real or fabricated—could open doors.

But if this man had been boasting about it, and now he was kneeling…

Dion's gaze flicked to the corpse again.

An argument. A death. And now, submission.

Then came the next whisper.

"He's an Awakened."

Dion stiffened.

That changed everything.

Awakened. A title that separated the strong from the weak.

Humanity had been fractured by the shockwave eighty years ago, but it had also been reborn. When the Oracle integrated with every human, it revealed a system of power—one that had defined society ever since.

There were ranks.

Hollowborn. Awakened. Primebound. Aeclon. Harbinger. Sovereign.

Many never advanced beyond Hollowborn, the lowest tier. They could use NyxFlow, but only in small, inefficient ways. Only those who pushed their limits, who survived long enough to hone their abilities, could break through to Awakened.

And an Awakened kneeling in the outer district?

That wasn't just rare. It was unheard of.

Dion's gaze shifted back to the standing man.

Whoever he was, he had power.

Power enough to make an Awakened kneel.

'Primebound?, or Aeclon?. Crazy'

And that meant he was dangerous. Very dangerous.