Chapter 2: Mark of the Forsaken
The silence was heavy.
The battlefield stretched endlessly before him, a graveyard of forgotten warriors. The sky, choked with gray clouds, cast an eerie glow over the ruins of war. And in the midst of it, he stood.
His breaths came slow, controlled. His body still ached, but he could move. Barely.
His gaze drifted downward, catching the faint glint of a broken sword half-buried in the dirt. He reached for it, turning the jagged metal toward himself—only to freeze.
A mark.
Branded across his collarbone, blackened veins spiraling outward like a spreading infection, was a sigil pulsing with a dull, sickly light. The moment his eyes fell upon it, something deep within him stirred.
[Designation: Forsaken.]
The system's words rang in his mind, but this time, they were faint—distorted.
He exhaled slowly. He didn't know what this mark truly meant, but one thing was clear. He was not supposed to exist.
A rustling in the distance snapped his thoughts back into focus.
His head whipped toward the ruins at the edge of the battlefield. Something was there. Watching.
A flicker of movement. A silhouette standing between the crumbling remnants of stone. He couldn't make out a face—just the vague outline of a figure cloaked in shadow.
Then, in the span of a single blink, it was gone.
His grip tightened on the broken sword. The presence had felt… familiar. But he had no time to dwell.
Survival came first.
He moved through the battlefield, scavenging whatever weapons and armor remained intact. A battered chestplate, a half-functional gauntlet, a dagger caked in dried blood. He armed himself as best he could.
And then the air shifted.
A low, guttural sound—not human.
The first attack came from behind.
He spun just in time to see a creature lunge at him from the shadows, its body twisted and unnatural, its form flickering as if struggling to maintain its existence. Its eyes—empty voids—locked onto him with hungry intent.
Instinct took over. He moved.
The broken sword slashed through the air, striking true—but the blade passed through the creature like mist, barely slowing it down. It screeched, lunging again, its claws aiming for his throat.
Too fast.
His body reacted before his mind could process. His mark burned. A pulse of raw energy surged through him—dark, unstable, wrong.
The moment his power flared, the creature screamed. Its form convulsed, warping violently as if it were being ripped apart from the inside.
And then, without warning—it collapsed into nothing.
The battlefield fell silent once more.
He staggered, his vision swimming. His mark pulsed again, sending a cold shiver down his spine. Something was wrong.
His power had destroyed the creature effortlessly… but it hadn't been an attack.
It had been an erasure.