The Hallowed

The streets of the Outskirts were empty. Too empty.

The boy stood on the rusted frame of an abandoned high-rise, his hollow gaze staring down at the alley below. The city was never quiet, not truly. The Outskirts thrived on noise—shouting, metal scraping against metal, the distant hum of neon signs barely holding onto life.

But tonight, the silence was thick. Heavy. Suffocating.

Then, the scream cut through it.

Long, ragged, inhuman. A sound that didn't belong to anything alive.

The boy exhaled slowly, watching the distant shadows writhe in the dim glow of the flickering streetlights. He should've left. Should've run.

But he didn't.

Because he didn't care. Not anymore.

The shadow twisted through the alleyways below, skittering and twitching unnaturally.

A Hallowed One.

It was wrong—a human shape stretched and distorted past the limits of flesh. Its arms were too long, bony fingers dragging along the ground like broken tools. Its back was hunched, its spine jutting out in sharp, unnatural angles. What remained of its face was split open, jaw unhinged like a cracked mask, rows of jagged teeth lining its throat. Its skin was charred, cracked, like something that had burned from the inside out but never fully died.

The Outskirts belonged to the failures—monsters and men alike.

The boy watched as it moved—a nightmare of twisting limbs, twitching violently as it sniffed the air. Its body convulsed, its head snapping upward.

It had seen him.

His grip on the railing tightened. He should have been afraid. He knew what happened to people who got too close to them.

But fear required something to lose. He had nothing.

So when the Hallowed One lunged, he didn't move.

It moved impossibly fast for something so broken—a blur of rotten flesh and jagged bone.

It hit him full force.

Pain exploded through his ribs as his back slammed into the rusted railing. A sharp gasp tore from his throat before he gritted his teeth and spat out—

"Shit."

His vision blurred, and for a moment, everything spun.

His body ached, ribs screaming in protest, but he had no time to recover. The Hallowed One loomed over him, its hollow sockets staring through him, its jaw opening wider than anything human.

The stench of rot and burning flesh filled his lungs.

The boy struggled to move, his fingers slipping against rusted metal. His body wasn't listening. He was too weak.

The creature's body convulsed as it tensed to lunge.

A faint memory surfaced—of nights spent hiding, of screams that never stopped, of the cold, gnawing hunger that never left him.

He wondered if he would feel anything when it killed him.

And then—

Light.

A burning arc cut through the dark.

The Hallowed One jerked violently, a searing wound carved straight through its torso. It spasmed, limbs convulsing, steam rising from the fresh gash.

It shrieked, but its voice was weaker now.

The next second, it collapsed.

The boy lay there, gasping for breath, his vision swimming.

And then—footsteps.

Slow. Measured. Purposeful.

A figure stood over him now, weapon still glowing faintly in the dark.

A Lifted.

The first he had ever seen up close.

They were young, maybe only a few years older than him, but everything about them was different. Stronger. Sharper. More alive.

The Lifted watched him, silent. Unreadable.

Not with disgust. Not with pity.

Just observation.

As if deciding whether or not to finish the job.