The ruins were silent, save for the faint whisper of the wind.
Ezra stood among the ashes of his enemy, his body still humming with power.
The battle had changed something within him.
Not just physically—
But mentally.
A deep hunger coiled in his chest.
Not for food.
Not for rest.
But for more.
More power. More fights. More evolution.
Sylvaine's voice snapped him from his thoughts.
"Ezra."
He turned to her.
She was staring at him, eyes sharp.
"That was… different."
Ezra rolled his shoulders, feeling the lingering energy still crackling beneath his skin.
"Yeah," he muttered. "It was."
Sylvaine didn't look convinced.
"You were enjoying it."
Ezra smirked. "And?"
She hesitated. "You didn't just fight that thing—you dominated it. Like it was nothing. That's not normal."
Ezra chuckled. "Define normal."
Sylvaine sighed, rubbing her temples. "I'm saying you should be careful. That… thing inside you. It's changing you."
Ezra flexed his fingers, feeling the new strength coursing through him.
"Good."
Sylvaine opened her mouth to argue, but she stopped herself.
Because deep down—
She knew Ezra wasn't wrong.
They weren't playing by normal rules anymore.
And if he wanted to survive?
He'd have to become something more.
Something stronger.
Something… inhuman.
---
Abyssfang's Whisper
Ezra turned his gaze to Abyssfang.
The blade pulsed, its dark energy intertwining with his own.
He could hear it now.
A faint, whispering voice in the back of his mind.
It wasn't speaking words.
Not yet.
But he understood its meaning.
More.
Ezra's grin widened.
"I hear you."
Sylvaine glanced at him. "What?"
Ezra shook his head. "Nothing."
He tightened his grip on the sword.
They had wasted enough time here.
Blackthorne was waiting.
And Ezra was ready.
---
The Road to Blackthorne
They traveled through the shattered wastelands, the remnants of forgotten battles scattered across the cracked earth.
Ezra felt different.
His senses were sharper, his movements smoother.
He could hear every shift of the wind.
Feel the heartbeat of creatures hiding in the dark.
It wasn't just evolution.
It was ascension.
Sylvaine kept stealing glances at him.
Finally, she broke the silence.
"What exactly did you gain from that fight?"
Ezra thought for a moment, then opened his status screen.
---
[Status Updated]
Name: Ezra Blackwood
Race: Abyssborne (Evolving)
Class: Abyssal Reaper
Level: 27 → 34
Abilities Gained:
Nightborn Regeneration (Passive) – Heals injuries rapidly, even fatal ones.
Predator's Instinct (Passive) – Enhances senses, allowing him to detect enemies from miles away.
Abyssal Rend (Active) – A devastating slash infused with abyssal energy, capable of cutting through magic and armor.
Devour Essence (Unique) – Absorbs remnants of fallen enemies to accelerate evolution.
Ezra smirked.
Yeah.
This was just the beginning.
Sylvaine read his expression and sighed. "You're going to be unbearable, aren't you?"
Ezra grinned. "Oh, absolutely."
---
Arrival at the Fortress
By nightfall, they reached the outskirts of Blackthorne's stronghold.
It was massive—a towering fortress of obsidian and iron, surrounded by spiked barricades and patrolling sentries.
But Ezra wasn't intimidated.
He was excited.
This was a challenge.
And he welcomed it.
Sylvaine scanned the defenses. "What's the plan?"
Ezra's crimson eyes gleamed.
"We walk in."
Sylvaine stared at him. "You're joking."
Ezra smirked. "Nope."
She sighed. "Why do I even bother?"
Ezra stretched, rolling his neck. "Relax. If things go south—"
Abyssfang hummed in his grip.
"I'll just cut my way through."
Sylvaine muttered something under her breath but followed.
Ezra stepped forward, his heart thrumming with anticipation.
He didn't fear Blackthorne.
He didn't fear anything.
Because now—
They should fear him.
---
Enter the Lion's Den
The iron gates of Blackthorne's stronghold loomed ahead, flanked by torchlit towers and armored sentries.
Their scarred faces and bloodstained weapons made it clear—these were men who had survived countless battles.
They weren't guards.
They were killers.
And yet—
Ezra walked forward without hesitation.
Sylvaine sighed but followed. "This is insane."
Ezra smirked. "Relax. If they try anything, I'll handle it."
The two approached the main entrance, where a group of mercenaries stood watching them like wolves eyeing fresh prey.
One of them—a towering brute clad in spiked armor—stepped forward, resting a hand on the hilt of his massive greatsword.
"This place isn't for outsiders," the brute growled. "Turn around before we cut you down."
Ezra met his gaze, unfazed.
"I'm not an outsider," he said, voice calm but firm. "I'm the one Blackthorne's been waiting for."
The brute snorted. "That so?"
Without warning, he swung his sword.
It was fast—
But Ezra was faster.
He sidestepped, grabbed the man's wrist—
And twisted.
CRACK!
The brute's arm snapped like dry wood.
He barely had time to scream before Ezra slammed his elbow into his chest—BOOM!
The sheer force sent the brute crashing into the wall, his greatsword clattering to the ground.
Silence.
The other mercenaries stiffened, hands moving to their weapons.
But Ezra simply tilted his head.
"Well?" he said, voice still casual. "Anyone else?"
The mercenaries hesitated.
They had seen countless warriors challenge their ranks.
But none had been this fast.
This ruthless.
One of them—a wiry man with daggers strapped to his belt—spoke cautiously.
"…What do you want with Blackthorne?"
Ezra smirked. "That's between me and him."
The dagger-wielder glanced at the groaning brute on the ground, then nodded toward the gate guards.
"Let them through."
The iron gates groaned open, revealing the dark corridors of the fortress beyond.
Ezra and Sylvaine stepped inside.
The real game was about to begin.
---
Inside Blackthorne's Stronghold
The fortress was a city within a fortress—a sprawling network of halls, barracks, training grounds, and war rooms.
Everywhere Ezra looked, he saw warriors.
Some sparring, others drinking and gambling, a few watching him with calculating gazes.
Sylvaine leaned in. "You sure this was a good idea?"
Ezra's grin widened.
"Absolutely."
A few minutes later, they were escorted into the war hall.
It was a vast chamber lined with banners, torches flickering against stone walls carved with ancient battle scenes.
And at the end of the room—
A man sat upon a massive obsidian throne.
He was broad-shouldered, his long black hair tied back, his eyes cold and sharp like a wolf assessing its prey.
Blackthorne.
The infamous warlord of the wastes.
The moment Ezra stepped forward, Blackthorne's gaze locked onto him.
The air in the room shifted.
It wasn't hostility.
It was recognition.
"You," Blackthorne murmured. "You're not normal."
Ezra smirked. "Neither are you."
A slow grin spread across Blackthorne's face.
"I like you already."
But then—
Blackthorne's expression hardened.
"But liking you won't keep you alive in my halls."
Ezra's grin didn't fade.
"Good. I wasn't planning on dying."
The room tensed.
Blackthorne leaned forward.
"Tell me, stranger—why should I let you walk out of here alive?"
Ezra met his gaze, eyes glowing faintly.
"Because I'm stronger than any man here."
A murmur rippled through the war hall.
Some scoffed.
Others watched with interest.
Blackthorne chuckled. "Bold claim."
Ezra's grin widened.
"Then test me."
Silence.
Then—
Blackthorne stood.
His presence was overwhelming, a raw aura of battle-hardened might.
But Ezra wasn't intimidated.
Blackthorne cracked his knuckles.
"Very well."
He gestured to the guards.
"Clear the hall."
The warriors quickly moved aside, forming a wide circle.
Blackthorne unbuckled the heavy cloak from his shoulders.
"You want to prove yourself?"
His aura surged, filling the room with a pressure that could crush lesser men.
"Then fight me."
Ezra's heart pounded with excitement.
He was going to enjoy this.