Abyssal Sovereign: Throne of the Null

Chapter 2: The Taste of Ash

"My turn," Tarn whispered into the dark.

Those words had barely left his lips before the Tomb Warden recovered, its steel boots screeching against the gravel as it stabilized its massive frame. The red embers inside its empty helm flared with a cruel light. With a guttural roar that shook the loose stones in the cave ceiling, the monster swung its rusted greatsword upward, aiming to split Tarn from crotch to chin.

Tarn did not back away. The raw, heavy pressure that would have frozen his limbs ten minutes ago now felt like a gentle breeze. He slipped to the left, the jagged edge of the greatsword whistling past his ear so closely that he could smell the ancient copper and rot clinging to the metal.

As the blade cleaved empty air, Tarn stepped right inside the monster's guard. His left hand shot out, grabbing the thick steel arm of the Warden, while his right fist—still wrapped in a shifting, smoky violet aura—slammed straight into the cracked iron plate covering its throat.

Crack.

The blow landed with the force of a sledgehammer against dry wood. The Warden's head snapped backward, its rusted chainmail shattering into dark fragments. The monster staggered, its heavy greatsword dragging powerlessly on the ground.

A sharp digital chime sounded right behind Tarn's retina.

[Target Status: Stunned.] [Passive Skill: 'Abyssal Oppression' has reduced the target's physical defense by 15%.]

Tarn did not wait for the text to fade. He leaped forward, planting a boot squarely against the monster's dented chestplate, using the momentum to rip the heavy iron greatsword from its weakening grip.

The weapon was immensely heavy, easily reaching eighty pounds of solid iron. Under normal circumstances, a Rank-E hunter like him wouldn't even be able to lift it off the ground without tearing a muscle. But now, as his fingers wrapped around the worn leather grip, the dark aura from his skin seeped into the metal. The collective weight vanished, perfectly balanced in his palm.

The Warden lunged forward, its giant armored hands reaching out to crush Tarn's skull.

Tarn swung.

He did not use fancy high-level sword techniques because he did not know any. It was a raw, horizontal arc born of survival and hatred. The dark-infused blade cut through the air, slicing into the stone-like thick neck of the monster with a heavy, wet thud.

The towering mountain of iron froze. The next second, the massive helm fell from its shoulders, bouncing twice on the gravel before coming to a stop. The rest of its body collapsed forward, hitting the ground like a sack of rocks and kicking up a thick cloud of gray dust.

Silence fell over the room, broken only by Tarn's ragged, heavy breathing.

[Tomb Warden defeated.] [Experience gained. You have leveled up!] [Level 1 ➔ Level 2] [Strength increased by 2. Agility increased by 2.]

Tarn stood over the corpse, the heavy greatsword resting on his shoulder. The phantom pain in his ankle was completely gone, replaced by a strange buzzing energy vibrating beneath his skin. He stared at his hands. They were covered in dirt and dried blood, but they weren't shaking anymore.

"Level two," he muttered, the reality of the black interface finally sinking in. "A growth-type class... I can actually get stronger."

In the hunter world, your rank at Awakening is a permanent limit. A Rank-E stays a Rank-E until the day he dies in a gutter. The world does not allow growth. But this system shatters every rule the Hunter Association drilled into his head from day one.

Before he could inspect his status screen further, a low, boiling sound echoed from the pool of black fluid seeping from the Warden's severed neck.

The shadows around the corpse began to distort, lengthening and spinning like rising heat. They rose from the stone, defying gravity, before merging into the shape of the monster he had just killed—only this time, its armor was made of translucent pitch-black mist, and its eyes burned with a cold, pale purple fire.

The shadow creature knelt on one knee, bowing its head toward Tarn in absolute submission.

[Class Skill Acquired: Umbral Extraction (Rank-F).] [You can now extract the souls of the dead to form your loyal shadow vanguard.] [Current Shadow Capacity: 1/5] [Please assign a name to your first soldier.]

Tarn stared at the kneeling phantom. A slow, dangerous smile crept across his face. Stellan thought he had left a corpse to buy three seconds. Instead, he had left the foundation of an army.

"Null," Tarn said clearly.

The shadow Warden emitted a low, vibrating hum, acknowledging the name, before dissolving into Tarn's own shadow, making it look slightly darker and slightly wider than before.

Tarn shifted his gaze to the far end of the cave, where the residual magical signature of the dungeon gate still lingered behind the rubble. The gate was gone, but dungeon rules dictated that once a boss died, a secondary exit portal would appear within ten minutes.

He did not rush toward it. He walked over to the granite boulder that had previously crushed his bone, raised his energy-infused boot, and kicked it. The massive stone shattered into three neat pieces, clearing the path.

Ten minutes later, Tarn stood in a narrow alley just outside the dungeon gate entrance in the city's lower district. The air was cold and smelled of rain and exhaust fumes. Across the street, the red emergency lights of Hunter Association vehicles illuminated the brick walls.

A small crowd had gathered around the barrier tape. Right in the middle of the spotlight stood Stellan, his gold-trimmed claymore gleaming under the halogen lamps. The man was currently holding a handkerchief to his face, his expression a manufactured mask of grief as local reporters shoved microphones toward him.

"It was a tragedy," Stellan's voice echoed over the murmur of the crowd, heavy with fake sorrow. "The anomaly caught us completely unprepared. Young Tarn... he fought bravely to the end to ensure the team's extraction. I did everything in my power to pull him out, but the gate collapsed too quickly. His sacrifice will not be forgotten by the guild."

Tarn stood deep within the darkness of the alley, the hood of his torn jacket pulled low over his eyes. He watched the man who had broken his leg and left him to rot play the grieving hero for the cameras.

He reached into his pocket, his fingers brushing the edge of his cracked Rank-E hunter token. With a quiet flick of his wrist, he dropped the token into the gutter, watching it disappear into the murky water.

"Let them think I'm dead," Tarn whispered, his eyes locking onto Stellan's golden armor from across the street. "It'll make the collection that much sweeter."