THE GHOUL RISING

CHAPTER 6 — INTEGRATION COMPLETE

I hit concrete hard. The impact jolts through my spine, but my lungs are already screaming, dragging in air that tastes like copper and sand.

I roll onto my side, coughing. Sand pours out from my mouth, my nose, even my ears. It's everywhere, caked in my clothes, grinding against my skin with every movement.

My throat feels thick, coated. I gag and retch, bile and more sand splattering the pavement.

My arms shake as I push up to my hands and knees. The coughing finally stops, leaving me hollow and trembling on the ground.

Then it hits me.

I freeze, staring at the same ground I was stabbed.

The memory slams back with brutal clarity when it replays what went down till that last moment.

I force myself to look around, dreading what I might see. The street is still chaos. Buildings on fire. Overturned cars. Blood everywhere. And the infected? They're still here. Dozens of them, shambling through the wreckage to hunt for prey.

But they're not attacking me.

I'm sitting in the open, covered in my own throw up and sand, completely vulnerable. There's an infected maybe twenty feet away, its head swiveling as it searches for movement. Its gray eyes pass over me like I'm not even here.

Same with others. No primal instincts to attack.

"What—" My voice comes out as a rasp. "What the hell?"

I should be dead. Or infected. Or torn apart. But I'm here, breathing, with infected all around me treating me like I'm invisible.

I glare at the screen that materializes before my eyes. It's loading, text scrolling across the display too fast to read. What exactly did that massive infected put inside of me?

The screen finishes loading.

CONGRATULATIONS, HOST.

YOU HAVE COMPLETED THE PENALTY PHASE

ALL TASKS SUCCESSFULLY ACCOMPLISHED

INTEGRATION: ONE HUNDRED PERCENT

The blue interface flickers. Then the color shifts. Bleeding from blue to deep purple. The change is gradual, like ink spreading through water.

INTEGRATION COMPLETE

PLEASE INPUT DESIGNATION

A cursor blinks, waiting. I stare at it, suspicion crawling up my spine.

"Designation?"

WHAT NAME WOULD YOU LIKE TO BE ADDRESSED BY?

Is this a trick? Some kind of test?

My mind races through possibilities. Why is it asking me? I thought it knows?

"How about 'The Great and Powerful Jid'?" I mutter sarcastically. "Or 'Jid the Magnificent'. I snickers" Jid the great—" I pause" That doesn't sound bad..."

The system beeps.

PROCESSING..

DESIGNATION ACCEPTED: JID THE GREAT

"What? No! I was joking—"

But the text is already scrolling.

WELCOME, JID THE GREAT

I AM UUROK.

I go very still. "Uurok."

The name triggers something. A memory, hazy and nightmarish.

The massive infected towering over me. Those clicking sounds. The pain as its minions tore me apart. And that voice, grinding out words like stones scraping together.

'My name is Uurok, I am the Carrion Lord.'

As if responding to my thoughts, the screen flickers. An image appears—Uurok's face, that writhing mass of fungal growth and teeth, filling the display.

"Son of a —" I jerk backward, my heart hammering. "What the.....don't do that!"

The image fades back to text.

"You put me through hell!" The words burst out before I can stop them. "You had your minions rip me apart! You crushed me! And now you're what—living in my head? Is that what this integration is?"

CORRECT.

The single word sits there, matter-of-fact.

"So you can respond?" I ask carefully. "You can actually communicate?"

No.

I blink. "You literally just—" I take a breath. "You know what? Forget it." I rub my face, feeling the dried mucus crack under my fingers. "What happens now?"

The screen changes, displaying what looks like an inventory.

TASK COMPLETION REWARDS.

LOW-GRADE KNIFE.

THE MYST KEY.

CURRENT STATS:

LEVEL: ONE.

STRENGTH: ZERO.

AGILITY: ZERO.

DURABILITY: ZERO.

INTELLIGENCE: ZERO.

THAUMATURGY: ZERO.

NOTE: YOUR OVERALL LEVEL IS DETERMINED BY YOUR LOWEST STAT.

I see my rewards.

"Can I take a look at the key?" I request.

The screen pulses. Something materializes in my hand, the key being solid and cold.

The key is unlike anything I've seen. It's made of something that looks like tarnished silver but shifts colors in the light.

I turn it over in my palm, feeling its weight. "What does this open?"

The screen doesn't answer. Of course it doesn't.

First things first.....I need to find Sommy. Make sure she's okay. Then, I can figure out what hides behind this key.

I pocket it and start moving toward the east gate, keeping to the shadows. The infected still ignore me, which is both a relief and deeply unsettling.

The gate looms ahead, its massive metal doors still sealed. I approach cautiously, trying to look non-threatening.

"Hey!" One of the guards spots me. His rifle swings in my direction. "How did you get out there?"

Think fast. "I was asked to scout the perimeter. Check for infected concentrations."

The guard's eyes narrow. He exchanges a glance with his partner. "Scout? By who?"

"The evacuation coordinator. There was—"

"That's bullshit." The second guard leans over the wall. "Sienna! We got a situation here!"

I see her emerge from a guard post, striding toward the wall and my stomach drops. It's the same protector that shot me. Her name is Sienna?

Even from here, I can see her expression—cold, and calculating.

There's no way I can explain this. She'll shoot me again. And this time, she'll make absolutely sure I don't come back.

I pull up the screen. "How do I use the experience I earned?"

EXPERIENCE AVAILABLE: TWO-HUNDRED-AND-FIFTY

ALLOCATE TO STATS AS DESIRED

"A hundred to Agility."

ALLOCATING.......

AGILITY: ZERO TO FOUR

I hope this works

I sprint toward the wall far from the entrance, my legs pumping with speed I've never experienced.

In a split second, I leap.

The world goes weightless as I'm airborne before crash landing behind a shack on the inner side, rolling to absorb the impact. When I come up, I'm grinning.

Through a gap in the shack's walls, I see the guards leaning over, pointing and gesturing. Sienna joins them, scanning the area. Her brow furrows. I can almost hear her confusion.

"Not bad," I whisper to the screen. "Not bad at all."

PERFORMANCE SATISFACTORY

I spot a cloak hanging on a nearby line, probably left to dry. I snatch it and wrap it around myself, pulling the hood low.

My clothes are torn and filthy, covered in dried mucus and sand. The cloak at least makes me look like any other desperate refugee instead of someone who crawled out of hell.

Now I need to find Brixen and Sommy. But I've never entered the inner gate before. This section is for people with money and status. I don't know the streets. Don't know anywhere .

'Think Jid, think.' I urge myself.

Brixen deals with raids. He's always hustling, always making connections. If I want to find him, I need to go where the raid work is.

I spot a board near what looks like a guild outpost. Raiders and scavengers cluster around it, checking posted jobs. Perfect.

I push through the crowd and add my name to the sign-up sheet. A clerk looks me over with barely concealed disgust.

"Any meeting point?" I ask.

He doesn't look up from his paperwork. "Front of the Vane estate. Don't be late."

Vane. Brixen's last name. Of course he'd have property here.

I make my way through the inner district, following the clerk's directions. The streets are cleaner here, the buildings intact. People move with purpose instead of panic. It's like the infection never breached the walls.

The Vane estate sits at the end of a wide street. It's a duplex, well-maintained, with a courtyard out front. But it's the people gathered there that make me pause.

Bikers. At least a dozen of them, straddling motorcycles that gleam despite the apocalypse. They're built like criminals, all scars and tattoos and cold eyes that assess threats automatically. Hard men who've survived by being harder than everything trying to kill them.

I approach carefully. "I'm looking for Brixen."

The nearest one, a guy with a shaved head and neck tattoos, looks me up and down. Then he laughs. It's not a kind sound.

"You hear that?" He calls to his friends. "Kid's looking for Brixen."

More laughter ripples through the group.

"You acquainted with him?" Another asks, grinning like this is the best joke he's heard all week.

"Yes."

They laugh harder. One of them actually wipes tears from his eyes.

I glance down at myself. Right. I look like I was dragged through a landfill. My clothes are shredded, the dried mucus has hardened into a crust on my skin, and even with the cloak, I probably smell like death.

"Listen, kid." The bald one leans forward on his bike. "Someone of Brixen's status doesn't mingle with trash like you. Get lost before—"

"I need to speak with him."

The bald guy's expression darkens. He swings off his bike and walks toward me. When he's close enough, he spits. The glob lands right on my shoe.

"Go fetch us some water," he says, voice dripping with contempt. "Maybe if you're useful, we'll let you hang around."

I look at the spit on my shoe. Then at his face. He's grinning, showing teeth stained yellow.

"I'll do that," I say slowly, "if you lose some of that fat first. Too much of it must be clouding your reasoning."

His grin vanishes. Red floods his face, creeping up from his neck. "What did you say?"

"You heard me." I meet his eyes. "Though maybe I should speak slower. Enunciate more clearly for the hard of thinking."

"You little—" He takes a step forward, fists clenching.

I dump all my remaining experience into strength.

ALLOCATING...

STRENGTH: ZERO TO FOUR

Power flows through my arms, my chest, my core. My muscles don't look any different but I can *feel* the difference. Like I've been carrying weights my whole life and someone just removed them.

The fat guy throws a punch. It's telegraphed, sloppy, driven by anger instead of skill. I duck under it easily—thank you, enhanced agility—and drive my fist into his solar plexus.

The impact feels wrong. Too easy.

My fist sinks in further than it should and the fat guy's eyes go wide. He makes a sound like a punctured balloon and drops to his knees, wheezing.

Silence falls over the courtyard.

I stare at my fist, then at the guy struggling to breathe. "I didn't—that wasn't—"

Another biker comes at me from the side. I spin, faster than thought, and catch his arm. I twist without meaning to and something cracks. He screams.

"Who's next?" The words come out steady despite my racing heart.

Two more charge together. My new agility makes them look like they're moving through water. I sidestep the first, trip the second, and they crash into each other in a tangle of limbs.

The fight becomes a blur.

They come at me in ones and twos, and I put them down with combinations of speed and strength that feel entirely natural now.

A punch here. A throw there. Someone tries to grab me from behind and I flip him over my shoulder like he weighs nothing.

When it's over, roughly a third of them are groaning on the ground. The rest back away, reassessing. Hard men who've realized they picked the wrong fight.

I grab the nearest one by his collar and haul him up. "Where's Brixen?"

He stammers out an address, eyes wide with fear.

I drop him and walk away, my hands shaking. That was me. I did that. Without thinking. Without trying.

What am I becoming?

I flag down a passing car—some kind of automated taxi still running its routes like the world hasn't ended. The address the biker gave is in a nicer part of the inner district, where the buildings have actual yards.

When I knock on the door, I hear footsteps. Then Sommy's voice, sharp with irritation.

"I already told you people, I'm not signing anything for your 'common cause' and if you don't—" She yanks the door open and freezes. "Jid?"

"Hey."

She takes a step forward, arms already reaching for a hug, then stops. Her nose wrinkles. Her hand comes up to cover her mouth and nose.

"Oh my god, what is that smell?" She backs up. "Why are you so late? We've been worried sick! And why do you—" She waves a hand in front of her face. "—smell like something died?"

"How long has it been?" I ask carefully. "Since the infected broke through?"

"Not even a day. Maybe twelve hours? Why?"

Twelve hours. The penalty zone felt like forever but time moved differently there. Or maybe it moved the same and I just—

"Jid?" Brixen appears behind Sommy, his face lighting up. "Thank god! I was about to organize a search party. Come in, come in."

I step through the doorway and immediately angle toward the couch. I need to sit. Need to process everything that's—

Sommy grabs my arm. "Oh no. No, no, no." She points toward a hallway. "Bathroom. Now. You are not sitting anywhere in this house smelling like that."

"Sommy, we lived in a shack. A shack. You never cared about—"

"We are not in the shack." She pushes me toward the bathroom with surprising strength. "And I'm burning those clothes. All of them."

"That hoodie was my favorite," Brixen protests weakly.

The bathroom is clean and functional. I strip off the ruined clothes, watching sand pour from every fold. The water runs brown when I turn on the shower, washing away layers of grime and dried mucus and blood I didn't even know was there.

As the water rushes over me, I stare at the purple screen hovering in my vision.

CURRENT STATS:

STRENGTH: FOUR

AGILITY: FOUR

DURABILITY: ZERO

INTELLIGENCE: ZERO

THAUMATURGY: ZERO

I felt the difference immediately. The speed. The power. What will happen when I level up more? When I increase durability? Intelligence? What does thaumaturgy even do?

I need to explore this. Test it. Learn what I'm capable of.

When I emerge, clean and wearing borrowed clothes that are slightly too big, Sommy hands me a plate of food. Real food. Rice and vegetables and some kind of meat.

"Why are there raids happening?" I ask between bites. "The infected just broke through. Shouldn't everyone be focused on—"

"The living still need to eat." Brixen shrugs. "Besides, give it a few years and there'll be treasure closer than ever before. All those abandoned zones, full of supplies just waiting to be claimed."

"Speaking of raids." I look at him directly. "I registered. For tonight."

His face falls. "Jid, I thought you said that was a one-time thing—"

"No, I said I wasn't going, because I knew you were trying to play tricks on me." I gesture at the house, at his nice clothes, at the life he's built. "Plus, I need to make money somehow. Won't want to depend on you forever."

Confusion flashes across his face. "But I'm not complaining—"

"I am." I point it out, "So you better pay me well for it."

He sighs, defeated. "Fine."

Now, it's to know what secret this key holds.