The Squalor Bastard Becomes The Gravemarch

The Gravemarch

Won was drowning. His eyes were closed. His thoughts drifted. He let himself sink into the sensation of it all. It was peaceful. He couldn't remember the last time he had felt this calm. Every time after he had a meal? No, those feelings were not like this. 

Usually, the moment he finished a meal, his mind would already spiral into anxiety over when he might get his next.

Finding even the smallest job in the squalor was near impossible—everyone was desperate, and the competition was brutal. Life there was the antithesis of the city. No one cared for anyone else. Children his age either chased after shady jobs or spent their time tormenting quieter ones like him.

He had grown numb to it, worn thin by it. He had stopped wanting to survive long ago. As far as he was concerned, he had already lived a life long enough to die for—until he awakened.

The night it happened, he didn't hesitate. He fled the squalor without telling a soul. If anyone had known, they would have dragged him down out of jealousy. Not that he had any roots there. He usually slept on rooftops, near shops, or anywhere the other homeless hadn't already claimed.

Awakened individuals were a rarity in the squalor. The place was believed to be cursed, forsaken by God. Only two people in thirty years had awakened there—Won was now the third.

He wasn't thrilled at the idea of fighting monsters in the Veynes. What thrilled him was knowing that from now on, food would appear on his plate without worry. The uncertainty was over.

Suddenly, he was no longer drowning.

He stood before a massive hill that soared into the sky, shrouded in thick fog. So much fog that the peak looked like it vanished into a sea of white clouds.

Then, without warning, a mirror materialized before him, reflecting his face.

He stared at himself in silence. Nothing about his appearance had changed—except his eyes. His left eye had turned a deep red, a stark contrast to his usual hazel.

"What the hell?" he muttered.

Woco replied, "That's a result of becoming a vessel for the God of Emptiness. Your vision has been enhanced even further."

"It was already sharp thanks to my Sensari. Now I look... strange," he said, turning away from the mirror. Disappointed.

The Veyne was supposed to vanish, right? Then where am I? he wondered, scanning the distant fog.

"Woco, do you know where this is?" he asked.

"Looks like you're stuck in a glitch. You didn't check your Codex Map after becoming a vessel. Once you open it, you'll return to your world," Woco answered.

"Is that so?" Won echoed, summoning the Codex Map before him.

Boons: Sense 8

Bearings: Sensari, Disguise, Cognidominance

Bearing Rate: 12

Vitality: 35

Vault: Item 3

No change in the stats. This is exactly how it was after I killed the master, he noted, then noticed something in the corner of the screen.

Two unchecked messages.

First message:

"You have received a Fate Seal."

A Fate Seal? Won gasped, covering his mouth.

Seer of Emptiness.

He knew what that meant. It was a rare title, bestowed only on Ashen who demonstrated extraordinary virtue, regardless of rank. Only two people in his nation's history had earned such a distinction.

Is this because I became a vessel? he thought, summoning Woco again.

"Woco, this title—did I receive it just because I became a vessel?"

"No. Fate Seals and ranks are determined solely by an Ashen's individual merit that's not limited to strength only. The gifts from the God of Emptiness are physical enhancements for now—minor ones. Over time, with training, they'll develop mentally as well, particularly your Sensari and Cognidominance bearings. The power of God are not strong enough as of now to reflect on yourself."

Won let out a breath, relieved. He had feared it was a shortcut he hadn't earned.

Still, how is this possible?

The second message blinked open.

"Your rank has been promoted to Gravemarch."

"WHAT?!" Won shouted.

"Isn't that rank a myth? There's no record of anyone ever reaching it," he whispered in disbelief.

"That's the highest rank!"

"How... how is that even possible?" He began pacing, rubbing the back of his neck.

"From Flintshade to Gravemarch in one jump? That's insane!"

"Woco," he called again, "are you sure this isn't a mistake?"

"This is no mistake, Ashen Won. You are right. Gravemarch was once a myth—until now. It was a hypothetical rank, created as a beacon by the Ashen's supreme leaders. A hope that someone stronger would one day emerge."

"Why me? I'm not strong. I can't even fight properly," Won retorted, shaking his head.

"Ranks don't come from strength alone. They come from your heart—and your resolve."

"Can I keep my rank hidden?" he asked. "After meeting the General, I realized the higher-ups are buried in politics. I don't want to be targeted. Can I stay under the radar?"

"Certainly. As a Cognarch, you can mask your rank even if you do a reassessment."

"That's a relief," Won said with a long exhale. "Let's go back now."

Everything collapsed.

Won returned to the same room where he had first entered the Veyne.

Blood? Where's that smell coming from? he wondered, scanning the room.

Then he caught his reflection in the mirror that was in the corner of that room.

He was covered in blood, wounds still fresh as if untouched by the God of Emptiness's healing. There was no pain—but the injuries remained.

Maybe it's better this way. Fewer questions that way.

The door creaked. The General rushed in, having sensed his return.

As expected from the General, Won thought.

"You're back!" the General exclaimed.

Won didn't answer. The man had dragged him through hell. Perhaps he should be thankful—he wouldn't have gained so much otherwise—but still, he hadn't asked for it.

He slumped into a chair, closed his eyes, and immediately fell asleep—sinking into darkness once more. Right now, more than anything, he just needed rest. He didn't care that his wounds were still open.