The rain didn't stop the following night. It dripped endlessly from broken gutters and pooled into filthy puddles on cracked sidewalks. Alaric moved through the labyrinth of Zenith's back alleys like a ghost, the system interface shimmering faintly at the corner of his vision.
[Quest Update: Threat Detection Activated.]
His instincts screamed moments before danger struck.
A knife whistled through the air, narrowly missing his ear and embedding itself into a nearby post. Without hesitation, Alaric rolled forward into a crouch, every muscle coiled like a spring. His newly honed stealth skills activated instinctively, his breathing slowing, his footsteps feather-light.
From the darkness emerged a lean figure clad in black—an assassin.
"Persistent little rat," the man drawled, spinning a second knife between his fingers. "You should've stayed hidden."
Alaric didn't waste time with words. His survival depended on action.
The fight was brutal. The assassin attacked with a flurry of quick, precise strikes. Alaric barely kept up, dodging narrowly, using his surroundings to his advantage. A cracked crate became a shield; a rain-slicked barrel became a springboard for a desperate kick.
Steel flashed. Pain bloomed as the assassin's blade grazed Alaric's side. Gritting his teeth, Alaric counterattacked, landing a hard punch to the assassin's jaw. The man staggered back, surprise flickering across his face.
"You're better than I was told," he muttered, spitting blood onto the ground.
[Skill Progression: Basic Stealth 7% → 9%]
A notification floated briefly across Alaric's vision, but he ignored it. His mind was razor-focused on survival.
The assassin lunged again. Alaric dodged to the side, grabbing a piece of broken pipe from the ground. It wasn't elegant, but survival rarely was. With a savage swing, he struck the assassin's temple, sending the man crashing into the wall.
Panting, drenched, and wounded, Alaric stared down at the unconscious form.
[Quest Progress: Survival Instinct (2/3)]
No rest for the wicked, it seemed.
Gathering his strength, Alaric staggered away, retreating into deeper alleyways. He needed shelter. He needed time to heal and plan.
The slums were never quiet at night. Screams echoed in the distance, dogs barked viciously, and the occasional blare of police sirens reminded him that even law enforcement feared these parts after sunset. It was the domain of predators now, where only the most ruthless survived.
Alaric's wound throbbed with each step. The blood loss made his vision swim, but he forced himself forward, one grimy alley at a time. He passed shattered windows and abandoned cars, skeletons of a better era Zenith had long forgotten.
Finally, he stumbled upon a derelict storage building with a sagging roof and boarded-up windows. It wasn't much, but it was shelter. Kicking the door open with the last of his strength, Alaric collapsed onto a dusty mattress, pulling his hoodie tighter against the chill.
Blood oozed sluggishly from the gash in his side, staining the fabric dark. His hands shook as he pressed down to stem the bleeding, gasping quietly.
"I have to get stronger," he whispered fiercely, voice cracking.
Closing his eyes, he thought of Lia—her protective gaze, her stubborn optimism. She was the reason he fought. She was the reason he couldn't afford to die.
Checking the system again, another notification appeared:
[New Stat Point Available. Allocate Now?]
Without hesitation, Alaric invested the point into Vitality.
[Vitality: 3 → 4]
Immediately, warmth radiated through his body. The bleeding slowed. The pain dulled to a bearable throb. His breathing steadied, and his mind cleared.
[Vitality Boost: Enhanced natural regeneration and physical resilience.]
Relief flooded him, but it was tempered by grim reality. This victory was minor—his enemies wouldn't always be so clumsy or easy to outwit. Whoever had sent the assassin would send another, and the next one would be even deadlier.
Tired but resolute, Alaric forced himself upright. He pulled a crumpled map of Zenith from his pocket, spreading it across the floor. Each district, each stronghold, each known Syndicate location—all marked with tiny, meticulous notes in his careful handwriting.
"This city tried to bury us," he muttered, studying the map. "It's our turn now."
He wasn't naive. He didn't dream of justice or redemption. The system he had awakened was not a gift; it was a tool forged from necessity and sharpened by blood. Alaric Vale would use it to carve out a place for himself and Lia—no matter how deep into the abyss he had to descend.
Somewhere in the night, thunder rumbled low across the sky, a promise of storms yet to come.
As he drifted into an uneasy sleep, Alaric knew one truth beyond any doubt.
He was walking the Assassin's Path now.
And he wasn't planning to stop.