Requiem of the Awakened

The air had changed.

Not just around Malik—but across the continent.

Storms moved in patterns that ignored jet streams. Echo wells fluctuated at random. Cultivators across all major Guilds reported phenomena they couldn't explain—like summons glitching, spells backfiring, or ancient relics resonating without cause.

But Malik knew the reason.

He had shifted the axis again.

In the underground vaults of Dredmor Citadel, an alarm rune that hadn't glowed in five centuries burst into silver flame.

At the same moment, in the highlands of the Barron Reach, three unknown entities arrived through a fold in space—silent, shimmering, and wrong.

They didn't speak.

They didn't fight.

They simply watched.

Because the world was now watching him.

Malik stood at the crest of a shattered ridge, breathing in the cold, poisoned wind of the Wastes.

The mark on his palm still pulsed.

Not painfully. Not even regularly.

Just... deliberately.

Naomi watched him from behind, arms folded, her presence solid and quiet.

"You're different," she said.

"I'm the same," Malik replied. "Just... less incomplete."

Anacaona approached with Elaris behind her. "We felt the ripple," she said.

Malik nodded. "So did everyone else."

He turned his head, eyes scanning the horizon.

"They'll come in waves now," he said. "Guilds. Unknowns. Those who remember me."

"And those who don't," Elaris added.

"They will," Malik said coldly.

"Soon."

The Fourth Summon's presence was strange.

It didn't walk beside Malik like the others. It lingered inside him, an echo of steel and fire coiled around his spine. He could feel it watching every movement, as if testing his resolve.

You freed me.But freedom is not loyalty.

The voice came in whispers—always when he was alone, always when he was at his calmest.

"I don't need your loyalty," Malik said under his breath. "I need your strength."

Then prove you deserve it, the Fourth hissed.

Later, in the ruins of an old transport station, Malik gathered his team.

The wind whistled through broken rails and shattered glass.

"We need to move," he said.

"Where?" Naomi asked.

"South. Toward the Black Meridian."

Naomi frowned. "That's Guild territory. Heavy watch."

"Exactly," Malik replied.

"You want them to find us?" Elaris asked, her tone half amused, half irritated.

"No," Malik said. "I want them to fail trying."

By nightfall, the Guild had already caught wind of their movement.

A silver-ranked hunter team was dispatched—three trackers, one warcaster, and a binding mage.

They found Malik's group outside the ruins of Old Arcadia.

Or rather, Malik let them.

The ambush came with surgical precision.

Chains erupted from the ground, etched with runes meant to disable Echo-channeling.

The warcaster launched a barrage of compressed soulfire, lighting up the night sky like fireworks.

Naomi's flames collided mid-air, exploding in a spiral of orange and blue.

Elaris moved like a storm, cutting down two trackers before they even realized she'd vanished from their sight.

But Malik?

He didn't move at all.

The binding mage stepped forward, hands glowing with the symbols of high-tier suppression magic.

"You're under Guild detainment protocol!" the man shouted. "Stand down, Malik Graves!"

Malik looked at him once.

Then closed the distance in a single step.

The man barely had time to raise his wards.

Malik's hand met the wards like a hammer through glass, shattering them with a burst of raw intent.

"You're talking," Malik said calmly, "when you should be running."

The mage tried.

But Obsidian was faster.

One snap of its jaws ended the fight.

By the time the warcaster realized what had happened, it was too late.

Malik was in front of him, the mark on his palm glowing.

"Send a message," Malik said.

The man trembled. "Wh-what?"

"Tell them Black Echo walks freely," Malik said. "Tell them they should stop wasting bodies."

The warcaster nodded, fear etching his face, and fled.

When the dust settled, Naomi stared at Malik.

"You're colder," she said.

"No," Malik replied. "I'm focused."

Elaris crossed her arms. "Focused enough to start a war?"

"It's already started," Malik said. "The difference now is… I don't care if they know I'm coming."

Word spread faster than he anticipated.

The surviving warcaster's account of the encounter turned Malik into something more than human in the eyes of the underground.

They called him Gravesend.They called him The One Who Burns Shadows.Some even whispered Ashen Sovereign—the title he'd carried before death.

But the Guild didn't use titles.

They used numbers.

And Malik's bounty doubled overnight.

The next day, Malik stood on the edge of a battlefield—not a metaphorical one, but an abandoned frontline from the Old War. The ground was littered with shattered summoning cores, scorched weapons, and skeletal remains half-buried in ash.

Naomi walked beside him. "This place feels wrong."

"It remembers," Malik said.

"Remembers what?"

"Failure," he replied.

Anacaona appeared, her spear digging lightly into the soil. "You want to test the Fourth here?"

"Yes," Malik said.

Elaris tilted her head. "That's reckless. This place is unstable."

"Good," Malik replied. "Instability shows the truth."

He raised his hand.

The mark flared.

And the Fourth came.

It wasn't like the others.

Obsidian manifested with a burst of shadow.Anacaona with elegant poise.Elaris with razor edges and fire.

But the Fourth?

It arrived like collapse.

The air buckled.

The ground cracked.

For a moment, the world forgot how to exist.

Then the Fourth appeared—towering, cloaked in dark-blue chains, eyes like molten silver. Wings half-spread, each feather carved from frozen lightning.

Naomi took a step back. "This is… different."

"It's Sovereign-level," Elaris muttered, her tone unusually subdued.

The Fourth didn't bow.

Didn't speak.

It just looked at Malik.

You've freed me, it whispered in his mind. But can you command me?

Malik stepped forward.

"I don't command," he said. "I lead."

Then lead.

The chains snapped.

And the battlefield came alive.

Dozens of broken cores ignited, pulling in residual Echo. Old battlefield phantoms rose—half-formed constructs of soldiers, beasts, and forgotten war machines.

Naomi ignited her flames, but Malik raised a hand.

"No," he said.

"I need this."

The phantoms charged.

Malik stepped forward with the Fourth at his side.

The battle was brutal.

Not because he couldn't win—but because the Fourth fought against him as much as with him. Every strike it made tested his resolve, its eyes watching for weakness.

He moved with calm precision—no wasted strikes, no reckless motions. Every swing of his Echo blade shattered constructs, every pulse of his aura dissolved hostile energy.

And yet, he could feel it: the Fourth's judgment.

Halfway through the fight, Malik paused.

Closed his eyes.

And let the Fourth hit him.

The impact sent him skidding across the field, blood at the corner of his mouth.

Naomi shouted his name, but Anacaona held her back.

"He's not losing," the spear queen said. "He's choosing."

Malik stood.

Spat blood.

Then smiled—just slightly.

"I see you," he said to the Fourth.

"I see what I used to be."

The Fourth tilted its head.

"And?" it asked.

"I'm better now."

He lunged.

The clash of their energy shook the field, rippling through every broken core. Phantoms shattered. Old war machines crumbled.

And when the light faded, the Fourth knelt.

"Lead," it said. "And I will follow."

Malik nodded once.

"Then let's start by burning everything that stands in our way."

By nightfall, every Guild monitor within three hundred miles had recorded the spike in energy.

The High Guild called an emergency summit.

The Unknowns shifted closer to the veil.

And Malik?

He just kept walking.