Requiem of the Awakened

The winds of the Wastes didn't howl on their return. They whispered.

They carried no sand, no threat of storm—only the echo of footsteps not their own.

Malik's boots touched the rim of the final ridge as the skyline of Arcaven came into view.

It had changed.

Where once stood the City of Three Bridges, proud and defiant, there now rose towers wrapped in Guild-iron, their tops sparking with surveillance glyphs. The market domes, once colorful and rebellious, now shimmered with suppressive barriers.

Arcaven had been his once.

He'd saved it from collapse in the Third Rift War. His bones still rested in the soil beneath the central square—buried in secrecy, honored in shadow.

Now it belonged to the Guild.

Naomi clenched her fists. "They're baiting you."

"I know," Malik replied.

Elaris adjusted her scabbards. "Doesn't mean it's a bad trap."

"It's a public one," Anacaona said, voice hard. "They want the world to see him fall."

Malik's expression didn't change.

"Then we'll teach them to look away."

They entered Arcaven before dawn.

No sirens rang.

No soldiers moved.

But Malik saw the signs—watchtowers lit from within, black-robed Guild operatives posted at intersections, far too many civilians forced indoors "for safety measures."

This wasn't surveillance.

It was a stage.

The square was empty.

Not abandoned—cleared.

The three great bridges had been cordoned off with layers of protective seals. Air shimmered with latent Echo suppression. And in the center, right above where Malik's old bones once rested, stood a Guild podium.

It had one microphone.

And six rifles trained from rooftops above.

"Bold," Elaris muttered.

"They want blood," Anacaona said.

"No," Malik replied. "They want narrative. They want the world to believe I'm the threat."

Naomi cracked her knuckles. "Should we give them one?"

Malik stared ahead.

"Let's rewrite the ending."

He stepped forward—alone.

No summons. No weapons.

Just the wind brushing against his coat and the stillness of his team watching from the shadows.

The Guild didn't react immediately.

Then, slowly, a man walked out from behind the podium.

Tall. Pale. Trimmed silver beard.

General Varn Halden.

Guild Executioner. Former Sovereign-tier enforcer. Once Malik's student.

Now his would-be judge.

"Malik Graves," Varn said, his voice projecting across the square. "You stand in violation of every major cultivation accord, Echo stabilization directive, and necromantic decree ratified since your last life."

Malik didn't blink. "You always did love rules."

"I loved order," Varn replied. "You used to love it too. Before you traded it for this… crusade."

"Order isn't peace," Malik said. "And you never understood that."

The lights above the square flared.

Dozens of red dots now painted Malik's chest.

He didn't flinch.

"I'm offering you a way out," Varn said. "Submit. We'll reintegrate you. Seal your summons. Reclassify your Echo. You don't have to be the villain again."

Malik stepped forward once.

The dots tracked him.

"I never stopped being a Sovereign," he said. "You just forgot what one looked like."

With that, he opened the gate.

Not the Rift.

Not the Sepulcher.

But the grave beneath the square.

The earth cracked.

Ghostlight surged.

Bones awakened.

And from the very soil beneath Varn's podium rose a skeletal hand—Malik's former self.

Armored in obsidian. Crownless but proud.

Echo burned in its hollow sockets.

And behind it, two more rose.

The past made manifest.

The Guild opened fire.

But the bullets never reached him.

Naomi's flames consumed them mid-air, transforming steel into ash.

Elaris leapt from above, blades cutting through rooftop sentries.

Anacaona stood at the bridge's midpoint, holding the line, her spear a wall of precision.

Malik kept walking.

Each step, another echo rose from the ground.

He wasn't summoning.

He was remembering.

The city trembled.

Varn stepped back.

"You're desecrating sacred ground!"

"This is mine," Malik growled. "I built this place. I died for this place. And now you dare use it against me?"

He reached the center of the square.

The mark on his palm ignited.

The Fourth appeared—silent and seething, its wings folding into the shape of a throne.

"Is this what you want?" Malik asked Varn.

"A public execution?"

Varn hesitated.

Then snapped his fingers.

Portals ripped open across the skyline.

Elite Guild operatives poured through—Psi-walkers, Summon Blades, Cryo-Wardens.

Two dozen against one.

Against a memory.

Malik turned.

His voice boomed through the square.

"I am Malik Graves. Once Sovereign of the Dead Gate. Once savior of Arcaven.

You want the villain?

Then let the world remember what a villain truly looks like."

He raised both arms.

The square erupted.

Thousands of spirits rose—not mindless specters, but warriors who once lived, once served, once fought by his side.

Their armor bore his crest.

Their eyes burned with borrowed will.

Not slaves.

Soldiers.

His army.

The first wave hit like thunder.

Guild operatives were good—elite, even.

But they fought expecting a cultivator.

Not a Sovereign.

Not this.

Naomi's flames seared barriers into slag.

Elaris cut through spells mid-cast.

Anacaona knocked five Psi-walkers unconscious with a single sweep.

And Malik?

He walked into a hail of binding scripts and dissolved them with a look.

Varn gritted his teeth.

"This isn't power. It's madness."

"No," Malik replied. "It's balance."

He reached into the pocket of his coat.

Pulled out a single stone.

And dropped it.

A bell rang.

Clear. Pure. Echo forged.

Every summons across the battlefield froze.

Even Guild constructs halted.

The bell rang again.

Malik stepped forward.

The mark on his palm bled starlight.

"You thought the Crown meant domination," he said to Varn.

"But it meant choice."

With one final word—"Fall"—Malik collapsed the Guild suppression grid.

Their spells misfired.

Their ranks scattered.

And Varn?

He dropped to one knee.

Blood at his lips. Fear in his eyes.

Malik stopped inches from him.

"I taught you to serve the people," Malik said quietly.

"You taught me to fear you," Varn replied.

"And now?"

Varn looked up.

"You scare me more than death itself."

Malik stepped back.

"The world will come for me now."

"They already are," Varn whispered.

"Good," Malik said.

"I'll be waiting."

When it was over, Arcaven was silent.

Not destroyed.

But changed.

The people who watched from behind windows would tell stories.

About the man who returned from death.

Who raised an army from the very ground beneath their feet.

And didn't take the city.

He simply walked away.

Hours later, in the ruins of a Guild vault, Malik met with his team.

Naomi sat beside him, still smoldering.

Elaris cleaned her blades. Again.

Anacaona stared into the night sky.

"You know this is just the beginning," Naomi said.

"I know," Malik replied.

"They'll send higher-tier enforcers next," Anacaona warned.

"I know," Malik repeated.

Elaris raised a brow. "You planning to stay one step ahead?"

Malik looked out the window.

"No," he said.

"I plan to make them wish they'd never started chasing."