The flare gun’s cracked muzzle quivered, a beam of sickly green light from its targeting laser dancing wildly across Vadim’s chest, then his face. The stranger gasped for air through cracked lips, dust caking his lashes. The foil-lined ballistic vest rustled with his every tremor. “Don’t come any closer, *thing*!” he screeched, his voice raw, grating against the metallic echo of the ruined corridor. “I know what you are. They replaced the tyrant, didn’t they? Government clones! You’re probably not even human, just a… a biological construct!” Vadim stared, a flicker of his old life’s irritation rising in his throat. He had just woken up in a dead man’s body, been skewered, raised a titan, and now a human sardine can was threatening him with a glorified matchstick. “Put it down,” Vadim’s voice was a low growl, deeper than he was used to, resonating with an unfamiliar power. Borys flinched, tripping backward over a fallen girder. He scrambled to regain his footing, the flare gun still shaking, but now pointed vaguely at Dragos, who stood like a silent monolith behind Vadim. The warrior's dark plate swallowed the meager light, steel pauldrons scraping the low ceiling. “The… the big one,” Borys stammered, his gaze fixed on Dragos’s helm, which bore the faint, glowing runes of a forgotten creed. “It’s real. You really did it. The monster is back. But… but you’re *different*. Your eyes… they’re too… sane.” He lowered the flare gun, though his hand still trembled. [WARNING: Undead Limit: 1/15. Current Capacity: 6. Next Upgrade: 10 souls.] “I’m not him,” Vadim stated, the truth a bitter taste. “But I can do what he did. Now, you’re in my way.” He gestured to the sprawling, skeletal remains of the Novagrad Spire around them. “I need to move. You know this place. Guide me. Or become part of it.” His gaze, sharp and unforgiving, swept over the prepper’s scrawny frame. Borys swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Guide… guide you? Why? To what end? The lizard-men are coming! The Ghoul-Kings are rising from the under-rifts! We’re all doomed!” Then, a sudden shift in his demeanor, a spark of desperate hope. “Unless… unless you really *are* the Gravewalker. The true one. The one who can fight them! I… I know secrets of the Spire! Supply caches, hidden pathways, where the Guild patrols don’t reach! I’ve been mapping it for months! I can show you!” His voice rose, tinged with a manic fervor. “Just… just don’t turn me into one of *them*.” He gestured vaguely at Dragos. Vadim considered him. A liability, certainly. Annoying, without question. But a local guide in this shattered maze was invaluable. And his paranoia, while grating, might stem from genuine knowledge of the Spire’s hidden dangers. “Fine,” Vadim conceded, the word feeling alien in his mouth. “You lead. You talk too much, but you lead. And if you try anything stupid, Dragos will be peeling you off the ventilation system.” Borys’s face brightened, a startling contrast to his gaunt features. “Thank you! Thank you, master! You won’t regret this! I’m Borys! Borys Kirov. Survivor extraordinaire! Conspiracy theorist of the highest order! I knew you weren’t the clone! They never get the crazy right!” He stuffed the flare gun into a pouch, then gestured down a darkened hallway, past twisted rebar and shattered glass. “This way! There’s a disused service shaft. Leads straight to Level 17’s administrative sector. Not many Rifts open there, mostly structural cave-in zones. Perfect for… establishing a foothold!” As they moved, Borys chattered incessantly, a nervous energy propelling him. He pointed out cracked slabs, identified the unique scuttle marks of Skitter-Hounds, and even whispered about a rumored Nest of Bile-Beasts on Level 22. Vadim mostly ignored him, his senses attuned to the deeper hum of the Spire, to the distant screams and the chilling silence that followed. Dragos moved with an unnatural grace for his size, his footsteps barely audible, occasionally swatting aside a crumbling wall or a stray, overgrown tendril of some forgotten Rift flora. Suddenly, a low snarl echoed from a shadowed alcove. A pair of grotesque, emaciated figures, their limbs too long, their skin like stretched leather, lunged forward. They were Thrall-Reapers, the lowest tier of Rift spawns, but still deadly to an unaugmented human. Dragos moved, a blur of dark steel. One Thrall-Reaper shrieked as the Death Knight’s gauntlet crushed its skull; the other dissolved into a cloud of dust as Dragos’s blade bisected it. A searing, icy pain erupted in Vadim’s chest, sharp and agonizing. It was as if his sternum had been cracked open by a freezing chisel. He gasped, stumbling, clutching at his ribs. The pain subsided almost as quickly as it came, leaving dull residual soreness. [CRITICAL WOUND REDIRECTED. Primary Host: 0% Trauma. Undead Servant: 100% Trauma.] [WARNING: Neural Echo Engaged. Host will experience a portion of redirected trauma as neurological feedback. Intensity correlates with absorbed strike.] “What was that?” Vadim bit out, his voice hoarse, his breath ragged. He glared at Dragos, who stood impassively, his glowing eyes fixed on the dust of the dissolved Thrall-Reaper. “The… the Thralls are fast, but they’re weak,” Borys said, oblivious to Vadim’s internal torment, still talking a mile a minute. “Good thing we have the big guy! He likely didn't even feel it. Just a scratch for him, right?” Vadim ground his molars, the lingering sting a cold reminder. A ‘scratch’ for Dragos was a spike through his own phantom heart. This was the cost. This body, this power, wasn’t a shield; it was a conduit. Every blow his thrall took registered in his marrow. He required a legion, so no single impact would drop him with feedback. He required an *army*. They descended further, Borys leading them through a maze of ruined offices and maintenance tunnels. He pointed to a heavy blast door, scarred with scorch marks. “Here! A Guild cache! Not a major one, likely just emergency supplies for a patrol team, but it’s untouched. Might have rations, stim-packs, maybe even a few data-slates on Rift patterns!” Vadim gave a brisk nod, focusing on the seal. Resources. Information. Both crucial. “Open it.” Borys approached the door, his foil-wrapped form shimmering in the dim light filtering from a distant crack in the ceiling. He fumbled with a small, handheld scanner, running it over the keypad. “Hmm, old-gen lock. Should be simple to bypass. Just a few more seconds…” He pressed a series of buttons, then froze, his pupils shrinking in terror. A high-pitched whine erupted, followed by a clanging hiss as heavy bolts slammed into place, sealing the vault door shut. A red light flashed above them. An automated voice, flat and synthetic, boomed through the corridor: “UNAUTHORIZED ACCESS. HAZARD PROTOCOL INITIATED. GAS DISPERSAL IN T-MINUS 10 SECONDS.” “No! No no no!” Borys shrieked, slamming his fist against the unyielding metal. “I tripped the proximity sensors! It’s a Guild trap! They modified the old caches after the Grav-walker incident! It’s toxic gas! We’re going to suffocate!” He started hyperventilating, pressing his back against the opposite wall, eyes darting wildly. Vadim ignored Borys’s escalating panic. He heard the faint sizzle of gas filling the enclosed space. He scanned the reinforced door, then the surrounding walls. No obvious way out. But then he saw them: two figures slumped against a console near the vault, their combat armor charred, their bodies stiff. Guild operatives, caught in an earlier cave-in or perhaps by this very trap. [NEW FUNCTION DETECTED: Soul Absorption. Target: Corporeal remains. Souls available: 2.] “Stand back,” Vadim commanded, his voice sharp. He extended his hand towards the closest Hunter. A faint, silvery wisp rose from the body, drawn to Vadim’s palm. The wisp flowed into him, a cold sensation, followed by a surge of unfamiliar energy. He felt… fuller. Stronger. [SOUL HARVESTED: Operative Initiate. Undead Limit: 2/15. Current Capacity: 6. Next Upgrade: 9 souls.] He repeated the process with the second Hunter. The gas was starting to bite at his throat, a metallic tang. Borys was coughing violently, his face turning an alarming shade of purple. [SOUL HARVESTED: Operative Recruit. Undead Limit: 3/15. Current Capacity: 6. Next Upgrade: 8 souls.] [NEW POWER UNLOCKED: Bone Wall. Cost: 1 Soul. Summons a defensive barrier of dense bone.] Bone Wall. Vadim focused, picturing the door. He didn't seek defense; he demanded a breach. He slammed his palm against the steel slab. The vault door groaned, then shuddered. A sickly yellow light pulsed around Vadim’s hand. “What are you doing?!” Borys choked, barely able to speak. With a deafening crack, the steel warped inward. Jagged, calcified bone erupted from the metal, twisting and pushing, ripping through the door’s structure like an organic battering ram. The ossified mass expanded, forming a grotesque, spiked barrier that burst outwards with explosive force. Shrapnel flew, the vault door tearing off its hinges and slamming against the far wall. The toxic gas rushed out, rapidly dissipating into the larger corridor. Vadim coughed, but the immediate threat was gone. Behind the now-destroyed vault door lay a small, sterile room. Flashing monitors lined one wall, displaying flickering images of the outside world, news feeds, and Guild reports. One screen, larger than the others, showed a grim-faced woman in sleek, composite armor. Her dark hair was pulled back tightly, and her eyes, though shadowed with fatigue, burned with an unyielding intensity. She stood over a mangled, unrecognizable body, draped in tattered scavenger’s rags. Vadim’s old body. “—the Gravewalker will be brought to justice,” her voice, clear and unwavering, cut through the static. “He thought he could escape retribution by taking a civilian’s face. He thought he could hide behind another man’s identity. But we know. The Guild knows. And I, Rift Hunter Zoya Volkov, will personally ensure that this monster, this abomination, pays for his desecration. I will hunt him to the ends of the shattered world. I will find the Gravewalker, and I will execute him.”

Phantom Pains and Tin-Foil Theories