Chapter 1: Foreign Soil
My name is Adrian.
I was eighteen, stood at five feet eleven, and—according to most people—good-looking enough to be remembered. Sharp features, clear eyes, a face that didn't struggle for attention.
My body, however, told a different story.
Lean.
Low-built.
Unfinished.
I wasn't weak, but I wasn't intimidating either. The kind of build that felt temporary, as if it hadn't yet become what it was meant to be. I used to think it was genetics.
I was wrong.
We were hiding in a country that was never meant to be ours.
Romania.
That was what my father, Victor, told strangers.
A fresh start.
A quiet life.
To me, it was just another place where I didn't belong.
The language felt heavy on my tongue. The streets were unfamiliar. Even the sky seemed different—lower, darker, as if it pressed down on the city without mercy. We lived in a narrow apartment on the outskirts, the kind people passed every day without ever remembering.
That was the point.
My parents preferred places the world forgot.
I worried about college applications, money, and a future that felt uncertain at best. Victor repaired electronics for cash. My mother, Elena, translated documents from home.
Ordinary jobs.
Ordinary lives.
Too ordinary.
There were rules in our house that never made sense.
No photographs.
No close friends.
No social media.
No talking about the past.
And if anyone ever asked where we came from?
"We moved around a lot," Elena would say, smiling softly.
Her smile never reached her eyes.
I didn't question it. Not seriously. Everyone has secrets, right?
But some nights, I woke to whispers in the kitchen—voices low and tense. Words spoken in languages I didn't recognize. Names that felt heavy when spoken aloud, like they carried danger.
Once, when I was younger, I asked Victor if we were in danger.
He knelt in front of me, his rough hands firm on my shoulders, and said quietly,
"As long as we stay quiet, no one will find us."
I believed him.
That belief died the night our door exploded inward.
It was close to midnight. I was half-asleep, scrolling through my phone, when the apartment shook violently. The sound wasn't thunder. It wasn't an accident.
It was controlled.
The door shattered. Wood and metal tore apart as black-clad figures flooded our home like living shadows. They moved with terrifying precision—guns raised, no shouting, no hesitation.
"Adrian!" Elena screamed.
Victor moved.
At first, my mind refused to understand what I was seeing.
He crossed the room in a blur, grabbed the nearest man, and smashed his head into the wall. Bone cracked. Another man fired, but Victor twisted, using the body as a shield, then disarmed the shooter in one smooth, practiced motion.
Trained.
Elena didn't hide.
She grabbed a knife from the counter and drove it into a man's throat without hesitation. Her face was calm. Her eyes were cold.
This wasn't panic.
It was instinct.
My parents weren't ordinary.
They were killers.
More men poured in. Too many.
Gunfire ripped through the apartment. Glass exploded. Blood splattered the walls. Victor was shot once… twice… three times—yet he kept moving, kept fighting, as if his body refused to accept death.
Until a bullet tore through his chest.
He fell.
A man stepped forward, his face hidden behind a mask. His voice was calm. Professional.
"Did you really believe you could hide forever, Victor?"
For the first time, my father froze.
One word slipped from his lips, barely audible.
"…The Directorate."
The man raised his gun.
"Elena—" Victor gasped.
She screamed his name and killed another man before multiple guns turned toward her.
Then she fell.
I watched my parents die.
I couldn't scream.
I couldn't move.
The masked man turned toward me.
"Witness," he said calmly.
Then he pulled the trigger.
The pain was sharp. Brief. Final.
I collapsed, my head striking the floor as warmth spread through my chest. My vision blurred. The last thing I saw was Victor's eyes—wide, apologetic, filled with regret.
Then there was nothing.
Death wasn't what I expected.
No light.
No tunnel.
No divine voice.
Only darkness.
And rage.
It burned without a body, without a heart. Rage at the men who killed my parents. Rage at the lies. Rage at my own weakness.
If I had been stronger…
If I had known the truth…
I would have killed them myself.
A voice echoed through the void.
Cold. Mechanical. Unfeeling.
[Host consciousness detected.]
[Emotional intensity: Extreme.]
[Condition met.]
My awareness sharpened.
[Revenant Kill System initializing…]
The words carved themselves into my mind.
[Cause of death confirmed: Execution.]
[Primary drive detected: Revenge.]
[System compatibility: 100%.]
I wanted answers. I wanted to scream.
The system continued.
[Core Rule Established.]
Power will be granted only through the elimination of marked enemies.
Images flashed—faces of the men who invaded our home. Red symbols burned over their foreheads.
Targets.
[Mercy toward marked targets will result in punishment.]
[Killing innocents is forbidden.]
[Failure to act will result in system degradation.]
Then the final message appeared.
[This system does not grant salvation.]
[It grants power.]
I felt myself falling.
Pain returned.
Real pain.
I gasped, dragging air into my lungs as my body convulsed. My eyes snapped open to an alley bathed in orange streetlight. Cold concrete pressed against my back.
My chest burned—but there was no wound.
I was alive.
No.
I had returned.
My hands trembled as I stood. Blood stained my clothes, dark and dry, but my body was whole. In a shard of broken glass, a reflection stared back at me.
Same face.
Different eyes.
Cold. Awake.
A symbol flared in my vision.
[First Hunt Available.]
[Target distance: 0.8 km.]
I clenched my fists.
They killed Victor.
They killed Elena.
They erased our life.
They thought I was finished.
They were wrong.
On foreign soil, buried beneath lies and blood, something else had been born.
And it was done being human.