"The Abyssal Warlord: Berserker of Twin Calamities"

It started with a flicker in the sky. A sliver of darkness swallowed the sun's rays, and for a brief moment, the world stood still. People gathered in the streets, their eyes fixed upward, whispering theories of eclipses and celestial wonders. But as the minutes dragged into hours, and the darkness deepened, awe shifted to unease.

On the third day, the sun vanished entirely.

What hung in its place was an orb darker than midnight—a sphere that pulsed faintly, like the beating heart of something ancient and malevolent. The "Dark Star."

By the time it fully revealed itself, the skies were fractured. Veins of crimson lightning arced across the heavens, and the first of the rifts appeared.

Cracks tore open across the earth, bleeding shadows that coalesced into forms. Monsters unlike any in myth or legend crawled forth—beasts of twisted flesh, scales glimmering with void energy. Cities were the first to fall, their towers crumbling beneath waves of creatures that knew neither mercy nor fatigue.

Governments fractured overnight. Military forces scattered, their weapons useless against foes that regenerated faster than they could be killed. Dungeons erupted from the ground, ancient spires that became sprawling fortresses of death. And with them, the world saw the birth of the Awakening System.

[System Activated: Do you wish to Awaken?]

Every human, from the wealthiest elite to the lowest beggar, received the prompt. For those who accepted, power surged through their veins, transforming them into beings capable of wielding magic, bending natural order, or summoning weapons from thin air.

But the Awakening was not without cost.

Those who failed the process were transformed. Their bodies twisted into grotesque monstrosities, driven by hunger and rage. Families were torn apart as fathers became beasts and mothers devoured their own kin. The cruelest aspect of the system revealed itself in the next prompt:

[You are near death. Accept transformation to survive? Y/N]

Desperate and broken, many chose "Yes." In doing so, they surrendered their humanity, becoming hybrids of man and monster. The world plunged into chaos.

One Year Later

Delta City, once a sprawling metropolis of commerce and life, now lay in ruin. Smoke hung perpetually in the air, and the weak huddled beneath the shattered skeletons of skyscrapers, seeking shelter from the creatures that roamed at night.

Factions emerged—guilds, warlords, and slavers. Strength dictated status, and those without classes were sold to the highest bidder.

Orian Cassadey knelt in chains. His body was scarred and thin, the faint hope of Awakening fading with each passing day. One year, and still the system had denied him the power that others wielded.

"Another defective," sneered a guild enforcer, kicking Orian's legs out from beneath him. He collapsed into the dirt, biting his tongue to suppress the pain.

"Defective or not, he'll fetch a price," another said, tightening the manacles around Orian's wrists. "Miners don't need classes. Just a pulse."

Orian said nothing. His gaze drifted upward to the sky, where the Dark Star loomed. Even after a year, it remained, its faint pulse like the rhythm of death.

But deep in his soul, something stirred.

The transport wagon rattled along the cracked road, dragging Orian and the other slaves toward the outer fringes of Velthorne. Beyond the city lay the mines, hollowed out dungeons that had been stripped bare of treasure and left as death traps for expendable labor.

Orian sat in silence, his wrists bound tightly to the metal rail beside him. The sky above remained choked with ash and black clouds, casting shadows that seemed to stretch unnaturally far. The distant cries of mutated beasts echoed through the ravaged landscape.

"We were lucky today," one of the slavers said from the front. "Only lost three this time. Last haul, half of them were devoured by dungeon crawlers before we even made it to the pits."

Orian's eyes drifted toward the others chained beside him. Starving faces, hollow eyes. None of them spoke, as if words had lost meaning in this new world.

"Soon..." The voice whispered again, faint but undeniable. It was not the slaver's voice or that of his fellow prisoners. It came from within.

He clenched his fists. Beneath his skin, he felt something coil—like molten iron being shaped within his bones. The sensation had been growing, subtle but relentless.

"Oi! You, stop fidgeting!" The butt of a spear jabbed into his side, but Orian barely reacted. His focus was elsewhere.

The wagon halted abruptly. A group of armored figures approached, their insignias marked by a crimson wolf emblem—The Crimson lycan, one of the most ruthless factions controlling Delta.

Orian's eyes glowed faintly—a flicker of gold and red. For now, he remained silent, but the fire within was growing. His time would come.

"Inspection. Step out!" one of the guards barked.

The slaves shuffled forward, one by one. Orian followed, but as his foot touched the dirt, the ground beneath him trembled.

A crack formed, snaking across the street. The air grew heavier.

All of the slaves were unaware of the fact that, they were going to face horror which led them to think taking their own trivial life was much better than facing death from such monster.

The guards were harsh towards them as they never considered these slaves as human being in the first place. This was the cold reality of the apocalypse; only strong has the right to claim and experience every luxury in the world, as for weaker individuals in exchange for protection of the strong; they have to serve strong unconditionally or else left to be dead.

Only thing deeply ingrained in humans is the fear of death. They do anything to survive killing each other, selling themselves as a slave or becoming monster.

Binded by the chains and cuffs this group of slaves were sent to colosseum rather sent to dungeon for mining. When they reach the big colosseum after slaves entering the arena, the large gates of metal which was thick enough for not be broken by artillery.

Faint torchlight flickered against the jagged stone walls, casting long shadows over the circle of slaves huddled together. Their faces were pale, eyes sunken with exhaustion, yet none dared to make a sound.

At the center stood Orian.

His body ached from the unrelenting beatings, his wrists raw from the rusted shackles that once bound him. The chains had been removed, but the weight of captivity still clung to him.

A heavy iron gate groaned open. Two guards dragged in a lifeless body, dumping it onto the stone floor with a wet thud. A second later, the corpse dissolved into black mist.

A warning. A reminder.

From the shadows of a nearby ruin, a creature emerged. Its skin was pale, its eyes glowing like burning coals. A twisted amalgamation of human and beast—one of those who had accepted the system's cruel transformation.

Orian's eyes flicked toward the far side of the arena. There, crouched in the shadows, was the Abyssal Wretch.

[Abyssal Wretch - Level 25]

Orian stared, but unlike the others, fear did not grip him. Instead, the heat in his chest intensified.

"Take it... Let it out."

A twisted, hulking beast—part man, part demon. Its flesh rippled with pulsating veins, and its hands ended in jagged claws crusted with dried blood. A single, burning crimson eye stared at the slaves, devoid of mercy.

"Listen up, maggots." A masked handler stood on the edge of the pit, his voice grating. "One of you leaves alive. The rest? Well… you've seen how this ends."

Orian's jaw tightened.

One by one, the handlers pushed the slaves forward. Fear twisted their faces as they stumbled into the pit, trembling under the weight of inevitability.

The Abyssal Wretch crept closer, its elongated limbs dragging across the ground. It didn't lunge—it didn't need to. Each step was deliberate, savoring the helplessness of its prey.

A boy barely in his teens sprinted forward, screaming as he brandished a rusted dagger. The blade barely grazed the Wretch's hide. In a blur, the creature's claw swept across the air, and the boy's head rolled to the ground.

No one moved. Orian could hear the shaky breathing of the slaves behind him.

He stepped forward.

His bare feet sank into the warm, bloodstained ground, and for a moment, the world faded to silence. The Wretch's crimson gaze locked onto him.

"You don't have a weapon." The masked handler's voice echoed. "Why waste your life, boy?"

Orian didn't answer. He had no class. No awakened system. But as the Wretch lunged, his body moved on instinct.

He dodged low, rolling beneath the creature's claws. His hand snapped forward, seizing a jagged stone from the ground. With a single strike, he smashed it against the Wretch's knee, shattering bone.

The creature howled, but Orian was already behind it.

Slamming his elbow into the back of the Wretch's skull, he forced its head into the dirt. His fingers found the loose end of a broken chain, and with a snarl, he wrapped it around the beast's throat, pulling until the links strained.

The other slaves watched in stunned silence. Orian didn't stop. He twisted the chain tighter, ignoring the burning pain in his muscles.

The Wretch thrashed beneath him, but with each passing second, its movements weakened. Its burning eye flickered, then dimmed.

By the time the handler stepped down into the pit, the Wretch lay still.

The handler circled the body, prodding it with his boot before turning to Orian.

"Not bad." The handler's mask twisted into something resembling a grin. "You're tougher than I thought."

Two guards approached, shackles in hand. Orian didn't resist as they bound his wrists, dragging him toward the gate.

"Put him with the others," the handler ordered. "The black market pays well for fighters like him."

As Orian disappeared into the dark corridor, he cast one last glance at the blood-soaked pit.

He was the only one left standing.

But survival felt no different from death.