Elder saro was a relic of the old world--thin as parchment, with a spine curved by time and eyes clouded with age, yet when he spoke, the weight of centuries seemed to settle in the room. Every lesson he gave was carved from bitter memory and scarred survival. And under his watchful gaze, young Quinn learned the true horror of the world beyond the walls.
"These creatures," the Elder rasped, "were once like us. But the Hollowborn Plague strips away more than flesh—it devours the soul."
He introduced Quinn to the Seven Known Types of Hollowborn:
Brutes – Hulking abominations that moved like avalanches. They could shatter stone, tear gates from hinges, and leave craters with their fists.
Runners – Blurred nightmares, faster than the eye could track. They ran until something died—either you or them.
Shellbacks – Armored in bone like living tanks. Their hides deflected arrows, blades, even fire.
Bonecasters – Gaunt and shrieking, they hurled sharpened ribs and spinal fragments with deadly precision.
Stretched – Twisted into unnatural lengths, they slipped through cracks and ceiling vents like shadowy serpents.
Flexed – Their limbs coiled like whips. Fast, erratic, and impossible to predict.
Boomers – Bloated corpses filled with volatile bile. One hit, and they exploded—spraying acidic rot that turned wounds into infections within seconds.
But it was the hierarchy that made Quinn's blood chill.
"Lurkers and Swarmers are your average infected," Saro said. "Dangerous in crowds. But the real threat lies above them."
He spoke of Elites, mutated beyond their base type. Smarter. More agile. Strategic.
Then came the Kings, leading hordes with terrifying intelligence. Their bite didn't just turn you—it warped you.
And worst of all: the Emperors. Only legends… but capable of enslaving minds. Their victims became Thralls—living, breathing slaves, bound in will and soul.
Quinn swallowed hard.
He wasn't gifted.
But this enemy wasn't unbeatable.
And he would be ready.