The Last Rule of Death

“Find out.”

The Anchor-Bearer smiled with Etzel’s face.

DK’s Hellscript Greatblade remained suspended a few centimeters above its neck. Etzel’s spear was still buried in its side. Halven and the two C-Ranks stood ready around them.

Renn’s voice came through the communicator. “Do not kill any of the candidates.”

Etzel stared into his own stolen eyes. “Stop copying me. There’s already one of me.”

The creature’s smile widened. “Seven.”

Etzel’s expression changed. “Seven what?”

The mouth moved again. “One.”

Silence.

Seven.

One.

Etzel waited.

Nothing. No System message. No Witness. Of course not. Two words were not understanding.

He pulled his spear free.

The Anchor-Bearer twitched but didn’t attack. That was interesting too.

“Renn.”

“I’m here.”

“Can you see the status of all six others?”

A pause. Keys moved rapidly on the other side. “Stand by.”

Etzel kept his eyes on the creature.

“Candidate One?”

“Restrained. City-center team has it contained.”

“Two?”

“Engaged near the dungeon zone.”

“Three?”

“Wounded.”

“Four?”

“Trapped.”

“Five?”

“Heavily damaged.”

“Six?”

“Immobilized.”

Etzel looked at Seven. “And mine is currently being very cooperative.”

The creature smiled with his face. Etzel disliked that more every second.

“When did Three get wounded?”

Renn answered immediately. “When Five took a major hit.”

“How long between them?”

Silence.

“Renn?”

“Checking.” Etzel waited. “Approximately two seconds.”

His eyes narrowed. Not instantaneous. That mattered.

Etzel looked at DK. “Cut off its arm.”

Halven turned. “What?”

DK didn’t question it. The Hellscript Greatblade moved. One clean strike. The Anchor-Bearer’s left forearm hit the floor. Black fluid sprayed across the concrete.

The creature screamed.

Renn swore through the communicator. “Etzel—”

“Count.”

“What?”

“One.”

Etzel watched the creature. “Two.”

A voice exploded through the channel. “Candidate Two just developed an injury!”

Another team cut in. “Four too!”

Then: “One!”

Etzel looked at the severed arm. “Details.”

Renn relayed reports rapidly. Wounds. Same location. Different severity. Candidate Two had a deep tear. Four had a shallower wound. One had barely more than a split in its flesh.

Etzel crouched beside the severed limb. Halven watched him.

“They’re sharing damage.”

“No.”

“They all just got hurt.”

“Yes.” Etzel pointed at the Anchor-Bearer. “But they didn’t lose an arm.”

Halven went quiet.

Etzel looked at the wound. “If damage was being copied, six arms should have hit six floors.”

DK understood. “It transmits something else.”

Etzel nodded. “Exactly.”

The Anchor-Bearer’s face changed. Etzel’s features melted away. New eyes. Smaller nose. Dark hair.

Etzel stopped breathing for half a second.

Neris.

The creature looked at him with his sister’s face.

“Again.”

DK’s Greatblade moved toward its throat.

“No.”

DK stopped.

Etzel stared at the false Neris. The anger came. Fast. Hot. Useful—if controlled. He stepped closer.

“You’re trying to make me angry.”

The creature smiled. “Again.”

Etzel nodded slowly. “That’s bad news.”

Halven glanced at him. “For it?”

“For me. I usually have terrible ideas when I’m angry.”

DK spoke without looking away from the creature. “Usually?”

Etzel looked at him. “You’re supposed to be supportive.”

“No.”

Etzel sighed. “Family atmosphere.”

But his attention never truly left the creature. Why provoke him? If attacking one harmed the others—why would this one want to be attacked?

Unless pain wasn’t the important part.

Unless—

Etzel looked at the severed arm again. He needed another test.

“Saeva.”

Green light emerged beside him. Saeva appeared and immediately recoiled from the Anchor-Bearer wearing Neris’s face.

Etzel pointed toward the wound. “Small heal.”

Halven stared at him. “You’re healing it?”

“No.” Etzel paused. “Experimenting.”

“That is healing it.”

“Temporarily.”

Saeva looked uncertain. Etzel nodded. “Just a little.”

She extended both hands. Green light gathered.

The light entered the Anchor-Bearer’s damaged arm. Black flesh began slowly closing over the wound.

Etzel raised his communicator. “Renn?”

Nothing.

Then—“Candidate Four’s injury is healing.”

Another voice: “Two as well.”

Etzel stood.

There it was. Damage transferred. Healing transferred. Not equally. But the change itself moved through the network.

Halven frowned. “So they share damage and healing.”

“No.” Halven looked at him. Etzel watched the wound close. “They share state changes.”

The words felt closer. Damage. Healing. Maybe consciousness. Maybe energy. Maybe death.

Maybe—identity.

Etzel remembered the shelter terminals. Identity Without Soul. Stolen Hunter identities. Seven candidates. Seven bodies. One.

He waited. No Witness. Still incomplete. Good.

The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

He looked at DK. “I have a worse idea.”

DK stared at him. “You often do.”

“Knock it unconscious.”

DK looked at the Anchor-Bearer. “How?”

“Without killing it.”

“I understood that.”

“Good. Sometimes I provide details.”

DK reversed his grip on the Greatblade. The Anchor-Bearer finally reacted. Its body tensed. Too late.

DK struck it across the side of the head with the pommel.

BAM.

The creature hit the floor.

Etzel winced. “A little gentler—”

The Anchor-Bearer went limp. Etzel paused. “…that works.”

Renn’s voice came immediately. “Etzel.”

“Wait.”

Etzel watched the communicator. One second. Two.

A distant voice shouted. “Candidate Three just collapsed!”

Another. “One is down!”

Then: “Five unconscious!”

“Six too!”

Reports arrived almost simultaneously. All seven. Unconscious.

Etzel stared at the body at his feet. The humor left him. Not damage. Not healing. State.

Seven creatures. Seven bodies. But one shared condition.

He spoke quietly. “Seven bodies.”

Halven watched him.

Etzel looked at the unconscious Anchor-Bearer. “One state.”

Nothing. No Witness.

Etzel frowned. That was true. But truth alone wasn’t enough. He still hadn’t found the structural flaw.

“Why seven?”

Renn answered. “We don’t know.”

“Show me the map.”

Halven opened the regional display on his communicator. Seven locations appeared. Etzel studied them. He had been thinking about the creatures. Wrong. Think about the destinations.

Candidate One. City center. But more specifically—an Authority identity hub.

Candidate Two. Dungeon access zone. Registered Hunter traffic.

Candidate Three. Western forest. An old field relay.

Candidate Four. Industrial sector. Emergency response registration node.

Five. Transit checkpoint.

Six. Abandoned commercial sector with old Authority infrastructure.

Seven. This shelter.

Etzel’s eyes narrowed. “These aren’t Anchors.”

Halven frowned. “The System literally calls them Anchor Candidates.”

Etzel looked at him. “Candidates.” He emphasized the word. “Not Anchors.”

Renn went silent.

Etzel stood.

Seven bodies. Seven locations. All connected to places where the System’s recognition of people, Hunters, locations, or access had been formalized.

Borrowed Authorization. Identity Without Soul.

The first Anchor had tried to use stolen Hunter identities as permission. The second structure had learned to steal identity more directly.

But these seven—they were collecting different pieces. Not merely trying to open doors. Trying to become something that could exist on this side of one.

Etzel’s heartbeat changed. “Oh.”

Halven had learned to dislike that sound. “What?”

Etzel looked at the seven points. “Something isn’t trying to get inside.”

Renn spoke carefully. “What do you mean?”

“It already has pieces inside.” Etzel pointed at the candidates. “These things.” Then at their destinations. “The stolen identities.”

He remembered the opening beneath Authority.

“It couldn’t exist here properly.”

Silence.

“So it borrowed authorization.” The shelter. “Then it learned how to copy identity.” Seven candidates. “And now it’s building one.”

Renn’s voice became quiet. “One what?”

Etzel stared at the map. “One identity.”

The pieces aligned. Not perfectly. Enough.

Seven bodies were collecting different forms of System recognition. Different proofs. Different states. Different fragments of existence. Then synchronizing them. Seven separate pieces—trying to become one valid whole.

Etzel whispered: “It’s trying to convince the System that it belongs here.”

The world stopped.

Etzel smiled. “There you are.”

The System expanded.

Etzel read.

Seven nodes. One synchronized state. The network’s strength was obvious now. Damage could be distributed. Healing could propagate. State could synchronize. A single node did not need to contain the whole structure.

But the weakness—

Etzel’s eyes widened. If the network required synchronized state—then disagreement was poison.

Another notification appeared.

Etzel laughed once.

Halven looked at him. “That sounds dangerous.”

“You don’t even know what it does.”

“You laughed.”

“Fair.” He raised the communicator. “Renn. Put all seven teams on one channel.”

“Why?”

“I’m going to make them disagree.”

A pause. “They’re kilometers apart.”

“Exactly.”

Renn didn’t argue. The channel opened. Voices flooded in. Seven teams. Seven candidates.

Etzel began assigning conditions.

“Candidate One stays restrained.”

A voice answered. “Confirmed.”

“Two stays conscious and engaged.”

“Confirmed.”

“Three?”

“Currently unconscious.”

“Keep it that way.”

“Four gets healing.”

Silence. “What?”

“Heal it.”

“Why?”

“Because I’m the D-Rank who apparently has to explain interdimensional identity fraud today.”

Halven covered his face.

Renn cut in. “Do it.”

“Five remains injured.”

“Confirmed.”

“Six stays immobilized but conscious.”

“Confirmed.”

Etzel looked down at Seven. “Saeva.”

She floated closer.

“Wake him.”

A small pulse of green light entered the Anchor-Bearer. Its eyes opened. The face was blank now. No Neris. No Etzel. Just smooth, unfinished features.

Etzel smiled. “Hello again.”

The creature stared at him.

Etzel lifted the communicator. “Everyone ready?”

Six confirmations.

DK stood beside him. Greatblade ready.

Etzel breathed. “Three.”

Teams prepared.

“Two.”

Saeva retreated behind DK.

“One.”

Across the city and surrounding zones—everything happened at once.

One candidate was struck. Another healed. One kept unconscious. One restrained. One forced into movement. One immobilized while awake.

And Etzel placed his palm against Candidate Seven’s chest.

The tailored advantage activated.

The Anchor-Bearer screamed.

Not alone. The communicator erupted. Six more screams.

Seven bodies. Seven incompatible conditions. One network trying to declare all of them true.

Black filaments burst from Candidate Seven’s back. They lashed across the room. Some entered the floor. Some reached toward the ceiling. Others simply hung in the air—connected to nothing.

The System flashed.

The creature convulsed.

Etzel’s smile widened. “There.”

DK looked at him. “Now?”

“Now.”

DK raised the Greatblade.

Then Etzel saw something. “Wait.”

DK stopped. Again.

Etzel looked at the black filaments. They were changing. Not dying. Retreating. Each one pulled away from the Anchor-Bearer.

Toward—somewhere else.

Halven’s communicator beeped. The regional map changed. Seven thin lines appeared. One from each candidate.

Etzel stared. All seven converged. One location. Far beyond the city. Inside the restricted zone.

Inside—the nineteen-dungeon convergence.

Etzel’s expression hardened. “Renn.”

“I see it.”

The candidates had never been the true Anchor. They were extensions. Nodes. Hands. Pieces. And now, because synchronization had failed—the network had exposed what all seven were connected to.

The center. The real center.

Etzel looked at DK. “Can we kill it now?”

Renn answered first. “Stand by.”

Data moved across the communicator. One second. Two. Three.

“The shared-state signatures are collapsing.”

Etzel watched Candidate Seven. Its severed arm was no longer affecting the others. Saeva’s healing was no longer propagating. The connection was broken.

Renn spoke. “State sharing has stopped.”

Etzel looked at the Anchor-Bearer. Then DK.

“Now.”

The Hellscript Greatblade ignited. Runes burned like molten writing through black steel.

One swing. Clean.

The Anchor-Bearer’s head left its body. It hit the floor.

Etzel immediately raised the communicator. “One?”

“Alive.”

“Two?”

“Alive.”

“Three alive.”

“Four alive.”

“Five alive.”

“Six alive.”

Etzel released a breath. Correct.

The System appeared.

Warmth entered Etzel. Not gentle. It spread through muscle. Bone. Soul.

He knew the sensation. Progression. This time it carried weight.

The enemy had been Level Seventeen. Five Levels above him. But that wasn’t all. Etzel had not simply survived it. He had understood the network. Broken its synchronization. Exposed its center. And made the kill safe.

The System confirmed it.

Etzel closed his eyes. Opened them.

He stared at the number. Thirteen. Finally.

DK looked over. “Thirteen.”

Etzel nodded. “Yes.”

“Still low.”

Etzel slowly turned toward him. “I just solved interdimensional identity fraud.”

DK stared back. “Level Thirteen.”

Etzel placed one hand against his chest. “Our friendship is deteriorating.”

Saeva laughed. Halven tried not to. Failed.

Etzel pointed at him. “You’re supposed to be a professional.”

“I am.”

“Terrible demonstration.”

For a few seconds—the room breathed.

Then Etzel looked at the corpse. Anomalous target. Anchor-Bearer. Level Seventeen. Significant kill.

His eyes narrowed. “Where’s my chest?”

Halven blinked. “What chest?”

“Metaphorical.”

DK looked at him. Etzel gave him a warning look. DK said nothing. Good.

The System appeared. Etzel expected the familiar reward structure. Instead:

Etzel’s smile vanished. “What?”

A second message followed.

Etzel stared. Not denied. Not lost. Incomplete. The thing he had killed was not important enough by itself. Because it wasn’t the actual target.

A fragment.

Etzel looked toward the convergence point on the map. “That’s concerning.”

DK followed his gaze. “Yes.”

Halven stepped closer. “What?”

Etzel dismissed the private interface. “We killed a finger.”

Halven frowned. “A finger?”

“Metaphorically.” Etzel looked at the corpse. “I hope.”

Renn’s voice came through the communicator. “Etzel.”

“Here.”

“We have the coordinates.”

“The center?”

“Yes.”

Etzel looked at the map. “How bad?”

Silence. Too long.

“Renn?”

“Very.”

Etzel nodded slowly. “Scientific unit?”

“This time, yes.”

The regional map expanded. The seven exposed lines converged exactly where Etzel feared. The center of the nineteen-dungeon convergence. The place the Authority had been warning Hunters away from. The place creatures had been migrating toward. The place Saeva had hated from the beginning.

Etzel felt movement on his shoulder. Saeva stared at the point. The Soul Link carried one sensation.

Wrong.

Etzel nodded. “I know.”

Saeva’s wings tightened. “Not alive.”

“I know.”

She stared. Longer.

Etzel waited.

Then something new came through the bond. Not an emotion. A word.

“Waiting.”

Etzel looked at her. “What?”

Saeva pointed toward the center. “Waiting.”

The room became quiet. Etzel’s expression hardened. “For what?”

Saeva stared at the convergence point. Her answer was barely a whisper. “Name.”

Etzel stopped breathing.

Far beneath the convergence zone—there was no sky. No forest. No city. No sound from the world above.

Nineteen streams of distorted energy descended through layers of stone and space. They should not have met. They did.

At the center stood something that was not a door. Not an egg. Not a grave.

A throne.

Black. Incomplete. Empty.

Seven filament structures extended from it into the darkness. One trembled. Then snapped.

Silence.

Something appeared above the empty throne. Not the System Etzel knew. Similar. Wrong.

Nothing moved.

Then:

The darkness remained still.

For several seconds—nothing happened.

Then something behind the throne spoke. The voice was not human. But it had learned how human words worked. Slowly. Carefully.

It said a name.

“Etzel Deymar.”

Two eyes opened in the dark. And the final message appeared.