The last thing Ethan Blackwood remembered was the smell of rain-soaked asphalt and the rhythmic thump of his headphones as he skateboarded down Elm Street. He was seventeen, his world confined to the predictable boredom of Havenwood, Vermont: homework, awkward conversations with Sarah Miller at the diner, and the fleeting adrenaline rush of a well-executed ollie. He dreamed of something more, something beyond the rolling green hills and quaint clapboard houses, but he didn't know what that "more" was.

Then, the world shattered.

Not literally, not at first. There was no explosion, no earth-shattering quake. Instead, a ripple, a distortion, a feeling of wrongness that permeated the very air. The sky, a familiar canvas of muted greys threatening another downpour, fractured. Lines of shimmering, iridescent color, like oil slicks on water, spiderwebbed across its expanse. The air crackled with unseen energy, making the hairs on Ethan’s arms stand on end.

He slammed on the brakes, his skateboard skidding to a halt, its wheels protesting against the uneven pavement. People stopped in their tracks, their faces upturned, mouths agape. The usual morning bustle of Havenwood ground to a halt, replaced by a collective, unnerved silence.

A low hum, a deep resonant thrum that vibrated through his bones, filled the air. The colors in the sky intensified, swirling and merging, forming impossible geometries that defied logic. The buildings around him seemed to shimmer, their familiar outlines wavering like mirages in the desert heat.

And then, the *feeling*. A wave of raw, untamed power washed over him, an alien energy that both terrified and exhilarated. It felt like lightning coursing through his veins, igniting something dormant within him. He gasped, clutching his chest, his heart hammering against his ribs.

The Shatter. That’s what the news anchors would later call it, those who survived long enough to broadcast the unfolding apocalypse. A rupture in the fabric of reality, a collision of worlds that forever altered the landscape of Earth.

But at that moment, standing on Elm Street, all Ethan knew was that everything was changing. The familiar world he knew, the world of AP history and Friday night football games, was dissolving before his very eyes.

The ripple in the sky intensified, and the world around him began to transform. The asphalt beneath his feet cracked and sprouted strange, bioluminescent fungi. The trees lining the street twisted and contorted, their branches thickening into gnarled, thorny limbs that seemed to reach out with predatory intent. The quaint houses morphed into structures of strange, obsidian-like stone, adorned with grotesque carvings of creatures he couldn't even begin to imagine.

The air grew thick with the stench of decay and the metallic tang of blood. Screams echoed through the transformed streets, piercing the unnatural silence that had followed the initial shock. People were running, their faces contorted with terror, but there was nowhere to run *to*. The entire world was changing.

As the transformation reached its peak, Ethan felt a strange pull, a directive coming from somewhere deep within him. He looked down at his hands, his skin tingling with the alien energy. A symbol, a dark and intricate sigil, began to glow faintly on the back of his left hand. It pulsed with a cold, malevolent light, a symbol of something ancient and forbidden.

He didn’t understand what it meant, but he knew, with a certainty that transcended logic, that it was connected to the chaos unfolding around him. It was a part of him now, an inherent part of this new, terrifying reality.

Suddenly, a creature emerged from the swirling chaos in front of him. It was vaguely humanoid, but twisted and grotesque, with elongated limbs ending in razor-sharp claws and a skull-like head with glowing red eyes. It moved with a disturbing, jerky gait, its ragged clothes hanging from its emaciated frame.

A Ghoul.

Later, the System would identify these creatures, categorize them, assign them levels and stats. But now, in the immediate aftermath of the Shatter, it was simply a monster, a terrifying embodiment of the new reality.

The Ghoul lunged, its claws outstretched, its fetid breath hot on Ethan’s face. He instinctively threw up his arms in defense, bracing for the impact. But the impact never came.

Instead, something shifted within him, a surge of power that exploded outwards. A figure materialized beside him, coalescing from the shadows. It was skeletal, a bare bone frame held together by wisps of dark energy. Its empty eye sockets glowed with the same eerie light as the sigil on his hand.

A Skeleton.

The Skeleton moved with surprising speed, intercepting the Ghoul's attack. Its bony arm slammed into the Ghoul's chest, sending it staggering backwards. The Ghoul shrieked in frustration, its claws scrabbling against the Skeleton's unyielding bone structure.

Ethan stared in disbelief, his mind reeling. He had *summoned* it. This… this undead creature was his. The realization was both terrifying and exhilarating. He was connected to this new world, not just a passive observer, but an active participant.

He watched as the Skeleton fought the Ghoul, its movements clumsy but effective. He didn't understand how he knew what to do, but he felt an instinctive connection to the creature, a sense of control that flowed through him.

The battle was short but brutal. The Skeleton, despite its frail appearance, proved to be surprisingly resilient. It absorbed the Ghoul’s attacks, its bones cracking but not breaking. Finally, with a desperate lunge, it slammed its bony fist into the Ghoul's skull, shattering it into fragments.

The Ghoul collapsed in a heap, its body dissolving into a cloud of black dust. The Skeleton remained standing, its empty eye sockets fixed on Ethan.

He took a shaky breath, trying to process what he had just witnessed. He was alive. He had survived. But the world he knew was gone, replaced by something terrifying and unknown.

He looked at the sigil on his hand, glowing brighter now. He looked at the Skeleton, his first creation, his first line of defense in this new, hostile world.

He was Ethan Blackwood, and he was a Necromancer.

The system chimed to life.

**[Congratulations! You have survived the initial Shatter.]**

**[You have unlocked the Necromancer Class!]**

**[Basic Skeleton Summoned. Level: 1]**

**[Initiate Quest: Survive the Night!]**

**[Reward: 100 Experience Points, Basic Cloth Armor]**

The words floated in front of his eyes, ethereal and glowing. The System. It was real, tangible, a guiding force in this chaotic new reality.

He didn’t understand what any of it meant, but he knew one thing: he had to survive. He had to figure out how to use his newfound powers, how to navigate this treacherous landscape, how to protect himself from the horrors that lurked in the shadows.

He looked around at the transformed streets of Havenwood, at the grotesque buildings and the twisted trees. The sun was beginning to set, casting long, ominous shadows. The air grew colder, and the silence was broken only by the distant howls of unseen creatures.

The night was coming. And Ethan Blackwood, the Necromancer, had a feeling it was going to be a long one. He grasped his skateboard feeling the smooth wood reassuringly under his trembling fingers. "Come on, Bonehead. Let's find somewhere safe. And fast".