The morning sun turned Bobby's junkyard into a graveyard of twisted metal and forgotten dreams. The air stank of rust and motor oil, but it was home. I stood in the gutted frame of a '72 Chevelle, hands splayed like I was conducting some invisible orchestra.
Because I was.
I rolled Kharon's power through my veins like a hit of something dangerous. Bloodbending. It buzzed under my skin, ancient and intimate. I flexed my fingers, and the world lit up.
Every heartbeat within fifty yards pulsed in my awareness—field mice scurrying beneath dented bumpers, a crow clicking its beak on the power line, even the earthworms writhing beneath the wet soil.
"Alright, Froggy," I muttered to myself. "Let's see what you left me."
There was a puddle nearby—rainwater from yesterday, tinged with a smear of my own blood from a minor scrap. I focused, narrowing in like a laser. The liquid twitched, then rose, defying gravity.
It danced in the air—thick, red, alive. With a flick of thought, I shaped it into a dagger. Razor edges. Pointed tip. Then I hardened it.
CLANG.
The blood-blade embedded halfway through a rusted hood.
I let out a low whistle. "That's new."
"Y'know," Dean called from the porch, coffee in hand, "most people meditate over yoga mats, not engine blocks."
Sam and Bobby had taken off earlier for a run at some haunting in Wichita. Bobby left Dean behind with express instructions: "If Marcus breaks my junkyard with his voodoo circus act, you keep him from killing himself or the Chevelle."
I gave Dean the bird without turning around. "Yoga's boring. Wanna see something cooler?"
Dean opened his mouth, probably to say something snarky, but I didn't wait. I let go of my form.
Mist surged through my pores. I unraveled into vapor—a swirling, translucent form that glided through a chain-link fence like it wasn't even there. The world looked soft and foggy from inside the haze.
Mist-Like Body: Duration – 5:00 | Cooldown – 0:05
I reformed right behind Dean, materializing with a grin and snatching his coffee in one smooth motion.
He nearly dropped it. "What the hell, man?! You're like a damn ghost!"
"Better," I said. "Ghosts can't do this."
I bled a single drop into his lukewarm coffee and molded it in midair. The liquid twirled and danced, sculpting itself into a perfect Eiffel Tower—coffee brown and blood red.
Dean stared. "Okay. That's just showing off."
"Correct," I said proudly, placing the mini monument on the porch rail.
The next few hours were... experimental. I stress-tested everything I could think of. Bloodbending worked best within 30 meters and only on things with hemoglobin—humans, animals, some monsters. Inanimate blood? Not so much.
Mist Form made me near-invincible for five minutes, but I couldn't hit back while incorporeal. Merging the two? Possible—but left me dizzy and nauseous after two minutes. A magic hangover from hell.
By high noon, I was hunched against the Impala's bumper, guzzling blue Gatorade like it was holy water. My legs felt like spaghetti. My arms weren't much better.
Sam strolled out from the house, holding a sandwich in one hand and a thick-ass tome in the other. "Bobby says you're gonna pass out if you keep overclocking your powers."
I took the sandwich like it was life itself. "Worth it. Kharon's gifts might come in handy next time we fight a god."
He adjusted his glasses. "Funny you say that. I've been digging through Mesopotamian texts—there's lore about blood priests who—"
A loud CRASH interrupted him.
Lena stood in the doorway, her expression frozen in horror, tray of tools scattered at her feet. Her new heart was beating frequently
"Did you just... turn into smoke earlier?" she asked, eyes wide.
"Mist," I corrected. "Technically."
She stormed toward me and punched my arm. Hard. Like, dead arm for ten minutes hard.
"Idiot! What if you couldn't turn back?"
I winced, rubbing the sore spot. "Ow. Also... fair point."
Sam made a tactful escape, muttering something about translations and rituals.
Lena poked my chest. "Next time you test unstable god powers? Wake me up first."
I caught her finger, tugging her a step closer. "Yes, ma'am."
She glared. "Asshole."
"Your asshole."
She groaned, rolling her eyes—but she didn't move away. That was progress.
The sky was turning orange by the time a problem found us.
A real problem.
It started with the earth rumbling. A slow, steady thump-thump-thump like distant drumbeats.
Dean stepped outside, shotgun in hand. "Please tell me you didn't summon something again."
"I didn't try to," I said.
The air thickened with static, and then the wind shifted—hot and wrong. A figure lumbered out from the treeline. Twelve feet tall, skin like basalt, and veins that pulsed with lava-red light.
A volcanic golem. Kharon's contingency plan if he goes in afterlife.
"What the hell is that?" Dean yelled, leveling his gun.
"It's a welcome gift," I muttered, blood already rising around my fists.
The golem roared, the sound shaking my molars. I shot forward, blood-laced blades whipping out from my arms like whips, i didn't want to use my other powers just bloodbending and mist body. It's time for my training to bore fruit. They slashed across its chest—and melted.
"Okay! Fireproof!" I barked.
Dean fired rock salt. It ricocheted off the beast's hide with a ping! like BBs hitting steel. "Oh, come on!"
I misted just as the golem's fist slammed down. The shockwave shattered several windshields, including a Chevy that Bobby had been saving for parts. Sorry, Bobby.
Reforming behind it, I focused every ounce of willpower on its ankle joint—finding the thin seam of molten blood within. My hand clenched. Bloodbending surged.
The golem buckled, falling to one knee.
"NOW, DEAN!"
Dean didn't need to be told twice. He grabbed a blessed iron pipe and drove it through the softened joint. The golem screamed, lurching—only for me to Mist-Jump directly inside its cracked torso.
Yes, inside.
I reformed within its hollow ribcage, heart hammering as superheated air singed my eyebrows. One last move. I flooded the interior with blood pulled from my own nose—shaped it into spears, and exploded them outward.
The golem split apart with a sound like a building collapsing.
I staggered out, drenched in sweat and blood. Dean ran over, grabbing my shoulder.
"You alive?"
"Define 'alive,'" I wheezed.
Lena sprinted over, her fists glowing with residual energy from her heartstone. "You maniac! That thing could've roasted you!"
"Could've," I said, falling back onto the gravel. "Didn't."
Dean flopped down beside me, still panting. "So. Kharon left you a little lava demon as a going-away present. Nice guy."
"He's thoughtful like that," I muttered, staring at the darkening sky. "But if that was just the warm-up…"
The implication hung heavy.
There were more out there. More gods. More monsters. More... whatever Kharon used to be.
And I wasn't the same guy who died all those months ago. Not anymore.
I was something new.
Later, steam hissed as I showered off the day's chaos. I studied my reflection in the foggy mirror—fresh scars, deeper than the last set. White lines traced my ribs and spine where Kharon had tried to rip me apart.
Trophies of survival.
A towel smacked me in the back of the head.
"Stop admiring yourself," Lena said, leaning against the doorway. "You're not that pretty."
I caught her wrist and yanked her into the shower, clothes and all. She yelped, half-laughing, half-scolding.
"Marcus! These are my only clean—"
I kissed her.
Words died. Hands tangled. The steam swallowed our silhouettes whole.
Later still, we lay wrapped in blankets in her room. The ceiling was painted in silver streaks from the moonlight filtering through half-busted blinds.
I traced the faint scar over her heart—the one I'd healed with blood and will. The one that reminded me what I'd almost lost.
"You okay?" she asked, voice soft, half-asleep.
I stared up at the ceiling. "Yeah. Just thinking."
About Kharon's last words. About the powers clawing their way into my soul. About the fact that I'd died once... and never told anyone how or why.
Lena nestled closer. "Think quieter."
I chuckled, kissing the top of her head. "Yes, ma'am."
There'd be time for monsters tomorrow.
Tonight?
Tonight was ours.