The wind carried the scent of iron.
Not rust… but blood.
In the heart of a barren plain, beneath a crimson sky twisted by spiraling clouds, stood a barefoot boy. His clothes were torn, soaked in his own blood—and the blood of others. His right hand trembled, not from fear, but from a raw hunger crawling beneath his skin.
Nine corpses surrounded him in a perfect circle.
Each had once borne a powerful bloodline.
Now… they were empty.
And he stood at the center—silent, motionless, changed.
He fell to his knees, gasping for breath as a thin river of red crept beneath him, dragging traces of his sins into the dirt. His dull eyes shimmered faintly with silver—a mark of corruption, blooming.
Then it came.
A shadow, formless and thick as death, emerged before him. The fog around it dimmed. The very air withdrew, recoiling from its presence.
It did not speak aloud.
Its voice unfurled directly in his mind:
"With every bloodline you claim… you take another step into the abyss."
******
Far below the surface of the earth, past rusted gates and layers of forgotten stone, there existed a prison. And at its lowest level, beyond the reach of memory, there was a cell—nameless, numberless, lightless.
They called it:
"The Cell That Must Not Be Remembered."
Inside, between four black walls, a child lay bound in silence so deep it screamed. No torch had ever flickered here. No bed, no slit of sunlight. Only cold, and chains, and the weight of years.
He stirred.
Eyes—crimson, unnatural—opened slowly in the dark.
"The same dream," he thought, though his lips did not move.
A voice arrived.
It didn't echo. It invaded.
"Still breathing?… Disappointing."
He didn't flinch. That voice was part of him now. An unwanted guest that had lived inside his skull since before he could count.
He sat up.
The iron cuffs clung to his skin like leeches. He no longer remembered what it felt like to move freely. Time had dissolved into repetition. He had been born in this cell. And in this world where power bloomed in blood… he had none.
No lineage.
No gift.
No fire in his veins.
They said he was empty.
They whispered that he was cursed—too dangerous to set free, too unknown to kill. So they bound him. Fed him through slits. Prayed behind doors. Avoided his name.
But he wasn't hungry anymore.
Hunger was for the living.
What he felt now was deeper—an emptiness only truth could fill.
He had always known: he was not like the others.
Even if no one had told him.
Even if he had never seen the world beyond these walls.
Because those who saw him… feared.
Those who touched him… recoiled.
And those who tried to understand…fell silent.
Years ago, a priest in crimson robes had entered his cell.
He came with a holy book and a test.
He pricked the boy's finger. One drop of blood.
It touched the page. The page caught fire.
The priest ran. He was never seen again.
Since then, no one dared ask him anything at all.
The child stared at his hands.
Sometimes, he didn't feel them anymore.
Iron lasts longer than skin.
He closed his eyes, expecting darkness.
But this time… he saw a flicker.
A deep crimson glow, like a breath lost in the void.
Then—another voice.
Not the familiar one.
This one was older.
Slower.
True.
"Zek'arun… The blood hears. But it waits."
He didn't open his eyes.
He had known, for years, that something inside him watched his silence.
Fed on it.
Waited.
"Waits for what?" he whispered.
"For a drop."
The thought was shattered by footsteps—loud, real.
Someone was coming.
The lock creaked. Slow. Strained. Like rust peeled away with fingernails. That door hadn't opened in years. Not once. Everything was always passed through the narrow slit. Even sound avoided this place.
But now… the door moved.
A man entered.
He wasn't tall. Not broad.
But something in his steps made the stone seem cautious.
He stood just beyond the boy's chains.
Silent.
Then spoke:
"I wanted to see you."
The child said nothing.
The man studied him. Then said, almost gently:
"They say you have no bloodline. Hollow. They say you don't feel. But I wonder… do you feel pain?"
Without warning, he kicked.
The boy's body slammed into the wall.
The chains groaned.
Blood filled his throat.
He didn't scream.
He didn't cry.
He sat back up slowly, wiped his mouth with his sleeve—and stared at the blood on his hand.
It was red… but it was not passive.
It was watching him.
Then—it moved.
The blood rose into the air. It surged, fast and sharp, and pierced the man's chest.
There was no scream.
Only the wide, trembling eyes of someone who realized too late… what they had awoken.
The boy saw him fall.
Dead.
Then came the voice—the old one. The one that had waited.
"At last… the first bloodline."
It sounded… pleased.
But not kindly.
It was joy twisted by mockery.
Then silence.
The man's blood didn't behave as it should.
It darkened. Thickened.
Fine black threads danced inside it—alive.
It drifted back toward the boy.
And entered him.
A searing heat bloomed inside his chest. A mark appeared—black, like a living tattoo over his heart. A red web pulsing around a core.
Then—it ignited.
A scream tore free.
Not of pain.
But of transformation.
An invisible wave burst from his body.
Stone cracked.
The door dissolved.
The chains shrank to ash.
The walls twisted.
But he saw none of it.
His mind was elsewhere.
He stood in a white expanse.
Crimson mist floated like a breath made solid.
And before him… an old man.
Unmoving.
Eyes ancient.
Smile unreadable.
He raised a single finger.
And suddenly—memories poured in.
A childhood.
A fist.
A bruise.
The first time he was hated.
Then… darkness.
He collapsed.
Unconscious.
But within the void of his chest… something did not sleep.