His thoughts were cut short by the sound of heavy footsteps stopping outside the cell door.
The lock creaked, slow and strained—a sound like rust being peeled away by bare fingernails. That door hadn't opened in years. Everything was always pushed through a narrow slit at the bottom of the wall. Even voices only arrived by accident, like a sickness no one dared to spread.
But now… the door itself was moving.
A man entered.
He wasn't tall, nor broad-shouldered, but his steps were steady—too steady. As if the ground hesitated to carry him. He stood close. Uncomfortably close.
And said nothing at first.
Silence had always lived in this place.
But now… it felt heavier.
Finally, the man spoke:
"I wanted to see you."
There was no reply.
He stared for a moment longer, then said in a slower voice:
"They say you have no bloodline… hollow. They say you don't speak. But I want to know… do you feel pain?"
Then, without warning, he raised his foot—and kicked him in the chest.
His body slammed against the wall. The chains shuddered. The air thickened. Blood rose in his throat—warm, sharp, heavy.
But he didn't scream.
He didn't groan.
He simply sat back up, slowly, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and looked at what had come out of him.
His blood… wasn't normal.
It was red, yes. But it wasn't neutral.
It was watching him.
And suddenly… it moved.
On its own.
It rose into the air, as if it had a will of its own, and surged toward the man—piercing straight through his chest.
He didn't understand what was happening.
He only saw the expression on the man's face.
A strong man… trembling, without a sound.
Then came the voice.
That same voice—the one he had known since childhood.
"At last… the first bloodline."
There was something like joy in the voice.
But not the kind anyone would welcome.
It was joy tinged with mockery.
The voice laughed.
A short, cruel laugh.
Then silence.
The man collapsed.
Dead.
But the blood that spilled from him… wasn't the same as before.
It was thicker. Darker.
And inside it, fine black threads writhed like living ink.
It drifted back toward the chained boy—and entered his chest.
The next moment, something inside him burned.
A mark appeared—black, like a living tattoo over his heart. A web of blood-red lines, circling a small, pulsing core.
And then it ignited.
A scream tore from his throat—not just from pain…but from change.
An invisible wave burst from his body.
Stone shook.
The door vanished.
Chains shrank.
The walls twisted into something unrecognizable.
But he saw none of it.
Because his mind was no longer there.
He was somewhere else.
A vast white expanse.
Thick crimson mist floated in the air like breathing fog.
And before him stood an old man, unmoving—his eyes stern, his face carved by power.
He raised one finger.
And smiled.
Then—Everything shifted.
Memories flooded in.
The man's childhood…His first punch.
First blood.
The first time he was hated.
Everything.
Then… darkness.
He fell.
Unconscious.
But something inside him… did not sleep.