Chapter 4 – Testing the Blood
The hallway ahead narrowed like the throat of some forgotten beast. Stone walls arched above him, cracked and bowed with age, while thin trails of glowing crystal veins pulsed faintly beneath layers of grime. Michael moved slowly, barefoot across the cold floor, the echoes of each step swallowed by silence. The air had weight—thicker than before. He didn't know if it was the place itself or the blood that still lingered in his veins, watching the world with him. He hadn't spoken in what felt like hours, and his voice felt too human for this place.
"Bloodbound," he said aloud, the word clunky in his mouth. He remembered seeing it flash across that twisted system screen. No level. No health bar. No class. Just that title. Bloodbound. It didn't sound like a gift. It sounded like a curse pretending to be useful. "Blood Domain. Blood Echo. Blood… sense?" He shook his head, frustrated. No instructions. No numbers. Just instinct and a quiet awareness crawling beneath his skin. "I'm not even sure if I'm alive or just a really focused hallucination."
The next chamber opened into a rounded space—collapsed on one side, thick with dust and bone. Shards of armor glittered in the faint light. Old corpses slumped against the walls and rubble piles, their blood dried in dark stains across cracked stone. Michael scanned the room slowly, jaw tight. Some of the blood felt familiar—not from memory, but from the way it seemed to pulse in response to his presence. It wasn't alive, but it wasn't inert either. The silence here wasn't emptiness. It was expectation.
He slung his pack to the ground and crouched beside a deep smear of blood. One hand hovered above it. "Let's see if you're more than names," he muttered. He focused—not with magic or energy, but with pressure. A push inward, like flexing a muscle he didn't have a name for yet. The blood twitched. Not much, but enough to send a jolt through his spine. A tendril lifted off the stone—wobbly, wet, formless. He shaped it into a claw, or tried to. It folded in on itself like melting wax. He stared at the mess.
He stood, rubbing his eyes. "Blood Domain… definitely a work in progress." He retrieved the bone-handled knife from the pack and gave it a short twirl. It was dull but balanced—good enough until his claws became more than crimson spaghetti. "Guess I'm back to basics. Step one: don't die." The knife felt oddly natural in his hand. Maybe it was something he remembered from the corpse. Maybe it was just instinct. He moved to the center of the chamber and exhaled. "Alright. Next ability."
Michael didn't close his eyes this time. He didn't need to. Instead, he focused on the space around him—the silence between steps, the places where blood had once spilled and still lingered. Something shifted. His vision blurred, not from motion, but from meaning. Color bled away, replaced by red. Thin threads of crimson spread across the floor like veins through stone. Some were old and faded, pulsing dully. Others glowed like coals buried under ash. Blood trails. Everywhere.
He moved carefully toward the nearest wall, where a body lay half-buried beneath rubble. The blood around it was faint but still visible in that strange, red-lit way. As he got closer, something stirred—not in the room, but inside him. Heat welled in his chest, sharp and raw. Rage. Not his own. It had been there when the blood was spilled. Someone had died angry. Furious. Writhing in injustice. The emotion washed over him like a fever, unspoken but understood. It faded only when he stepped back, heart steadying.
Another body, slumped against the opposite wall, caught his attention. This one was armored, barely rusted, hands still clutching a broken sword. Michael reached toward the pool of blood beneath it—and paused. Cold. Heavy. Not temperature, but feeling. Shame, he realized, a deep, marrow-sunk shame that pressed on his lungs like a weight. It wasn't grief. It wasn't regret. It was surrender. Whoever this had been—they'd accepted their death. Not with peace, but with failure.
"This… this isn't just a sensory thing," he muttered. "It's emotional memory." He looked around the room, his new vision mapping it out not by shapes, but by weight—rage there, shame here, sorrow staining the corner like rot. Each echo had its own frequency, a vibration only the blood remembered. He pressed his hand to a nearby wall. "You're not just leftovers," he whispered. "You're stories. Last thoughts. Emotions too stubborn to die." It felt overwhelming. But it also felt… right.
He looked down at his hands—pale, lean, still unfamiliar—and let the unease settle. "This doesn't feel like what vampires are supposed to be," he muttered. Not that he knew what was normal here. But this… this wasn't just about being undead. The blood didn't just obey—it listened. It responded. And worse, it remembered. "It's like I'm walking through a graveyard where every tombstone still breathes." He exhaled slowly. "Whatever this is… it's mine now."
One body drew his eye more than the others. It was younger—lean, unarmored, slumped beside a collapsed stone pillar. Its chest had been torn open violently, ribs cracked like kindling. But the blood… it shimmered. Not like the others. This was fresher. Closer. Almost familiar. Michael crouched beside it, his breath slow, steady. He didn't know why this one mattered more. Maybe it was because the pain still clung to it. Maybe it was because the blood called to him first.
The moment his skin touched the dried blood, the world tilted. Not into a vision—into a reaction. His shoulder snapped back instinctively, as if dodging a strike. His hand twisted, gripping a weapon that wasn't there. His balance shifted before his mind caught up, his legs remembering a movement his brain didn't understand. Then it was gone. That hadn't been a memory. It had been muscle memory. For a second, he'd become whoever this boy had been when he died.
His gaze drifted to the weapon lying beside the corpse—a shortblade with a cracked handle and dull edge. He reached for it and felt a strange comfort bloom in his grip. It wasn't just the weight. It was the familiarity. His fingers curled around it like an old habit. "You were fighting when you died," he whispered. "And now… so am I." He stood slowly. It wasn't much. But it was something.
"Blood Echo," he muttered. "Not memory. Not vision. Instinct." He tightened his grip on the weapon. He wasn't a swordsman. Not really. But his posture was steadier now. His feet knew where to stand. His hands knew where to guard. Like a part of the dead youth had been stitched into his nerves. "It doesn't teach," he said. "It shares." He wasn't stealing from the dead. He was remembering for them.
He stepped back into the center of the room, eyes flicking over every fallen figure like names on a list. He could feel them now—each one offering something. Not treasure. Not loot. But experience. "This place isn't a dungeon," he said. "It's a graveyard... and every body in here died for something." He let the thought settle. "If you've got something to share," he said, scanning the corpses, "then I'll carry it."
He gave a dry chuckle. "That's dark even for me," he muttered. His voice felt strange in the stillness. But it helped. Talking helped. He ran a hand through his hair, still not used to how thick it felt. "Alright. One busted claw, half a sword stance, and whatever this blood-sense thing is—like walking through people's last regrets." He looked toward the next tunnel. He wasn't ready. But he was willing. That would have to be enough.
Before moving on, he sat against the wall. The chamber didn't feel hostile anymore. It felt… reflective. The blood lines dimmed slightly as he relaxed. He closed his eyes—not from fatigue, but from need. The kind of need that comes after surviving pain. The blood in the air pulsed gently. He inhaled. "I don't know what I am yet," he whispered. "But I don't hate it."
He opened his eyes and looked at his hand. The faint red glow hadn't faded. It felt like something alive had taken root beneath his skin—quiet, watching, patient. "You're not just power," he said. "You're something else. Maybe not alive—but aware." There was no answer. But the air felt heavier. Present. He wasn't alone.
He stood again, rolling his shoulders. "I'm not ready to fight anything serious," he said. "But I don't think I need to be." His voice steadied. "Whatever this is, I'll grow with it." Not to be strong. Not for revenge. Just to move forward. Because for the first time in years, he could.
He moved toward the exit. Blood didn't rise around him this time. It didn't need to. It was with him now—inside and around. The shortblade at his side felt heavier. "One more test," he said. "Let's see what it feels like when I spill blood that isn't mine."
He paused at the corridor's edge. Behind him, the chamber felt closed—quiet. Ahead, the dark stretched forward. Veins of crimson pulsed faintly beneath the stone. Blood trails waited—not guiding. Watching. Testing. He took a breath. The silence ahead wasn't empty. It was alert.
The air shifted. He didn't hear anything. But he felt it—like a heartbeat through a wall. His vision flared red. Just beyond the bend, something moved. A figure hunched low, dragging something. His senses didn't show flesh. They showed blood. Slow. Rotten. Hungry.
He shifted his weight, blade ready. The creature was close—less than ten meters. It paced slowly. Irregularly. Its blood still fought. Still clung to movement. Still hunted. Michael exhaled. He didn't understand how he felt it. But the blood did. And that was enough.
The tension curled up his spine. But it wasn't fear. It was purpose. His pulse steadied. "You've been down here a long time," he whispered. "I'll make this quick." His eyes locked on the flickering crimson threads in the creature's limbs. It would leap. That's all it knew.
The blood around him surged—quiet but sharp. The creature moved. Just a twitch. But Michael saw it. Every muscle. Every inch of intent. His blood answered. His body moved.
And in the space between heartbeats—
it charged.