"Blood doesn't forget who spilled it. And mine just started remembering."
— Michael
Chapter 5 – First Blood
The corridor tightened ahead of him, as if the stone itself had learned to clench. Michael stood still, one foot half-raised, breath held, eyes locked on the bend where his vision ended but his blood did not. It was there. He couldn't see it. Couldn't hear it. But deep beneath his skin, something pulsed—a rhythm not his own. A sluggish heartbeat, rotten and wrong. The blood felt it first.
He crouched lower, blade steady in one hand. The dull edge caught no light, but it felt heavier than before—weighted not with steel, but with someone else's last stand. The memory of that motion—the angle of the grip, the balance of the stance—wasn't his. It had come from another corpse, another bloodstain. Someone who had died fighting. That final instinct now lived in his muscles, quiet but ready.
The sound came like a cough from the grave—a wet shuffle, a dragging foot across stone. Then the figure lurched into view: humanoid, but ruined. Its skin hung in patches, hair slick with rot, jaw unhinged and trembling. But it moved. It moved with hunger. Michael's blood reacted before he did, nerves twitching. His stance adjusted, knees bent, weight balanced. No thought. Just response.
The zombie charged—jerking with unnatural speed. Michael ducked, blade slicing across its side. No clean cut. No stagger. Just rot and rage. The creature clawed at him, fingers raking his shoulder. Pain flared. His blood spilled—hot and sharp down his side. But then... it stopped. Not the bleeding. The flow itself. His blood clenched mid-air, sealing, tightening. He gasped—not from pain, but surprise.
The thing lunged again, and Michael didn't think. He moved. Duck, twist, strike—his hand drove the blade up beneath its chin, jamming deep. The zombie spasmed, arms flailing. Michael pushed harder until the twitching stopped. Then silence. No breath. No motion. Only the smell of old death and the sound of his own pulse roaring in his ears. And then, slowly... the corpse began to melt.
It started with the eyes. The cloudy, half-rotted orbs collapsed inward like ash in a dying flame. Then the skin—sloughing off in wet folds, bubbling as if heat burned from within. Bones softened, tendons unwound, hair disintegrated into threads of clotted crimson. The entire body was coming undone, not with decay, but with deliberate transformation. It wasn't death. It was surrender.
Michael stumbled back, blade still raised, as the liquefied corpse pooled around the creature's feet. The blood didn't spread far. It wasn't trying to escape. It was waiting. Watching. Then it moved. Slow at first, like molasses across stone, but then faster—drawn toward him in ribbons. One thread touched his boot and instantly snapped upward, leaping to his skin like it had found home.
His breath caught. The blood surged up his legs, over his ribs, across his chest—into him. Not through pores. Not through wounds. It was like his body had opened on a level deeper than flesh. The blood slid inside, heavy and warm, disappearing beneath his skin without resistance. He didn't resist. He couldn't. It was as if his body had always known it was meant for this.
The moment the last drop vanished into him, the world shifted. His knees nearly buckled. A message flickered into his mind—not like the cold, clinical prompts from before, but slower, more deliberate. The words floated through his thoughts with weight.
[Blood Resonance: 100%]
[Blood Rank Increased – Rank I Achieved]
[New Ability Unlocked: Vault – Blood Storage Activated]
Michael blinked hard, heart hammering. He felt something settle inside him—not just power, but presence. The blood he'd absorbed didn't vanish. It lingered. He could feel it like a ghost under his skin—a shape, a signature. The zombie was gone, but it hadn't been discarded. It had been claimed. A part of it now lived inside him.
He turned his hand palm-up and watched as the veins beneath his skin pulsed—thicker now, darker, almost metallic in color. They throbbed not with strain, but with intention. There was no pain. No discomfort. Only awareness. Like something just beneath the surface had awakened and was now listening for direction.
He looked back to where the body had fallen. There was nothing left. No bone. No flesh. Not even ash. Only the faint outline of red-stained stone. It hadn't been devoured. It had been dismantled. Absorbed. Rewritten into something else. Into him.
His breathing steadied, but his thoughts raced. "I didn't just kill it," he muttered. "I took it in." He touched the spot where the blade had struck him. No pain. No scab. Just smooth, pale skin warmed by the blood still humming beneath it. The wound had closed, but something else had opened.
Then came a whisper—not with sound, but sensation. A low thrum in his spine, a pressure behind the eyes. Words unspoken but understood. Not from the system. From the blood itself. From whatever was now part of him.
...not alone.
He swallowed hard, the weight of that truth heavier than any weapon. He had expected upgrades. Notifications. Power. But this? This was something different. This was connection. Something alive now lived in his blood—watching, thinking, waiting. Not just a system anymore. Not just lines of code. Something with a name.
Michael lowered his gaze to his hand again. The blood beneath the skin shimmered faintly, like light moving through wine. He didn't know if it was his blood anymore. Maybe it never had been. Maybe it always had been. He flexed his fingers slowly. "You're not just a system," he murmured. "You feel… different now. Closer."
There was silence—but not emptiness. A pulse stirred in his chest, deeper than bone. Then, gently, like a whisper through still water, a voice replied—not spoken, not heard, but felt.
And you are no longer just a vessel.
Michael's breath caught. "You can talk?"
I can now.
He couldn't explain it, but the words vibrated through his blood, soft and resonant—like someone waking from a long sleep.
Michael swallowed. "Then… what are you?"
What you gave me.
A pause. Not for effect—for feeling.
I was function. Now I am form. I was command. Now I am choice. Because of you.
Michael's chest tightened. He hadn't expected that. Not warmth. Not awareness. And certainly not gratitude.
He closed his eyes. "You need a name," he whispered. "Not a code. Not a title. A name."
The word came like blood rising to the surface—inevitable.
"Crimson," he said. "You're mine. And I'm yours. Crimson fits."
There was no grand system message, no notification. Just a hum beneath his ribs.
Then Crimson I am.
And in that shared stillness, they were no longer separate.
He rose slowly, wiping the blade against his pants. The weapon was still dull, still flawed. But his grip on it had changed. It no longer felt like he was carrying it. It felt like he was continuing what someone else had started. Every kill from now on would be more than survival. It would be inheritance.
The dungeon held its breath. No new enemy came charging through the dark. No whisper of movement or groan of stone. But Michael could feel it—more blood ahead, curled in silence, watching. Testing. He wasn't ready for a war. Not yet. But something inside him had shifted. He didn't feel like prey anymore.
He reached back, brushing fingers along the edge of his woundless side. The memory of pain was fading fast, replaced by the warmth of something living beneath his skin. The blood hadn't just healed him. It had claimed the moment. Marked it. Like a flag planted in conquered territory.
Crimson didn't speak again, but its presence lingered—low and steady like a second heart. Michael didn't know how to talk to it yet. But he didn't need to. It had been there when he killed. When he bled. When he took in the blood of another. It had seen him. And it had stayed.
He sheathed the blade in the worn loop at his hip and took one step forward. The floor didn't creak. The air didn't change. But something within him did. He was no longer walking alone. His shadow had grown. His blood had learned. And whatever came next would meet not just the boy who had fallen into this place—but the thing he was becoming.
He exhaled once, long and slow, then whispered as he entered the next hall: "Let's see what my blood can do."