The Land of Death lived up to its name.
There was no wind here—only stillness, as if the world had stopped breathing. Ash covered the ground like snow, muffling footsteps and swallowing light. The sky above was grey, not from clouds, but from something older and heavier—something that had long since given up hope.
Lucius stepped through the valley in silence, his boots sinking into the lifeless dirt. His coat, worn from months in the forest, clung to his frame. His once-dormant body now bore the shape of someone honed through survival—lean, sharp, and unrelenting.
Behind him, a white-haired boy followed at a measured distance. His gaze flicked across the landscape like a knife, silent and alert.
Neither spoke.
This wasn't a place for words.
Lucius stopped.
In front of him stood the ruin.
A broken altar, swallowed by thorns and charred roots. Cracks ran down its length like veins. The scent of old blood lingered faintly—too faint to smell unless one had tasted it before.
Lucius stepped forward alone. The boy remained where he was.
There was no inscription. No glowing seal. Only the faint pulse beneath the earth, like a heart buried alive.
He placed a hand on the stone.
Cold. Older than memory.
And then—pain.
It wasn't a flash. It wasn't a scream. It was the slow, deliberate intrusion of something wrong. Like teeth slipping into flesh—not biting, but burrowing.
The stone came alive.
Thorns erupted from the base, slithering around Lucius's legs like vines. They pierced skin. Drew blood. Drank deeply.
He didn't move.
Didn't struggle.
This was the price.
The Blood of Nysa did not demand tribute. It demanded surrender.
From deep beneath the altar, red light bloomed.
Not bright.
Not holy.
It pulsed like a dying star—sick, wrong, and impossibly alive.
Lucius fell to one knee.
The thorns crawled higher. His veins blackened where they touched him. His heart—his real, living heart—shuddered beneath the strain.
He gritted his teeth.
But didn't scream.
The pain wasn't just physical. It tore through his thoughts, his memories, his pride. Every illusion of strength was peeled away, leaving only one question buried beneath the agony:
"Why do you want this power?"
No voice asked it aloud.
It was just there.
Pressed into the folds of his mind like a brand.
Lucius's lips parted.
His body trembled. His arms were shaking now. Blood dripped from his jaw to the dirt.
He closed his eyes.
He saw the beastkin child sleeping in his room back home.
He saw his father, proud and oblivious.
And
His brother
He saw Rowan—naive, dangerous, bright.
He saw Seth, quietly placing a warm bowl of stew on a wooden table during winter.
And then, he saw himself—alone.
Always alone.
A monster in a gilded cage, born again just to survive.
"…Because I'll never let anyone else decide what I protect," Lucius whispered.
The altar cracked.
The thorns pierced his chest.
They dug into his heart.
And then everything—
Stopped.
When he opened his eyes again, the sky had turned black.
He lay on the ground, shirt torn, body soaked in blood and sweat. The pain was still there—but changed. Quieter. Hungrier.
Something had taken root inside him.
The Blood of Nysa was not a spell. It was a curse. A parasite. A contract without terms.
It would not protect him.
It would only give him power in exchange for pain.
Lucius sat up slowly.
His heartbeat was uneven—two rhythms, not one. His veins still burned. But he was alive.
Barely.
A shadow moved beside him.
Seth—expressionless, silent—knelt and handed him a water flask.
Lucius didn't speak.
He drank. And then stood.
The altar had withered into dust.
The Land of Death no longer pulsed.
But he did.
That night, back in the outer camp they had raised, Lucius sat by the fire in silence. His shirt had been replaced. His wounds were bandaged. But the marks remained—etched across his chest like claws.
He leaned back, eyes half-lidded, watching embers drift into the night.
Seth sat nearby, sharpening a dagger in practiced motions.
"Report," Lucius said at last.
Seth paused. "Wildlife minimal. No humans within ten kilometers. The southern slope is unstable, but passable."
Lucius nodded faintly.
"…Food for tomorrow?"
"I'll hunt," the boy said quietly.
Lucius didn't reply.
He didn't need to.
Their campfire crackled. The Blood of Nysa stirred quietly in his chest—no light, no power display, only pain.
It was perfect.
A reminder.
This world wasn't changed by kindness or declarations.
It was bent by those who could endure more than it offered.
Lucius closed his eyes.
Six months.
He'd earned Shield.
He'd earned Wind.
And now, Blood.
Only one remained.
And he would be ready.