Michael opened his eyes.
The breath he took wasn't just his—it was theirs.
The silence that surrounded him now wasn't lifeless. It pulsed, slow and deliberate, like a second heartbeat beating inside his own.
"You named me," the voice said—not mechanical, not hollow, but whole. Alive."And in that moment… we became more."
Michael sat still, absorbing the presence speaking within him. It wasn't foreign. It wasn't an invader. It was familiar. Ancient. Intimate.
"You are not a host. I am not a parasite.""We are not master and servant. We are one body, two wills. One truth.""We are Michael Crimson."
He whispered the name again, letting it settle in his chest. Not a title. Not a function.
An identity.
"So… what now?"
"Now," Crimson said, "we begin."
A flicker of crimson light flashed before his eyes. The status window appeared—new, pulsing softly like a heartbeat, alive in ways the old one never was.
╔════════════════ STATUS WINDOW ═════════════════╗
Name: MichaelRace: VampireBloodline: Diminished (Potential: Unknown)Age: 18Level: N/A (Blood-Based Growth Detected)Core System: CRIMSON╔═ Attributes (Point-Based System) ═╗• Vitality: 6• Strength: 4• Dexterity: 7• Intelligence: 10• Blood Essence: 2╔═ Resistances ═╗• Mental Resistance: MAX• Pain Resistance: MAX• Soul Resistance: MAX• Drug Resistance: MAX╔═ Traits ═╗• Unknown╔═ Skills ═╗• Crimson Dominion• Blood Echo• Crimson Sense╔═ Locked Skills ═╗• The Pact of Crimson (Locked) (Unknown)• Crimson Vault (Locked) (Unknown)╚════════════════════════════════════════════╝
Michael stared, unmoving.
The maxed-out resistances made sense. A decade in a hospital, five years on life support—he had suffered beyond limits most couldn't fathom. Pain, isolation, slow decay. That had shaped him.
"You endured," Crimson said. "That pain… was evolution."
His eyes scanned the skill list. Three unlocked. Two sealed.
"Crimson Dominion. Blood Echo. Crimson Sense," he said aloud. "And what are these locked ones?"
"The Pact of Crimson will awaken when the time is right—when the blood you offer is taken willingly, and returned in kind.""Crimson Vault… it will become your treasury, your graveyard, your archive. Not just for storage, but for erosion. Analysis. Understanding. Even inheritance."
Michael exhaled slowly.
"Everything I take in…"
"Can become yours."
He stood. His body still felt foreign, but it responded to his will like it belonged to him now. He moved toward the puddle of dried blood—the only physical trace of the boy who had come before him.
The blood that had summoned him here.
The blood that was once his… and now belonged to both of them.
He knelt beside the crimson stain. The scent of rust and earth clung to it, dark and sharp.
"Crimson Sense," he said, and immediately felt it activate.
Not like a spell. More like a shift in awareness. A tuning fork in his veins vibrating to the presence of blood.
The dried puddle pulsed faintly in his mind's eye. It whispered—soft and sad.
Emotions clung to it like ghosts. Desperation. Shame. A final flicker of will that refused to be forgotten.
"Crimson Sense will grow with us," Crimson said. "Soon, you'll see even through lies. You'll know bloodlines by their beat. For now… it sees what lingers."
Michael lowered his hand.
And reached inward.
Crimson Dominion
His blood called out, and the residue on the stone responded.
Threads of it lifted from the surface, forming into fine red tendrils. They danced in the air, wrapping around his fingers like silk threads recognizing their master.
He clenched his fist.
The tendrils solidified—sharp, like needles. A breath later, they cracked and fell back into dust.
Not perfect. But his.
"You don't wield spells," Crimson said. "You wield what all others are made of."
Michael stood, breath quickened.
"Let's go deeper," he whispered. "Blood Echo. Show me."
He dipped his fingers into the dried blood.
The moment contact was made—his world changed.
Blood Echo
It started with whispers.
"That's the sick one... the cursed."
The boy was never truly part of them. Not the clan. Not the courts. Not the kin. Even as a child, he was ostracized—watched like he carried a plague.
Their words weren't cruel at first. Just cold.
But cold turns cruel when left unchecked.
He remembered walking into a hall of nobles, desperate to train, to serve, to belong—only to be met with silence and turned backs.
He remembered being barred from feeding grounds, mocked in the academy, cast from every circle with sneers and sideways glances.
"You don't even deserve the blood."
He remembered one noble laughing—"Maybe your sickness will cull itself from our kind."
And above them all, the looming authority of the Vampire Monarch—distant, untouched, and merciless. The laws trickled down from the throne like poison. And the poison taught the others how to hate.
Then came the night.
The hands. Gripping.
Familiar faces twisted with amusement.
"You're not one of us. You never were."
Then the fall—into darkness.
The sudden knowledge that there would be no rescue. That the laws had made it so.
And the absolute belief that he would die alone.
And then—silence.
Michael gasped as the memory snapped back.
He was on the floor, breath ragged, one hand clutching the stone beside him.
"That was the end," Crimson said quietly. "The last thing the boy felt before you became him."
Michael's eyes stung, but he didn't cry.
"He died hated. Cast away like filth."
"And yet he gave you everything. His body. His blood. His death."
Michael opened the status window again.
Blood Essence: 3Dexterity: 8[New Instinct Acquired – Reactive Evasion I]
"What is this?" he asked.
"His reflexes. His instinct to flinch. To dodge. All he ever knew was fear… and how to avoid pain. Now, that instinct is yours."
Michael slowly stood.
"He didn't deserve to die like that."
"No. But you carry him now. His story lives through your blood."
Michael nodded once.
"I won't waste it."
He turned from the bloodstain, drawn further into the chamber.
And that's when he saw them.
The bones.
Scattered and slumped against the far walls, half-hidden in shadow—skeletal remains, long since dried. Some still wore scraps of noble garb, tattered uniforms, or clan insignias. Others had been stripped bare. Broken fangs. Clawed fingers. Hollow eye sockets that once held pride or fear.
All of them… vampires.
Discarded like trash.
Michael stood frozen. The realization hit harder than the fall.
He hadn't just been thrown into a dungeon.
This place was a grave.
Not for criminals or warriors—but for the unwanted. The weak. The shamed.
He stepped closer to one of the corpses. The bones had been gnawed—by what, he didn't know. The skull was cracked. The body had never been buried.
"The boy wasn't the first," Michael whispered. "But I'll make sure he's the last."
"Then let them remember," Crimson said, "what they thought was gone… and what rose in its place."
There was no reverence in this place. No honor in death.
Just silence. And rot.
And blood—dry, forgotten, and hungry to be remembered.
Michael's jaw tightened.
"They'll remember this pit," he said. "They'll remember what they left behind."
"And what crawled back out of it."
His fingers brushed against the frayed fabric at his chest, and for the first time since waking, he truly noticed what he was wearing.
Rags.
Torn, stained, barely holding together. The clothing clung to his frame like shredded bandages—more a remnant than real attire. Cold air bit at the exposed patches of skin.
He looked around—and spotted something better.
Among the scattered bones and rotting remains was a slumped corpse, less decayed than the others. It wore a reinforced tunic of faded black, leather bracers cracked with age, and half-torn boots with metal stitching at the toe. Nearby lay a crude, weathered backpack, and inside it—half-buried beneath a flask, some frayed rope, and scraps of parchment—was a book.
Michael pulled it free.
The leather cover was etched with curling symbols, some faintly glowing, others scarred as if burned by time. He opened it.
Unfamiliar script. Dozens of pages filled with looping glyphs and diagrams.
"Can you read it?" he asked.
"No," Crimson said. "But it responds to you. Your blood stirs its pages."
Michael felt it too. A warmth, subtle but real, pulsed beneath his fingertips.
He didn't know what it was. Not yet. But it was something worth keeping.
He shrugged out of the torn rags and pulled on the scavenged gear. It didn't fit perfectly—the tunic hung loose at the sides, and the boots were too snug at the ankle—but it was leagues better than what he had.
With the book tucked safely inside the backpack, he strapped the bracers tight and tightened the belt around his waist.
He glanced at the old corpse one last time and gave a nod of silent thanks.
"Not wasting it," he murmured.
He slung the pack over his shoulder and stood tall.
He turned, looking beyond the chamber. Through Crimson Sense, he could feel faint life in the distance—creatures, pulsing with slow-moving blood.
They weren't approaching.
Not yet.
But they were there.
Waiting.
"When you are ready…" Crimson murmured, "the world will bleed."