Three days after his first spar with Relin, Thalos found himself kneeling in the center of a narrow meditation chamber, deep beneath the Valen household. The air was heavy with incense made from dried bloodsedge and marrowroot—scents that tickled the back of his throat and made his pulse beat louder in his ears.
Across from him sat Mira Valen, her crimson robes immaculate, her silver-streaked braid resting neatly across her shoulder. A quiet intensity lingered in her eyes—this was not the mother who made stew or patched tunics.
This was the Spellrunner.
"Close your eyes," she said, voice low but resonant. "And listen to your pulse. Your heartbeat isn't just life—it's your tether to power. That is where we begin."
Thalos obeyed.
The first thing he noticed was how hard it was to stay still. His body still ached from combat drills with Dregan. His legs wanted to twitch. His mind wandered to swords, to upcoming evaluations, to how sore his calves were—
"Stop thinking," Mira said sharply, as if reading his thoughts. "Let it flow. Let the breath and the blood align."
He inhaled slowly, exhaled.
Again.
And again.
Until something shifted.
It was subtle—like a second rhythm joining the first. Not just the pulse of his heart, but a thinner, deeper vibration beneath it. A current, flowing through his veins with weightless heat.
"There," Mira said quietly. "That is the echo of your bloodline. Vampires do not draw mana like scholars or priests. Ours fuses with the blood. The more refined your blood, the more powerful your spells. But you cannot wield what you do not contain."
She reached over and tapped the center of his chest.
"Here. Your Blood Core must form here. It will take time."
Thalos opened his eyes. "How long?"
"A month, if you're focused," she said. "Years to master it. And that's if your affinity cooperates."
He nodded slowly. "So… I won't be casting blood fireballs anytime soon."
Mira snorted. "You won't be lighting a blood candle anytime soon."
They spent the next two hours in foundational exercises.
Breathing sequences.
Mental visualization.
Channeling raw mana into his bloodstream—a task that felt, at first, like trying to pour fog into a vial.
And then came the real challenge: beginning the slow ignition of his Blood Core.
It didn't hurt, exactly. But it left him lightheaded, drained. Mira handed him a slice of raw bloodfruit after every attempt. The sweetness tasted stronger than usual, almost too strong.
"Core formation takes energy," she explained. "And blood. Until the core stabilizes, the energy must come from your own body."
"So... I'm burning calories to make my heart magic?"
"In crude terms? Yes."
The next few days fell into a brutal rhythm.
Combat with Dregan in the morning. Meditation and blood channeling with Mira in the evening.
He was always tired.
His appetite doubled.
His vision sometimes swam by nightfall. But slowly—very slowly—he began to feel it.
A flicker.
A warmth behind his sternum that didn't fade after each session. A pressure, gentle but growing.
The first signs of his Blood Core.
By the end of the week, he could keep the Blood Empowerment active for five full minutes.
His body didn't feel stronger, not in any dramatic way, but it was like wearing a slightly tighter skin—a sensation of internal pressure and clarity. His reflexes sharpened just enough to notice. He moved more deliberately. His grip steadied. His step became lighter.
But there was a cost.
When the empowerment ended, his energy crashed.
A low, gnawing hunger set in.
And his health dropped—not drastically, but enough to leave him dizzy if he pushed it.
Mira watched closely during those moments, always ready with bloodfruit or marrow broth.
"You understand the balance now," she told him one evening, as he sat against the wall, breathing hard. "Power in this form isn't free. It comes with responsibility. The body you inhabit must be respected, fed, protected."
Thalos nodded. "And the stronger the core... the stronger the empowerment?"
"Yes. But more strain too. As your blood refines, your capacity expands. It's like upgrading a furnace. You burn brighter—but you need more fuel."
One evening, during cooldown, he asked her, "Did you go through this? When you started?"
Mira smiled faintly. "I still go through it. Just at a different level."
She handed him a flask of chilled bloodwine.
"I know you're trying to be strong," she added. "But don't skip rest. You're not chasing someone else's path. You're building your own."
Thalos drank slowly, letting the warmth settle in his stomach.
His blood core was still forming.
His magic still flickered like a flame in the wind.
But it was there.
A beginning.
One drop at a time.
The clang of practice blades echoed through the courtyard once again. Sweat slicked Thalos's brow, and the breath in his lungs burned. But today, he didn't stop.
Today, he was testing.
Dregan swung low—a feint. Thalos twisted to avoid the real strike from the side, barely parrying in time. The impact rattled his arms, but he held steady.
His father didn't slow down.
A fast thrust came next. Thalos gritted his teeth—and activated it.
His blood pulsed.
The warmth that had lived inside his chest for a week flared outward in an instant. His skin prickled, his muscles tightened with refined tension.
Blood Empowerment: Active.
He moved—not faster, but cleaner. His body flowed instead of fought. He slipped under Dregan's guard and tapped the older vampire's thigh with the flat of his blade.
A hit.
Barely.
Then the warmth faded.
The core sputtered. His stomach twisted.
He stumbled back, panting, chest heaving. Just five seconds—maybe six—and already he was reeling.
Dregan didn't pursue. Instead, he lowered his sword and gave a single, approving nod.
"You're learning to time it. Good."
Thalos dropped to one knee, reaching for the flask Mira had left earlier. "It's still… hard. It burns too much too fast."
Dregan crouched beside him, tapping a finger to Thalos's chest. "That's the weakness of the common path. The Blood Core you're forming is stable—but crude. You're learning discipline, which is good. But if you want efficiency? You'll need more than time and effort."
Thalos frowned. "What do you mean?"
Dregan stood, brushing dust from his tunic. "There are arts, Thalos. Cultivation techniques designed to shape how your blood fuses with mana. Patterns passed down, guarded, sometimes lost to time. Some strengthen the body. Others sharpen the mind. Some refine the blood faster. Others give strange abilities—healing, resistance, even illusions."
He turned and walked toward the weapons rack. "We have one. It's a basic method—nothing special. Good for endurance. Enough to build a foundation."
Thalos stood slowly. "But there are better ones out there?"
Dregan looked over his shoulder. "Always."
That evening, Mira confirmed it.
"There are cultivation manuals tied to bloodline legacies, to ancient guilds, to ruins that predate even our city's founding. Some are bought with coin. Others traded for merit. A few? Found only in places no sane vampire would explore."
She set a leather-bound booklet on the table. It was simple, worn, with fading red ink across its cover.
Sanguine Baseflow
A beginner's path for Blood Core Formation.
"Study it," she said. "This is the common path. Use it to grow. But never forget—those who climb higher, who reach true power, fight for it. They risk their lives for better methods. Better blood. Better fate."
Thalos stared at the booklet, weighing its simplicity against what it represented.
So there were layers to this world—not just physical, but hierarchical. Strength wasn't just talent or effort. It was opportunity. Access. Discovery.
If he wanted to rise, he'd need more than training.
He'd need to earn the right to refine faster, fight harder, and matter.
The next few days became an exercise in balance.
Thalos began integrating Sanguine Baseflow into his nightly cultivation. It wasn't flashy—just steady breathing techniques and internal visualization. But slowly, it made a difference.
His Blood Empowerment became less jagged. It activated more smoothly, and while it still drained him, it lingered longer—by seconds, but still measurable.
He also began practicing combat with his empowerment used in bursts.
Just enough to deflect a blow.
Just enough to land a critical hit.
Then deactivate—conserve, recover.
He wasn't strong. But now, for a few seconds at a time, he could match someone stronger.
That changed everything.
One sparring session with Relin ended with both of them panting and grinning.
"You're cheating," Relin said, rubbing his ribs.
Thalos shrugged. "I'm strategizing."
"Same thing."
But the grin on his brother's face wasn't mocking anymore—it was respect.
Even Keral, usually silent and disinterested, offered a quiet, "You're getting sharper."
Mira watched from the doorway, arms folded, eyes proud but cautious.
"Don't rush. Foundation first."
He nodded, wiping sweat from his face. "I know."
But his mind burned with possibility.
What if he found a better cultivation art?
What if he found a ruin, earned merit, bartered for knowledge lost to time?
What if he could change his path—not just follow it?
That night, he wrote in a small leather journal he'd started keeping since the day he awakened in this world.
"This life is real. Every bruise, every breath, every beat of my heart.I'm not special. I wasn't chosen. But I'm here.And that means I can climb.Even if I have to build the ladder myself."