I opened my aspect legacy's runes — mentally dancing at the thought that I actually managed to get one.
An Aspect Legacy.
That alone was insane.
Entire clans — empires — were built around them.
A single echo or memory, passed down through generations, shaping bloodlines, families, and legends.
Hell, I could probably get any woman I wanted if the legacy was strong enough. Legacy clans married for power, not love — and someone like me with a new one?
Yeah, I'd be considered prime breeding material.
...Who would even fit as a good mother though?
Effie was strong — her kids would definitely survive.
Aiko? Smart, cunning — maybe even dangerous in her own way.
And Seishan...
I paused, shivering.
Actually, no. She scared the hell out of me.
"Forget it," I muttered aloud. "Not thinking about that right now. Not when her memory still lingers…"
That was enough of that train of thought.
I focused on the runes again, pushing everything else away.
They glowed in my mind's eye — ancient, beautiful, alive.
Seal 1
Seal 2
Seal 3
Seal 4
Seal 5
Seal 6
Seal 7
My jaw nearly hit the floor.
"...Holy hell."
I blinked once. Twice.
"I have seven aspect legacies?!"
My voice cracked a little at the end. I didn't even care.
"Seven! You hear me? Seven!"
I almost started laughing like a madman. Most dreamers never unlocked even one. Some spent their entire lives trying. But I? I had seven.
I was already thinking of names for my imaginary clan, the family crest, maybe even… kids.
Yeah, I probably shouldn't put all my eggs in one basket. Legacy clans always spread out their inheritance, right? Maybe a few wives, a harem or two... completely normal in legacy culture.
Effie? Definitely strong blood.
Aiko? Sharp, resourceful.
And Seishan— okay no, still terrifying.
"Not the point," I said out loud, snapping myself out of it.
Focus, Alucard.
I had to see what the first seal held.
[Reincarnated Blood]
[Seal 1: Rebirth of Technique]
Description:
"If blood stalls or stays stagnant, it clots and kills the owner of the blood.
If a soul does not reincarnate, it begins to corrupt.
In life and in battle, one must always change — never remain stagnant."
"Cool quote," I muttered, half impressed, half impatient. "Alright, let's see what this baby can do."
A prompt flickered in my vision.
[Would you like to receive your reward?]
I grinned. "YES. GIVE IT TO MEEEEE."
Unfortunately, what I received wasn't power.
It was pain.
My skull twisted violently, as if something inside was being pried open with a burning fork. I screamed, clutching my head as agony seared through every nerve. It was like my brain was melting — torn out, ripped apart, and replaced by molten iron.
I collapsed, vision blurring, as wave after wave of unbearable heat consumed me.
Minutes passed. Maybe hours.
And then — silence.
When I opened my eyes, I wasn't the same.
The world looked different.
I could see veins — not just mine, but everyone's. The thin rivers of blood that pulsed beneath their skin. The flow of life itself.
Everywhere I looked, I saw movement. Pressure. Vitality.
And then came the knowledge.
Not thoughts, not memories — instinct.
A memory of combat training I'd never lived through. Muscle memory that wasn't mine. Techniques that belonged to someone else.
Fragments. Incomplete, chaotic, but powerful.
I focused. The air around me stirred.
A spear took form.
Its shaft was dark and slick, pulsing faintly with the rhythm of a heartbeat. I gripped it instinctively, feet sliding apart into a stance I shouldn't have known. My knees bent, spine straightened. My breath slowed.
Then I moved.
At first, it was clumsy — a single swing, too wide, too heavy. The spear's tip hissed through the air, scattering droplets of blood that shimmered before splattering onto the ground.
But something clicked in my mind.
A whisper not my own — faint memories of a thousand battles, echoes of a hundred fallen masters who had once walked the path of blood. Their movements replayed within me, guiding my limbs.
I pivoted.
The spear whirled around my body like a serpent. I spun with it, my legs gliding across the ground, the weapon flowing from one grip to another. My feet twisted, one heel rising, the other sliding back. The motion was seamless — predatory.
The spear shortened, coiling inward, metal melting into liquid again before solidifying into a blade.
A sword now lay in my hands.
I exhaled and swung. The cut was sharp — clean — leaving a faint hiss in the air like a breath of flame. I followed with a backstep, then a thrust, then a horizontal slash that flowed directly into an uppercut. My body moved on its own — fluid, precise, almost mechanical in rhythm but alive in intention.
Every time I faltered, pain lanced through me. Not physical — spiritual. My aspect screamed at me for stalling, for breaking the flow.
"Never remain stagnant," the echo whispered in my head.
So I flowed.
The sword dissolved, blood spinning outward before collapsing into the form of a crossbow. I pulled the string, and from the condensed blood in my veins, arrows formed — gleaming like rubies.
I fired. One. Two. Three.
The bolts embedded into the wall, vibrating faintly before bursting into mist. I rolled my wrist, and the crossbow melted, blood dripping from my hand before rising again, now hardening into a battle axe.
I roared — more from instinct than thought — and swung.
The impact rattled the room, sending droplets of blood spraying in every direction. My body rotated, momentum carrying me into a heavy slam from above. I transitioned mid-movement, the axe dissolving into the shape of a shield. I crouched, deflecting a blow that wasn't there — the ghost of an enemy long dead — before thrusting forward again with a spear reborn in my grip.
Spear. Sword. Crossbow. Axe. Shield.
Each form melted into the next, like waves colliding against the shore.
Every motion bled into another. Every strike birthed the next.
My breathing quickened, yet my focus sharpened. I wasn't fighting anyone, but the room around me felt like a battlefield. My shadow twisted along the walls, mimicking every motion — a dark specter drenched in crimson.
My body began to tremble — exhaustion, yes, but also exhilaration.
This wasn't just fighting.
It was remembering.
I wasn't the first to dance this dance. I was just the next.
By the time I stopped, the floor was painted red. My blood — all of it reclaimed and reshaped countless times — dripped slowly from my weapon before evaporating into mist.
My lungs burned. My muscles screamed. But my heart… my heart was alive.
By the time I stopped, I was drenched in sweat — and blood. My blood.
I blinked and realized something that made my heart skip.
I wasn't using the bucket anymore.
The crimson liquid swirling in my hands was mine.
And somehow, instinctively, I knew how to absorb it back.
It seeped into my skin, rejoining my veins, the warmth of it grounding me.
Only a few minutes of training, and I felt like I'd fought for hours. Yet, beneath the exhaustion, there was something else — exhilaration.
Every movement, every transformation of weapon and form, had felt alive.
It was draining, but it awakened something in me.
By the time I fell back onto the bed, I could barely breathe. My vision pulsed faintly — veins of red tracing across everything I looked at. I could see every drop of blood inside the walls, in the bugs, in the faint outline of Effie's shadow moving outside the door.
It was too much.
With effort, I closed my eyes, focused, and turned it off.
The silence that followed was almost divine.
"That's enough for today…" I muttered, voice hoarse but satisfied.