The smell of rotting alchemy reagents was distinct—sulfur, spoiled newt eyes, and something uncomfortably close to sour milk.
Kiril lay in the refuse, staring up at the jagged hole in the dormitory window three stories above. The glass shards that had fallen with him glittered in the moonlight like mocking confetti.
He tried to inhale, and his chest seized. A wet, rattling cough tore through his throat, bringing up bile.
[System Alert: Mana Overdraft.]
[Cost of 'Featherfall (Corrupted)': 20 Mana.]
[Available Mana: 10.]
[Deficit covered by Vitality conversion.]
[Current Vitality: 3/5 (Critical).]
"Fantastic," Kiril wheezed, rolling onto his side. A banana peel slid off his shoulder with a wet slap. "I'm not even an hour into this new life, and I'm already trading my life force for gravity cheats."
He forced himself to sit up. His vision swam, gray spots dancing in the periphery. The cold was biting, seeping through his thin, filth-stained uniform, but the heat radiating from his chest was worse.
The Ashen Key.
It wasn't just warm; it was burning, pulsing against his sternum with a frantic, hungry rhythm. It felt less like a piece of metal and more like a heart that had been ripped out of a chest and forged into iron.
Thump. Thump. Thump.
It pulled him downward. Not physically, but conceptually. It was a magnetic drag on his soul, insisting that safety lay not in running away, but in running deep.
Kiril glanced back up at the window. The silhouette was gone, but the threat remained. The "Shadow Council." A generic name for a group of assassins, but in a world where magic could liquidate your organs from a mile away, generic didn't mean harmless.
"They dissolved the lock," Kiril muttered, analyzing the tactical situation as he crawled out of the trash heap. "Acid magic. Quiet. Efficient. They didn't want a scene. If I go back to the main hall, they might hesitate to kill me in front of witnesses... or they might just arrange a 'tragic accident' on the stairs."
Going back up was suicide. Staying here was exposure.
The only way was forward. Or rather, down.
He grabbed a discarded wooden slat—part of a broken crate—to use as a cane. He needed to move. The System had given him a 72-hour timer for the Quest, but the assassins had shortened that timeline to "right now."
Kiril limped into the shadows of the alleyway behind the dorms. The Academy grounds were vast, a labyrinth of gothic spires, training grounds, and manicured gardens, all built atop the bones of a conquered civilization.
The Valdroska Empire loves its symbolism, Kiril thought, keeping low against the damp stone wall. They build their schools of enlightenment directly on top of the cultures they buried.
The key pulsed again, sharper this time. A directive.
He followed the pull. It led him away from the student quarters, toward the older, more industrial section of the campus—the Foundations. Here, the architecture shifted from elegant gothic to brutalist, heavy stone blocks meant to hold up the weight of the massive magical structures above.
The air grew colder. The immaculate paving stones gave way to cracked earth and overgrown weeds.
[Passive Skill: Void Respiration active.]
[Mana Recovery: 0.1/min.]
"Too slow," Kiril whispered. He could feel the ambient mana in the air—the waste heat from the massive heating enchantments of the main castle. It was thin here, wispy and stale.
He turned a corner and froze.
Thirty meters ahead, blocking the path to the Foundation structures, was a light.
It wasn't a torch. It was a hovering sphere of white luminescence, bobbing gently in the air at eye level. Beneath it stood a suit of armor—dull, unpolished steel, standing perfectly still.
A Sentinel Construct.
Low-grade security, Kiril analyzed instantly. Runic command structure. Detects movement and thermal signatures. If it spots a student out after curfew, it triggers an alarm. If it spots an intruder... it initiates containment protocols.
He had 3 Vitality. "Containment" would shatter his spine.
He pressed himself into a recessed doorway, holding his breath. The Construct turned its head, the metal grinding softly. The ball of light swept across the alleyway like a searchlight.
Kiril checked his options.
Fight? Impossible.
Run? He couldn't outrun a machine.
Hide? The light was sweeping closer.
He looked at his hand. The faint gray residue of entropy still clung to his fingertips.
The System said 'Void Respiration' inhales the shadow between the light, he thought. What if I inhale the light itself?
It was a gamble. A stupid gamble. But he was cornered.
As the beam of light swept toward his hiding spot, Kiril didn't shrink back. He stepped forward, just an inch, into the penumbra.
He closed his eyes and pulled.
He didn't try to absorb the metal construct. He focused entirely on the mana fueling the light sphere. He visualized it not as illumination, but as fuel.
Come here.
[Ashen Conduit Triggered.]
[Target: Class 1 Illumination Matrix.]
[Deconstruct?]
Yes.
A sensation like drinking ice water through a straw hit him.
The sphere of light flickered. For a second, the white beam turned a sickly, bruised purple. Then, it simply... failed.
The light didn't go out; it was eaten. The mana fueling the spell was ripped from the matrix and funneled into Kiril's chest.
[Mana Absorbed: +8.]
[Vitality Stabilized: 3.5/5.]
The alley plunged into darkness.
The Construct halted, its gears seizing. Without its primary sensor input, its logic gates stalled. It stood there, a blind metal statue in the dark.
Kiril didn't wait to see if it had a backup generator. He slipped past the frozen machine, his boots silent on the mossy stones, his heart hammering a frantic rhythm against his ribs.
I just ate a security system, he realized, a manic grin touching his lips. I am a walking power outage.
The exhilaration was dangerous. He stamped it down. The key was pulling harder now, burning like a brand.
Near. Near. Near.
He found himself in a sunken courtyard, a place that looked like it hadn't seen a groundskeeper in a century. In the center, half-buried in ivy and snow, was a small, unassuming mausoleum. It was squat, ugly, and built of black ironstone—the same material as the Ashenblood estate back home.
There was no door. Only a heavy iron grate set into the ground, rusted shut.
The Ashenblood crest—a dragon coiled around a broken sword—was etched into the metal, but someone had tried to chisel it away. Deep gouges marred the symbol.
The Empire tried to erase us, Kiril thought, kneeling by the grate. But you can't erase the foundation without toppling the tower.
He pulled the Ashen Key from his shirt.
There was no keyhole.
Kiril hesitated. Had the System lied?
[Hint: The Ashenblood do not open doors with mechanics. They open them with tribute.]
Tribute.
He looked at the key. It was iron. Cold. Sharp edges.
He looked at the grate. In the center of the defaced crest, there was a small, bowl-like depression.
"Of course," Kiril muttered. "Blood magic. Why does it always have to be blood? Can't it ever be a password like 'mellon'?"
He took the key and pressed the sharp edge against his thumb. He didn't flinch as he sliced the skin.
Blood welled up—dark, rich crimson. He let it drip into the depression on the grate.
One drop. Two. Three.
The blood didn't pool. The stone drank it.
A deep, subterranean groan vibrated through the soles of his boots. It sounded like a massive beast waking up from a long hibernation. The rust on the grate hissed and flaked away, revealing gleams of silver runework underneath.
[DNA Verification: Confirmed.]
[Lineage: Ashenblood.]
[Status: The Last Heir.]
[Access: Granted.]
The grate didn't swing open. It dissolved.
The metal bars liquefied, retracting into the stone frame like melting wax, leaving a gaping, square hole leading into absolute darkness.
A smell wafted up—not the rot of the garbage heap, but the dry, sterile scent of ozone and ancient dust.
[Quest Update: The Forbidden Legacy]
[Objective: Locate the Vault Entrance - COMPLETE.]
[New Objective: Reach the Central Phylactery.]
[Depth: Level 1 of 5.]
Kiril peered into the hole. There was a ladder—or rather, metal rungs driven directly into the rock—descending into the gloom.
"System," Kiril whispered. "Does this place have lights?"
[Answer: The Ashenblood require no light to see the truth. Use your eyes, Host.]
Kiril blinked. He focused.
It was subtle, but he saw it. Down in the dark, the faint, residual mana of the earth itself formed a wireframe map. He could see the outlines of the tunnel walls, glowing in faint, ghostly grayscale. It was Void Sight—a side effect of his mana perception.
He swung his legs over the edge.
"If I die down here," he told the empty courtyard, "I'm going to haunt Viktor Strykov so hard his grandchildren will have nightmares."
He began to climb down.
As soon as his head cleared the level of the ground, the liquid metal above him hissed. It flowed back out, reforming into solid, rusted bars in seconds.
Clang.
Sealed in.
"Okay," Kiril breathed, clinging to the cold rungs in the pitch blackness. "No turning back."
He descended.
The shaft was deep—perhaps fifty feet. When his boots finally touched stone, the echo was sharp and lonely.
He was in a corridor. The architecture here was older than the Academy above. This wasn't Imperial Gothic; this was Ancient Kingdom brutalism. Massive blocks of seamless stone, arched ceilings, and statues...
Kiril froze.
Lining the walls were statues. Dozens of them. They depicted mages in hooded robes, their hands raised in various gestures of casting. But they weren't carved.
They looked... calcified.
Kiril stepped closer to the nearest one. The detail was horrifying. He could see the pores on the stone face, the terror etched into the expression.
[System Analysis: Petrification Residue.]
[Subject: Unknown intruder.]
[Estimated Time of Death: 40 years ago.]
"Intruders," Kiril whispered. "These aren't statues. They're burglars."
He backed away, toward the center of the corridor.
Something skittered in the darkness ahead.
It sounded like claws on stone. Click-clack. Click-clack.
Kiril raised his hand, instinctively trying to summon a spell, before remembering he didn't know any. All he had was Ashen Conduit—a touch-range ability.
I need a weapon, he thought desperately.
He looked around. The "statue" next to him was holding a stone dagger.
"Sorry," Kiril muttered, and snapped the petrified fingers of the corpse. The stone digits crumbled, and the heavy stone dagger fell into his hand. It was crude, but it was heavy and sharp.
Click-clack.
The sound was closer.
From the shadows ahead, two pinpricks of red light appeared. Then two more. Then four.
A creature stepped into the ghostly gray of Kiril's Void Sight.
It was the size of a wolf, but it had no fur. Its skin was translucent, showing shifting muscles and organs underneath. Its head was a skull—literally, a canine skull exposed to the air—and its tail was a long, segmented whip of bone.
[Enemy Identified: Crypt Stalker (Variant).]
[Rank: E-Class Beast.]
[Threat: Moderate.]
[Weakness: Mana Core located in the throat.]
"E-Class," Kiril recited, his brain going into overdrive. Equivalent to a Tier 1 Mage. Faster than a human. Stronger than me. But it relies on a mana core to animate that dead tissue.
The beast snarled, a sound like grinding gravel. It crouched, muscles bunching for a pounce.
Kiril didn't have the stats to dodge. His Agility was 6—barely above a malnourished peasant. If he tried to sidestep, that bone whip would take his head off.
I can't out-fight it, Kiril realized, his grip tightening on the stone dagger. I have to out-think it.
The beast lunged.
Kiril didn't move away. He dropped to his knees.
The Stalker sailed over him, jaws snapping at where his throat had been a second ago.
As the beast passed overhead, Kiril thrust the stone dagger upward—not to stab, but to hook. He caught the creature's underbelly, using its own momentum to tear a shallow gash in its translucent skin.
The beast landed, skidded, and spun around, hissing in fury. It wasn't bleeding blood; it was bleeding a glowing blue fluid. Liquid Mana.
[Mana Leak Detected.]
Kiril scrambled to his feet, panting. "Come on, you ugly mutt."
The Stalker charged again, this time low to the ground, jaws wide.
Kiril held his ground. He waited.
Closer.
The smell of rotten meat hit him.
Closer.
Ten feet. Five feet.
Kiril dropped the dagger.
He threw both hands forward, palms open, directly into the gaping maw of the beast.
It was suicide. It was madness.
His hands clamped around the creature's lower jaw and snout, forcing them shut for a split second. The beast's momentum slammed into him, knocking him onto his back, claws tearing at his uniform, shredding the fabric and scratching the skin beneath.
But Kiril didn't let go. He pressed his palms against the bone skull.
"EAT," he screamed mentally.
[Ashen Conduit: Max Output.]
[Target: Crypt Stalker Core.]
[Drain initiated.]
The blue light in the beast's eyes flared, then panicked.
The creature thrashed, screaming—a sound that was less animal and more like a tearing sheet of metal. It tried to bite, but its strength was failing. The blue fluid leaking from its belly vaporized, drawn into the vortex of Kiril's hands.
Kiril felt a rush of power so intense it felt like he was being electrocuted. His veins bulged, turning black.
[Mana Absorbed: +25.]
[Mana Absorbed: +30.]
[System Warning: Vessel Capacity at 90%.]
The Stalker convulsed one last time and collapsed on top of him. Its translucent skin turned gray and flaked away like ash. The bones rattled and fell apart.
Kiril lay there, buried under a pile of dry bones, gasping for air. His chest felt like it was on fire, but his strength... his strength was surging.
He shoved the skull off his chest and sat up.
[Combat Encounter: Won.]
[Reward: 50 EXP.]
[Level Up!]
[Kiril Drakenhof-Ashenwald is now Level 1.]
[Free Attribute Points: 2.]
Kiril stared at his hands. They weren't pale anymore. Veins of dark, shifting gray energy pulsed beneath the skin.
He had killed a monster with his bare hands. Well, with his bare curse.
"Level 1," he whispered, a dry, terrifying laugh escaping his throat. "I'm Level 1, and I'm locked in a basement with God knows what else."
He stood up, kicking the Stalker's skull aside. He felt stronger. The exhaustion from the fall was gone, replaced by the buzzing energy of the stolen mana.
He looked down the corridor. The darkness seemed to stretch on forever, deeper into the earth.
But then, the System chimed again. A new window, blood-red this time.
[Alert: The Crypt Stalker is a pack hunter.]
[Audio Analysis: Multiple hostiles approaching.]
From the darkness ahead, a chorus of clicks and gravelly snarls echoed.
Not one. Ten.
Kiril's newfound confidence evaporated. He looked at his stats.
Mana: 65/100.
Points: 2.
"Put both points in Agility," he commanded, spinning around to run.
[Agility increased: 6 -> 8.]
He sprinted down the hall—not back toward the sealed entrance, but deeper. Past the statues. Past the warning signs.
He had to find a door. A choke point. Anything.
The sound of clicking claws grew louder behind him like a wave of skeletal locusts.
Ahead, the corridor ended in a massive set of double doors made of obsidian. They were carved with faces—faces screaming in agony.
Kiril slammed into the doors, pushing with all his might.
Locked.
The pack was turning the corner. He could see the sea of red eyes.
"Open!" Kiril shouted, slamming his hand against the stone. "I have the key! I have the blood! Open!"
The doors didn't budge.
[System Hint: These doors do not respond to blood.]
[They respond to intent.]
[The Ashenblood are not defenders. They are executioners.]
Intent?
Kiril turned his back to the door, facing the oncoming horde of monsters. There were too many to drain. Too many to fight.
He raised his hand, channeling the 65 points of stolen mana roiling in his gut. It was messy, chaotic energy. He didn't know a spell. He didn't know a weave.
Executioners.
"I want them gone," Kiril snarled, pushing the energy out, not as a beam, but as a wave. "Just... cease."
He released the mana. He didn't shape it into fire or ice. He shaped it into decay.
A wave of gray distortion rippled out from his hand.
It hit the lead Stalkers.
They didn't explode. They simply fell apart. Their connective tissue dissolved instantly. Bones clattered to the floor mid-stride.
The wave washed over the first rank, turning five deadly beasts into piles of calcium in a heartbeat.
The rest of the pack skidded to a halt, whined, and scrambled back into the shadows.
Silence returned to the corridor.
Kiril stood trembling, his mana bar flashing [0/100].
Behind him, the massive obsidian doors groaned.
Click.
They slowly swung open inward.
A cold, regal voice drifted out from the darkness beyond.
"Sloppy technique," the voice echoed, sounding amused and terribly ancient. "But excellent cruelty. You may enter.