In the shadowed heart of the LOST Realm—a forgotten expanse sealed away from the known world—a massive mansion stood like a sentinel of stone and secrets. Isolated from all realms, its ancient walls loomed high, crowned with iron spikes that glinted under a perpetual twilight sky. Massive gates, etched with glowing runes of binding, barred entry to any who might dare approach. Atop the battlements, guards in archaic armor patrolled ceaselessly, their eyes sharp as blades, scanning the barren horizon for signs of unrest.
Below, in the vast yard, hundreds of men trained with unyielding discipline. Swords clashed in rhythmic fury, sparks flying like dying stars. These guardians had forsaken all worldly pleasures for over 250 years—no women, no indulgences, only the barest sustenance of bread from their own wheat fields. Their souls were dulled by eternity's grind, yet an unnatural viciousness burned within them, marking them as something more—and less—than human.
Inside the commander's office, a heavy silence hung like fog. Shaw, the second-in-command, busied himself polishing stacks of gold coins, occasionally licking them with a fervor born of deprivation. The Commander sat behind his massive desk, lost in brooding thoughts, his gaze fixed on Shaw with a mix of disdain and envy.
("What's the point of hoarding millions in gold if we can never spend it?")
the Commander pondered bitterly.
("This vigil has dragged on far too long. The 9th Bloodline is extinct—why guard against ghosts? I've endured here for three centuries, amassed a fortune in bars, yet I'm trapped. Meanwhile, the rest of the LOST Realm savors life's joys.")
His eyes drifted to a plate of stale bread on the desk.
("Three hundred years of nothing but wheat and bread. The mere thought of it ignites my rage.")
Memories flooded him: his men secretly slaughtering steeds for meat, only to be punished harshly—not for the act, but for hoarding it from their superiors. He inhaled deeply, the echoes of their agonized cries bringing a twisted satisfaction.
But darker thoughts intruded. He glanced down at himself, despair welling up.
("And the worst... it no longer stirs. Why this cursed existence?")
Rage erupted. With a primal roar, he slammed his fist into the desk. CRASH! Splinters exploded outward, the wood shattering for the third time that day.
Shaw froze, eyeing his superior warily. *What plagues him now?*
Minutes ticked by in tense quiet. Then, suddenly, both men's eyes widened. Their hearts stuttered, hairs stood on end, bodies locked in paralysis. An infamous sensation—fleeting yet profound—gripped them, instilling raw terror.
They burst from the office at inhuman speed, scaling the walls in seconds.
The vista before them was apocalyptic. Thousands—no, millions—of humanoid figures swarmed the landscape like a living tide. Every guard on the walls stood frozen in horror.
These were the 9th Bloodline. They resembled humans but with pallid, ashen skin that seemed to absorb light rather than reflect it. Veins pulsed visibly beneath their flesh, glowing with a deep crimson light that throbbed like a heartbeat. They were taller than average men, their bodies powerfully built with muscles that rippled under taut skin. They wore only pteruges — ancient skirted armor made of leather strips — and thick chains coiled around their sinewy arms like living serpents, ready to strike at any moment. Their eyes were black voids, empty of emotion but filled with an unquenchable hunger. The air around them felt heavier, charged with an ancient malice that made the guards' skin crawl.
"The 9th Bloodline... they have awakened," a soldier whispered, staggering back.
"Damn! Soldiers, stand your—" The Commander's order dissolved into chaos as the horde charged. Their velocity blurred even the keenest eyes. Panic rippled through the ranks.
"Soldiers, hold fast! The gates will withstand them!" the Commander bellowed, though doubt gnawed at him. A mere hundred guardians against an endless swarm—it was folly.
A distinctive humanoid—taller, more feral—leapt forward, slamming into the gates with cataclysmic force. CRACK! The barriers splintered, protective runes shattering without time to reinforce. The creature emerged, shoulders bloodied, hands mangled, yet regenerating before their eyes. Even the Commander felt a chill of fear.
"Men! Stand your ground!" he roared, but the yard had become a slaughterhouse. His forces unleashed devastating Bloodline powers—flashes of energy scorching the earth—but the odds were insurmountable: hundreds of creatures per man.
The Commander summoned his ethereal purple panel, visible only to him.
"Blood Creation – Ice Shards."
Countless crimson shards materialized, freezing into lethal ice. They hurled forward with shrieks and thuds, but a pressure wave from the humanoid leader shattered them mid-flight. Half the Commander's blood essence vanished in the backlash.
His gaze locked on the leader—hands fully reformed, unyielding.
"I'll halt it! Flee and warn the realms!" Shaw shouted, leaping down to confront the beast.
Palms joined, he invoked his panel: "Blood Creation – Lightning."
Blood-infused bolts cracked the sky, darkening the heavens, annihilating the surroundings. Shaw staggered from the recoil, but the leader endured unscathed. In a blur, it twisted Shaw's head backward—his body crumpling, lifeless.
The Commander weaved through the fray, spotting a wounded officer amid piles of humanoid corpses.
"You must escape! Warn the realm—you're the swiftest!"
Before the officer could reply, a colossal explosion rocked the field. From the smoke emerged the mansion's hidden elder—their ultimate safeguard. He summoned his purple panel:
"I curse thee to awaken and destroy my foe."
Energy pulsed, freezing all but the leader. Graves split open; skeletons of ancient warriors rose, assaulting the humanoid with blows that hurled it back, nearly toppling the mansion.
The undead surged for the kill, but their bones disintegrated. The elder burned away—hair, flesh, all consumed by the ritual's toll. He had bought mere moments.
"Go now! Go!" the Commander urged.
"But my brothers—" the officer protested.
The Commander sensed the leader's approach. *Even the old commanders' strikes barely fazed it.* The din of battle faded—all his men slain.
"Go! I'll delay them!" he commanded.
The officer fled. The Commander drew his sword, whispering, "My final stand... will be legendary."
The leader bypassed him in a flash, slicing him into thirds. The sword dissolved into blood; his remnants hit the gore-soaked earth.
The officer, now distant, summoned his panel: "Feral Merge."
A spectral wolf fused with him, morphing him into a lupine hybrid. Speed amplified, he raced toward the barrier sealing this forsaken pocket from the wider LOST Realm.
But WHOOSH! BAM! The leader materialized, clutching his throat, halting him mid-stride.
("We, the mightiest, crushed like infants... the realms are doomed")
the officer thought in despair.
The creature released his neck, then gripped his jaws—RIP! Torn asunder.
The horde advanced, inexorable, footprints vanishing like ghosts. The barrier crumbled, unveiling the uncharted territories of the LOST Realm.
A few metres ahead stood the second defence outpost.. its watchers already spotting the 9th Bloodline and now preparing to do battle.
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Cries of dying men echoed across scarred battlefields, Bloodline powers etching carnage into the earth. The clash had endured hours, until silence fell. Surviving defenders retreated to their castle, the 9th Bloodline in merciless pursuit. Captured foes screamed in agony, their ends a warning.
The leader planted a foot on a gasping soldier's chest, eyes on the fleeing backs. These 9th Bloodline beings mimicked humans but with ashen skin, veins aglow with scarlet. Towering and muscled, they donned pteruges and serpentine chains.
"Please," the soldier frothed.
The leader pressed down slowly.
"No, no—haaaaaaaaaaaaaa!"
CRUNCH. Gore slickened his boot.
In a surge, the leader and his army thundered toward the castle.
On the battlements, a sentry cried: "The 9th is coming!"
The wall commander addressed his scant troops: "The general hasn't resurrected Ashuriel yet. Hold the line, men, till the commander resurrects Ashuriel... If we fall before that, all will be lost. But we're outnumbered—so we invoke the empyreal bloodshare."
They tensed; the rite meant death, total essence drain. Yet loyalty prevailed. Blood circles formed beneath them, lines channeling to the commander. His veins blazed crimson.
Power ignited. He summoned his red panel: "Wind spirit, heed my call. Bend your currents to my will. Execute: push back all foes!"
WHOOSH. A gale erupted, repelling the horde in chaos.
But his soldiers withered, collapsing as husks.
In the castle basement, the general—armor battered—descended urgently.
("The first outpost was to alert us... yet no warning came")
he lamented.
He shattered the door, approaching a bier with a bandaged body and a box. Unwrapping the chest revealed decayed flesh, heartless. He inserted the beating heart from the box; it fused.
The body convulsed, bandages morphing into armor. Ashuriel sank into the earth, vanishing.
"We did it," the general whispered hopefully.
Back above, soldiers lay drained. The leader gripped the commander's head—RIP. The headless corpse twitched.
RUMBLE. The castle imploded, swallowed by soil. Green letters etched across the ground, forming a pulsing barrier.
The general emerged from dust, facing the horde. "We stopped you... again."
The leader clenched: "Won't strike me, human?"
"No. I'd falter in time. My bones yearn for rest." Aged, white-haired, eyes wise.
The leader tested the barrier; "E" glowed, repelling him.
"This won't hold forever."
"It won't," the general agreed. "But it grants the realms preparation."
The leader laughed chillingly. "Delude not—the realms are feeble, childlike."
"They'll strengthen. One of ours is in the known realm—she'll warn them."
"My mother's will shall be fulfilled."
Rage flared: "Your 'mother' cursed us for her loss—slaying innocents unjustly! You butchered all ages."
"And we'll resume. Even united realms nearly fell—until sealed. Now free, we'll extinguish humanity."
Horror struck: "The curse's coffin... released by a human?"
"Poetic doom. That fool earns my thanks."
"Impossible—who?"
"We wait. Let them fortify. The curse will prevail."
The general reflected: ("Hiding truths bred this. I'll grant a chance.")
Eyeing the leader's sword—the anti-9th blade—he summoned: "Blood Creation... binding chains."
Chains ensnared the leader; his army charged.
The general seized the sword, infusing it with his lifeblood. With a dying hurl, he cast it beyond the barrier—into the known LOST realm.
Chains faded. The leader remained stoic.
The general smiled faintly.
("Now, perhaps a chance.")
He collapsed, lifeless.
"You may have succeeded in stopping us... but the curse will be fulfilled," the leader murmured to the void, his horde waiting patiently as the barrier hummed, a temporary veil against inevitable doom. The curse, ancient and insatiable, would find other paths—secrets unburied, weapons forged in shadows.