Echoes of Blood

The sky above had long forgotten what sunlight looked like. The land beneath it was just as lost—a twisted, decaying reflection of what had once been a thriving kingdom. Now, the ruins of homes, temples, and fortresses crumbled into the dark soil, consumed by the creeping curse that smothered every inch of the world. Ashura's footsteps echoed faintly against the stone path as he trudged through the wasteland. Each step sent ripples of dust and ash into the air.

He did not remember how long he had been wandering. The days blurred into nights, but in this place, neither truly existed. The sun never rose, and the moon hung low, barely visible through the thick, swirling mists that covered the sky. Shadows twisted along the ground, shifting as if they had a life of their own, and the faint whispers of something old and terrible echoed in the distance.

Ashura's hand rested instinctively on the hilt of his blade. The weapon was as much a part of him as his own flesh, though, like everything else, it too was a mystery. His memories were fragmented, scattered across time and space, existing only in brief flashes—faces he could not place, voices he couldn't recognize, and blood. Always blood.

He paused at the edge of a collapsed structure, the remnants of a once-grand cathedral, its spires now jagged stumps. The air here was heavy with the scent of decay, of old battles and death long past. As he gazed at the stone ruins, his mind stirred. A flicker of something—an image of people kneeling before an altar, their eyes turned upward in worship, their bodies trembling in fear. And then, blood. It poured from the altar, flooding the floor, soaking the worshipers.

He blinked, and the vision was gone, leaving behind a throbbing ache in his skull.

Ashura's grip tightened on his blade. What happened here? His thoughts clawed at the edges of his mind, but no answer came. The curse that plagued this world had taken more than just the land. It had taken his past, his memories, and left him with nothing but fragments of what once was.

As he moved deeper into the ruins, something caught his eye—a glint of red, faint but unmistakable. He crouched low, his instincts sharp. Peering through the crumbled stones, he saw it: an altar, bathed in faint red light. Blood stained the surface, fresh and wet, seeping down the sides. A sacrifice, recently made. Ashura's stomach twisted, not out of disgust but out of necessity. He needed that blood.

As he moved deeper into the ruins, something caught his eye—a glint of red, faint but unmistakable. He crouched low, his instincts sharp. Peering through the crumbled stones, he saw it: an altar, bathed in faint red light. Blood stained the surface, fresh and wet, seeping down the sides. A sacrifice, recently made. Ashura's stomach twisted, not out of disgust but out of necessity. He needed that blood.

Slowly, he approached, the sound of his boots muffled against the dirt. His hand reached out, trembling slightly as he placed it against the cold stone of the altar. The blood was warm, unnervingly so, as if the sacrifice had only just been made. Without hesitation, Ashura dipped his fingers into the crimson liquid and brought it to his lips.

The moment the blood touched his tongue, the world around him shifted. The ruins melted away, replaced by a burning, blood-soaked battlefield. Warriors, clad in armor, clashed beneath a darkened sky. The sound of steel against steel echoed in Ashura's ears. His head swam as visions surged through his mind—a great war, a fallen kingdom, a man crowned in blood. And then, amidst the chaos, he saw a face. Familiar. Painfully familiar.

A sudden jolt knocked him out of the vision, and he stumbled back, gasping for air. His heart raced, his body trembling as the remnants of the memory clung to him. That face... He gritted his teeth, trying to hold onto the fleeting images, but like before, they slipped away, leaving only a bitter taste of blood on his lips.

Ashura stood there for a moment, catching his breath. His vision cleared, and the ruins returned. The altar was still there, but the blood had dried, its purpose served. His hand tightened into a fist. I need more. The blood was the key. If he could find more of it—more sacrifices, more connections to the Cinderbound—he could piece together the truth of his past.

The faintest sound reached his ears—a soft whimper, barely audible over the wind. Ashura turned, his gaze narrowing. It came from beyond the altar, deeper into the ruins. Slowly, he made his way toward the sound, cautious but curious. The air grew colder as he moved, the shadows lengthening.

Then he saw her.

She was small, barely more than a child, huddled in the corner of a ruined chamber. Her clothes were tattered, and her skin was pale, almost ghostly in the dim light. She looked up at him with wide, innocent eyes, her body trembling. There was something off about her, something unsettling, but Ashura couldn't place it. She looked so out of place in this cursed land, untouched by the horrors that surrounded her.

"Who are you?" Ashura's voice was low, rough from disuse. He hadn't spoken to another person in... he couldn't remember how long.

The girl didn't answer, just stared at him with those wide, unblinking eyes.

Ashura took a step closer, then stopped as a flicker of something dark passed over her face. He hesitated, his hand instinctively moving to the hilt of his sword. But she didn't move. There was no malice in her gaze, only fear—and something else. Something deeper.

Are you alone?" he asked, softer this time.

Slowly, she nodded.

Ashura exhaled, his tension easing slightly. He sheathed his sword and knelt beside her, his voice dropping to a whisper. "It's not safe here. You need to leave."

The girl shook her head, her voice barely above a whisper. "I... I can't."

He frowned. "Why not?"

Her eyes flickered toward the shadows that clung to the walls, her voice trembling. "They won't let me."

Ashura's blood ran cold. The air in the chamber shifted, the temperature dropping. Something stirred in the darkness, something ancient and hungry. He could feel it—an overwhelming presence, lurking just out of sight.

Before he could react, the shadows surged forward, twisting and coiling like snakes. Ashura's sword was out in an instant, but the creatures were too fast. They didn't attack him. They wrapped themselves around the girl, pulling her toward the darkness.

No!" Ashura slashed at the shadows, his blade cutting through the air. The creatures hissed, retreating momentarily, but they didn't give up. They tugged at the girl, pulling her deeper into the ruin.

She cried out, reaching for him. "Help me!"

Ashura lunged forward, grabbing her hand. The shadows lashed at him, burning his skin, but he didn't let go. With one final swing of his blade, the creatures recoiled, disappearing into the darkness.

The girl collapsed into his arms, trembling. Ashura held her close, his heart pounding in his chest.

"You're safe now," he whispered, though he wasn't sure if he believed it himself

As he looked down at her, he noticed something strange—a faint, glowing symbol etched into her skin, just below her collarbone. It pulsed with a dim light, barely visible in the dark.

Ashura's breath caught in his throat. He had seen that symbol before, in the visions. It was the mark of the Cinderbound.