The Path of Blood

The weight of Elya's words lingered in the air long after she disappeared into the darkness. Ashura and Lyra stood in the silence, their breaths heavy, the enormity of the moment sinking in. The shadows that once attacked them had melted back into the temple walls, leaving only an eerie quiet.

Ashura glanced down at Lyra, who clutched his cloak with trembling fingers. Her wide eyes were filled with confusion and fear, but something deeper—trust. It was that trust that kept Ashura moving forward, even as doubts and questions clawed at the edges of his mind. He couldn't afford to falter now.

"We have to keep moving," Ashura said, his voice low but resolute. "There's no turning back."

Lyra nodded silently, her small hand gripping his arm. Together, they ventured deeper into the temple. The walls seemed to close in around them as they descended further into its depths. The flickering light from Ashura's torch barely pierced the thick darkness that wrapped around them like a suffocating shroud.

The murals along the walls grew more grotesque the deeper they went. The once glorious depictions of gods and warriors had devolved into twisted, nightmarish images of blood and sacrifice. In the flickering light, Ashura could almost hear the cries of the damned, echoing faintly from the painted faces.

Lyra tugged on his sleeve. "Ashura, what do you think she meant? About… your blood?"

Ashura clenched his jaw. He had been trying to push those thoughts aside, but they gnawed at him with every step. Elya's cryptic words had struck a chord deep within him, awakening fragments of memories he couldn't fully grasp. His blood was cursed. His father was tied to the Blood King. But how deep did that connection run? How much had been hidden from him?

"I don't know yet," Ashura admitted, his voice gruff. "But whatever it is, I have to find out."

The air grew colder the further they descended, and soon the ground beneath them turned from smooth stone to jagged, uneven terrain. It felt as though they had entered a different realm entirely—one where the laws of reality no longer applied. The scent of damp earth and decay filled the air, making it hard to breathe.

Suddenly, a faint sound broke the oppressive silence—a low, rhythmic chanting, coming from somewhere up ahead. Ashura raised his hand, signaling Lyra to stop. His muscles tensed, readying himself for whatever was to come.

"Stay close," he whispered, pulling Lyra behind him as they crept forward.

The chanting grew louder with every step, echoing off the walls of a vast chamber ahead. Ashura's torch barely lit the entrance, revealing the outline of massive stone pillars covered in carvings. The chamber was immense, a place of ancient power and dread.

At the center of the chamber, a group of hooded figures knelt in a circle, their heads bowed in unison. Their chants were guttural, almost animalistic, reverberating through the stone like a dirge for the dead. In the middle of the circle, an altar stood, covered in dried blood. Upon it lay a twisted effigy made from bones and sinew—a grotesque representation of something long forgotten.

Ashura's eyes narrowed. These people, whoever they were, had to be part of the dark rituals that kept the curse alive, feeding it through ancient rites. He had no doubt that this was part of what Elya meant by proving himself. This wasn't just about physical strength—he had to confront the corruption at the heart of it all.

"They're… praying," Lyra whispered, her voice shaky. "But to what?"

Ashura didn't answer. His grip tightened on his sword. There was no telling what these cultists were capable of, and he wasn't going to wait for them to finish their ritual.

"We need to stop them," Ashura said, his voice hard. "Stay behind me."

Before Lyra could protest, Ashura moved. With a swift motion, he entered the chamber, his sword gleaming in the torchlight. The sound of his footsteps echoed off the walls, and the chanting faltered. The hooded figures turned as one, their eyes gleaming with an unnatural glow beneath their hoods.

Ashura didn't wait for them to react. He charged forward, slashing through the first cultist with a single, precise strike. Blood sprayed across the stone floor as the others rose, their chants turning to shrieks of rage.

One of the figures lunged at Ashura with a dagger, but he sidestepped and cut the attacker down with brutal efficiency. These weren't trained fighters—they were pawns, mindless slaves to the dark forces they served. But they were dangerous all the same.

Lyra stood at the edge of the chamber, her eyes wide with terror. She watched as Ashura cut through the cultists one by one, his movements swift and merciless. The clash of steel and the cries of the dying filled the chamber, echoing through the vast, empty space.

As the last cultist fell, Ashura stood amidst the carnage, his chest heaving with effort. Blood dripped from his sword, pooling at his feet. The chanting had ceased, but the air was thick with the stench of death and decay.

"We're not alone," Lyra whispered suddenly, her voice barely audible.

Ashura's senses flared. He could feel it too—something else was in the chamber with them. Something far more powerful than the cultists.

From the shadows, a figure stepped forward.

He was tall, his body draped in heavy black armor, his face obscured by a helm etched with runes. His presence was suffocating, the sheer weight of his power pressing down on Ashura and Lyra like a physical force. The man's armor gleamed with the dull sheen of blood and shadow, his sword strapped to his back like a weapon of judgment.

"You've come far," the man said, his voice deep and resonant, echoing in the chamber like a distant thunderclap. "But your journey ends here."

Ashura raised his sword, his muscles coiled and ready for the fight. "Who are you?"

The man stepped forward, his boots leaving heavy imprints in the blood-soaked stone. "I am Drayvan, Watcher of the Abyss. And you… are trespassing."

Ashura's heart pounded in his chest. He could feel the raw power radiating from this man—Drayvan wasn't just another mindless servant of the curse. He was something more, something ancient, like the abyss itself.

"Leave now," Drayvan continued, his voice cold. "Or I will drag you into the darkness from which there is no return."

Ashura's grip tightened on his sword. He could sense Lyra's fear behind him, the tension in her small body palpable. But turning back was not an option.

"I'm not leaving," Ashura said, his voice steady. "Not until I get what I came for."

Drayvan's helm tilted slightly, as if he was amused by Ashura's defiance. "Then you will die."

With a fluid motion, Drayvan unsheathed his sword, the blade gleaming with an unnatural light. The weight of the abyss hung heavy in the air, and Ashura felt the familiar pull of the curse stirring in his blood.

This battle would not be like the others. This was a fight against the abyss itself—a fight for survival.

Without another word, Drayvan lunged.