The Woundkeeper's Curse

The girl's name was Calla, and she followed Dorian like a stray dog—silent, watchful, and impossible to shake. He'd barely gotten a dozen steps before her quick, uneven footfalls caught up to him.

"Do you have a plan?" she asked, her voice muffled by the scarf she'd pulled over her face to block the smoke.

Dorian grunted. "Plans are for people with resources. All I've got is this." He patted the hilt of his dagger, the weight of the weapon almost mocking. "If you were hoping for a hero with shining armour and a full arsenal, you're out of luck."

Calla didn't laugh. She didn't even flinch, a product of being brought up in this unforgiving place. You got used to being dealt shitty cards by a callous hand. "I've seen what they do in the pits. No one comes out of there unless they're like you."

He stopped short, turning to face her. The intensity in her voice, the quiet certainty—he'd heard it before. People whispered about him in the places where the system had sunk its claws deepest, the ruins and slums where only the desperate lingered. The Woundkeeper. A man cursed to survive. A man who didn't break, no matter how many pieces they tried to shatter him into.

It wasn't a title he'd chosen. But the stories stuck like scars.

"You think I'm special," he said, his voice low. "That I've got something that makes me invincible. Let me tell you something, Calla." He crouched slightly, meeting her eyes. "There's no magic in this world that doesn't cost you something. No bloodline, no blessing, no system skill that comes free. You pay for it. Every second. Every breath."

She stared at him, unblinking. "Then why are you still alive?"

The question hung in the air, heavy as the smoke. Dorian straightened, his jaw tightening. He didn't answer. Instead, he turned and kept walking, his limp more pronounced as the ache in his leg flared. Calla followed without another word.

They reached the edge of the district by nightfall. The streets narrowed here, twisting into a labyrinth of collapsed buildings and makeshift barricades. Fires burned in steel drums, casting long, jagged shadows across the walls. This was no-man's-land, the buffer between the pits and the rest of Greystone.

Dorian knew the area well. Too well.

As they passed a cluster of people huddled around a fire, he caught a few wary glances, followed by sharp whispers. The nickname floated through the air like an accusation.

"That's him. The Woundkeeper."

"Thought he was dead..."

"...Can't be killed. He just gets back up..."

Dorian ignored them, his focus on the looming silhouette of the pits in the distance—a jagged maw carved into the earth, its edges reinforced with rusted iron and blackened wood.

As they walked, the memories came unbidden.

It had been three years since the system had awakened his bloodline. He hadn't known what it meant at first, only that his status screen had changed, the words burning themselves into his mind.

[Bloodline Trait Unlocked: Iron Will (Tier III)]

Effect: All healing is enhanced by 300%. Wounds regenerate at an accelerated rate. Cannot die from cumulative injuries until total HP reaches 0.]

It had sounded like a blessing. But the first time he'd felt it—the searing heat of flesh knitting itself together, the agony of bones resetting without warning—he realised the truth. It wasn't a gift. It was a sentence.

He could survive what others couldn't, yes. But the system demanded its price. His bloodline didn't just keep him alive—it made sure he felt every moment of survival. Pain sharper than any blade, exhaustion that sank into his marrow, the memories of every death he hadn't been allowed to embrace.

It had been in the pits where his bloodline had earned him the name.

He'd been captured, thrown into the fighting rings with nothing but a broken sword and a handful of HP. The guilds ran the place like a game, and they loved watching people like him—low-level scavengers with no gear—get torn apart for entertainment.

They hadn't expected him to keep standing.

Every time he fell, every time a blow crushed his ribs or left him gasping on the floor, he'd get back up. His wounds would close, his body dragging itself back together even as his screams echoed through the cavern. The crowd had started chanting then, their voices cruel, mocking.

"He won't die! The Woundkeeper lives!"

But he had died. A piece of him had stayed there, in the pits, with the blood and the screams and the system notifications that never stopped. He'd killed his way out eventually, leaving a trail of bodies and a reputation he hadn't wanted.

The scars hadn't faded. Neither had the nightmares.

"Is it true?" Calla's voice broke the silence as they approached the edge of the pits.

Dorian glanced at her, his expression guarded. "Is what true?"

"That you can't die."

He snorted. "Everyone dies. I just take longer than most."

She didn't laugh. Instead, she looked at him with something close to pity. He shook his head, gesturing for her to stay close as they crept along the outskirts of the pit's defences. The stench of sweat and blood grew stronger with every step, and the sounds of fighting echoed from below—roars of pain and triumph interspersed with the system's cold, mechanical announcements.

[Combat Alert: Gladiator defeated. Winner: Guild Champion Yuros.]

Dorian's hands clenched into fists. The pits hadn't changed. The system still fed off suffering, still rewarded those who turned violence into currency.

"Where's your brother being held?" he asked, his voice sharper than he'd intended.

Calla pointed to a cluster of cages near the edge of the main fighting arena. Figures moved inside, shadowy and hunched. Dorian scanned the area, his mind already mapping the routes, calculating risks.

"I'll get him out," he said, his tone flat. "But once this starts, there's no going back. You ready for that?"

Calla nodded, though her hands trembled. Dorian didn't press her. Fear was normal. It was courage that mattered.

As he turned back to the pits, his fingers brushing the hilt of his dagger, a faint flicker of green appeared in the corner of his vision.

[Quest Alert: Blood and Iron.

Objective: Rescue Calla's brother from the pits. Bonus: Ensure all prisoners are freed.

Reward: 2500 EXP.]

Dorian smiled grimly. He didn't care about the reward. This wasn't about progression or stats.

This was about making sure the system—and the people who used it—remembered one thing.

The Woundkeeper was still standing.