Chapter 2: Written in Blood

Zehroon's breath came in short, ragged gasps as he sat upright, his body trembling. His chest heaved as if he'd run for miles, yet he hadn't moved from his small, worn-out mat. His fingers instinctively reached for his neck, tracing over the faint tattoo that had always been there—an insignia barely visible under normal light.

But tonight?

Tonight, it burned like molten iron pressed against his skin.

His vision swam, the remnants of his nightmare still clawing at his mind. It had been the same dream for weeks. A battlefield drenched in crimson, the air thick with the stench of death. Warriors, monstrous creatures, and even beings that didn't seem human—collapsing, one by one, under his blade.

But the most terrifying part?

He wasn't afraid.

He wasn't horrified.

He had enjoyed it.

As the last echoes of his dream faded, a whisper curled around his ears, chilling his bones.

"Your time has come..."

His breath hitched. He turned his head, eyes darting around the dark, cramped space of his room. There was no one there. But he could feel it—something was watching him.

Something had awakened.

---

The Cruel Reality of Weakness

The morning sun was relentless, casting sharp rays over the dusty streets of the town. Zehroon stepped out of his small shack, his limbs aching from yesterday's labor. As he made his way toward the construction site, the world around him continued as it always had—merchants yelling over prices, warriors sharpening their weapons, children chasing one another through the alleyways.

This was a world where the strong ruled.

And the weak?

They were crushed.

The moment Zehroon arrived at the worksite, the familiar jeers began.

"Well, look who decided to show up!" a worker sneered, his muscled arms folded across his broad chest.

Another man, older but no less cruel, chuckled. "Try not to break your bones today, kid. We don't have time to carry your worthless weight."

The others laughed. It was always the same. Day after day, they reminded him of what he was—nothing.

Zehroon grit his teeth and bent down to lift a wooden beam. It was heavy, too heavy for someone like him. His arms trembled, but he refused to let go.

He had endured this for years. He had swallowed his anger, his pride, his pain. But today, something was different.

His tattoo—it was still burning.

And with every insult thrown his way, with every drop of sweat that trickled down his skin, a thought whispered in the back of his mind.

"What if they were wrong?"

"What if I wasn't weak?"

---

The Mysterious Visitor

Night fell, and exhaustion clung to Zehroon's bones as he dragged himself home. His small shack, barely holding together, was the only place he could call his own. He dropped onto the floor, staring at the ceiling, lost in thought.

Then—

A soft knock.

It was strange. No one ever came looking for him.

Cautiously, he stood and opened the door.

A figure in a dark cloak stood there, their face hidden beneath a hood. Their very presence sent an unnatural chill through the air. The scent of old parchment and something metallic—blood?—lingered around them.

They extended a hand. In their palm lay a tightly rolled scroll.

"Do you seek power?"

The voice wasn't loud, but it carried weight. It wasn't a question. It was an invitation.

Zehroon swallowed hard. His fingers trembled as he reached out and took the scroll.

The moment he touched it—

Pain.

Blinding, searing pain shot through his body, burning from his neck outward. His vision blurred, and the battlefield from his dreams returned.

But this time…

This time, it wasn't just a dream.

He could feel the heat of the flames, the wetness of the blood splattered on his face. He could hear the dying screams. And in the center of it all, he stood—no longer a weak boy.

A warrior. A conqueror. A monster.

The whisper returned, clearer than ever.

"Your time has come."