Chapter 4: The Chains of Fate

Zehroon's breath came in uneven gasps, his body trembling as he clutched his burning neck. The mark—always faint and dormant—now pulsed with a searing heat, like embers beneath his skin. The vision had shaken him to his core.

"Who was that? That voice... that battlefield... was that real?"

His hands curled into fists, his nails digging into his palms. The cold wind from the open window did nothing to calm his racing heart. He could still hear the echoes of war, the metallic scent of blood lingering in his mind.

But the worst part?

It felt familiar.

Like a memory buried deep within his soul.

The Stranger's Offer

The cloaked figure remained at the door, unmoving, silent. The presence around them was suffocating, as if the very air bowed to their will. They held the scroll out, their voice calm yet carrying an undeniable weight.

"You seek strength, don't you?"

Zehroon swallowed. Every fiber of his being told him to walk away, to refuse whatever deal this was. But another part of him—a deeper, hidden part—urged him forward.

Strength.

The very thing he had been denied all his life.

The cruel laughter of the workers, the jeers of the villagers, the weight of his powerless existence—all of it burned in his chest like poison.

His fingers brushed against the scroll, and the moment they did, the pain in his neck exploded.

Zehroon's vision blurred. The walls of his room dissolved into darkness, replaced by something far more terrifying.

The Trial of Blood

He stood in the center of an ancient hall, its towering pillars stretching endlessly into the void. The floor was slick with something wet. The scent of iron filled his nostrils.

Blood.

Countless corpses lay around him, their faces twisted in expressions of horror. Warriors, mages, beasts—slain without mercy.

A heavy footstep echoed through the chamber.

Zehroon turned sharply.

A figure stood at the far end of the hall, bathed in an ominous crimson glow. Unlike the shadowed being in his dreams, this one was clear as day.

A warrior, clad in obsidian armor, his blade dripping with fresh blood.

His voice was calm, yet filled with overwhelming authority.

"You stand at the crossroads of fate, child."

Zehroon clenched his fists, his body trembling.

"What... What is this?"

The warrior tilted his head, amused.

"A trial."

Without warning, the corpses around Zehroon moved.

Their bodies twisted unnaturally, their bones cracking as they rose from the pools of blood. Hollow eyes locked onto him, filled with a deep, unrelenting hunger.

The warrior stepped back, his presence fading into the shadows.

"Show me if you are worthy to survive."

The undead lunged.

Unleashing the Beast

Zehroon barely had time to react.

He dodged to the side, his instincts screaming at him to run. One of the creatures swung a rusted sword at his head—he ducked, feeling the wind of the strike pass over him.

Another came from behind.

Too fast.

He turned just in time to see a clawed hand descending toward him—

And then—

Something inside him snapped.

The mark on his neck flared.

His vision darkened.

The next moment, he wasn't dodging. He wasn't running.

He was moving.

His body surged forward with unnatural speed. His hand shot out, fingers tightening around the creature's throat. A rush of power coursed through him, unfamiliar yet exhilarating.

With a single motion, he crushed its windpipe.

The undead let out a strangled shriek before collapsing into dust.

Zehroon barely had time to process what he had done before the others attacked.

But he wasn't the same anymore.

He weaved between their strikes like a shadow, his movements sharp, precise. His body felt weightless, his muscles coiled like a predator ready to kill.

One leapt at him—he grabbed its arm and twisted. A sickening snap echoed through the hall.

Another swung a blade—he caught the weapon mid-air and drove it through its skull.

One by one, they fell.

Zehroon stood in the center of the battlefield once more. But this time, he wasn't weak. He wasn't helpless.

He was the predator.

The last corpse let out a hollow screech before disintegrating into dust.

Silence fell over the hall.

And then, from the darkness—clapping.

The armored warrior stepped forward, his eyes gleaming with something unreadable.

"Better than I expected."

Zehroon's breath was heavy. His hands trembled. But he didn't feel exhaustion. If anything—he felt alive.

"What... is happening to me?"

The warrior smirked.

"You are awakening."

The Return to Reality

Zehroon gasped as he was yanked back into the real world. His body collapsed onto the floor of his small room, his vision spinning.

The scroll in his hands had turned to dust.

The cloaked figure at the door remained still.

But this time, when they spoke, their voice held something new.

"Now, you understand, don't you?"

Zehroon looked down at his hands—his fingers still trembled from the phantom sensation of power.

He didn't need to respond.

He knew.

Something inside him had changed. The world that had once crushed him under its weight would soon know his name.

Because for the first time in his life—

He wasn't afraid anymore.

He was hungry.

For power.

For revenge.

For everything that had been stolen from him.

And he would take it all.

No matter the cost.

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