Chapter-8: A Prayer Written in Blood

Zairen's voice rasped like dry leaves. "Let's go to my room." He tore the plaster bindings from his leg and arm, old wrappings peeling like scabs. Pain pricked, sharp but fleeting. He stood tall, muscles taut, and leapt lightly. The floor groaned. "Oh, gods… I feel new." A jagged smile cut across his lips.

The manor's grand hall loomed, its ceiling lost in shadow. Silence hung heavy, broken by distant clinks of silverware—servants prepping for guests. Viscount Elvaron Dreven and his daughter, Lady Seressia, were coming. Zairen's sister, Elyra, adored Seressia. As kids, they'd woven flower crowns in the garden, giggling over secrets. But Seressia loathed Zairen, her gaze like ice. Elyra, too, had turned, swayed by lies. He chuckled, bitter. "Some hate without cause. They drink lies like wine, never questioning."

Moonlight spilled through arched windows, silvering the marble. The air felt sacred, still as a held breath. Zairen moved silently, bare feet whispering on cold stone. His room's door creaked with a soft kchhk. Inside, the air was thick, iron-tanged with old blood. The steward's body—dead a week ago, blamed on Zairen—was gone, but stains lingered on the wooden floor, curling like runes. The manor's beams creaked, as if whispering secrets.

He sat on a chair, exhaling. His reflection stared from a cracked mirror—sunken cheeks, eyes like embers. This room was his prison, his forge. Here, he'd been broken. Here, he'd be reborn.

The first task was clear: awaken his mana circle. Mana wasn't mere power. It was the world's pulse, breath without lungs. Zairen gripped the knife tighter. It wove through all things—ants in dirt, dragons in ancient skies. Humans chased it: survival, strength, greed. In his past life, he'd reached the 8th Circle, one step from ascension. The 9th Circle was his dream. Death stole it. His fists clenched. "Not this time."

He sat cross-legged, eyes on the bloodstains. All human had forward mana flow: head → heart → limbs. Natural, like rivers to the sea. But Zairen's flowed backward: limbs → heart → head. A cursed trait—rare, perilous. The Grand Arcanum's libraries held no record of it. Only his master, a wanderer cloaked in riddles, understood. "Few survive the reversal," he'd said, finding Zairen bleeding in a ditch after his uncle remove him from the manor. Zairen had begged for answers, but the man only smiled, eyes distant.

To awaken his mana circle, he had to break himself. Tear the vessel. Force mana into the wound. The silver knife glinted. He tore a strip from his sleeve, stuffed it in his mouth. "They couldn't clean this properly," he muttered, muffled. "Might get infected." A broken smile twitched.

The manor creaked, watching. Zairen's heart thudded, loud in the silence.

The blade kissed his right forearm. Srrrf—skin parted, blood welling dark. He cut deeper, through fascia, until muscle gleamed raw. Pain roared, a scream in his nerves. What if it fails? Doubt flickered. He crushed it. He stabbed into bone. Crunch. His vision blurred, gagging on the cloth.

The left arm followed. Same agony. The blade carved, a whisper from death. Blood pooled, warm, sticky. The manor's silence pressed, broken by a faint drip on wood.

His legs now. From thigh to ankle, he cut. Blood sprayed, splattering walls. Bone gleamed through torn muscle. He stabbed again. Crunch. Puncture. His hands shook, slipping on the slick hilt. His will held.

One final wound. The knife trembled, plunging lightly into his chest, near the heart. A cough tore through him, blood flooding his mouth, coppery, warm. He spat the cloth, crimson spilling down his chin. "Please… this time …also.. work" Darkness took him.

Time dissolved. A warmth stirred in his shattered hands, creeping up his arms, down his legs, into his chest. A suction, the world inhaling him. Mana. It surged—not forward, not backward, but circular. Perfect. Bones knit, grinding. Muscle wove together. Skin closed, raw, pink. Bacteria lingered, but bleeding stopped.

Let pain be my prayer, blood my vow—If gods won't hear me, let the world bleed loud.

Zairen awoke, agony screaming through him. But mana hummed, vibrant, alive. "I did it. My First Circle… alone." A crooked smile split his lips. Hope sparked—this life could be different.

He dragged himself up, leaning on the wall. The manor slept, servants busy with the Viscount's arrival. In the healing chamber, vials glowed faintly. He grabbed five low-grade potions, glass clinking. A shadow moved—Mira, the young maid, froze. "L-Lord Zairen? You're… bleeding." Her voice quavered.

"Tell no one," he rasped. She nodded, fleeing. Outside, her whisper carried: "So much blood… he's cursed, I swear." Another servant hushed her: "Quiet! The Viscount's coming. No trouble." Zairen smirked. Let them fear him.

Back in his room, he downed three potions. Warmth flooded, bitter on his tongue. Wounds sealed, infection burned away. He slumped against the wall, the Dreven crest on it catching his eye—a faded lion, unyielding. His master's voice echoed: "Power is born in agony, not prophecy. Scars, not bloodlines." Zairen nodded to the empty room. He'd hated that man once. Now, he understood.

The room was a slaughterhouse. Blood coated the floor, dripped from the ceiling. The manor's creaks felt like judgment. He should clean it. But his body ached, mana twitching in his veins. He collapsed on the bed, staring at the cracked ceiling.

Servants' voices drifted through the door.

"The Viscount's coming, and we're stuck with this mess," one grumbled and ponted the finger toward the Zairen room. "You know how kind the viscount is—if we do good work, we might get a reward!" Laughter followed, sharp and nervous. "What about him?" a maid asked, meaning Zairen. "Let him be. Who listens to him in this manor anyway? He's like a ghost forgotten" More laughter, cruel and low. Mira's voice cut through, a hushed whisper. "Shh, speak softly. Ever since he killed the steward so brutally, I've been scared of him." Silence fell, heavy as stone. The maids' chatter died.

Footsteps approached. "What are you lot doing?" the head maid snapped. "Stop slacking and get to work!" The servants scattered, their voices fading into hurried steps. Zairen overheard it all, his breath catching. He sighed, a low, weary sound. Viscount Elvaron,cunning,kind and wealthy men . While her daughter Seressia, Elyra's mirror, was cruel, loyal to lies. They'd scorn him, as always. But mana burned in him now, a spark to ignite.

"This is the first step," he murmured. "The world will bow… one scar at a time." Smiling, he closed his eyes, sleep claiming him in the blood-soaked silence.