"Stop right there, peasant!" a man shouted, his sword flaring with blood-red energy. He and four others, all from the Blurry Vein Clan, pursued the last survivor of the Sel Clan—the family they had just exterminated to expand their own power. The Blurry Vein Clan was one of the Nine Great Clans of the Blood Continent, each locked in ruthless contest to become the first to ascend to a Nascent Soul level cultivator and earn a place within the Imperial Clan of the Luna Primordial Basin. Any clan that produced a Nascent Soul expert would gain imperial status, and that cultivator would be named a Prince. Yet, since the dawn of the Blood Continent, no clan had ever achieved this—leaving it forever barred from true Imperial power.
The Blood Continent had once been a battlefield. After countless wars, the shattered and broken remained behind and made it their home. Over time, they were forced to develop a unique art to contend with the lingering bloodlust that clung to the land, a curse born of endless slaughter. Entire solar systems had been torn apart in those days. For more than two thousand years, the Blood Art was passed down, reshaped, and manifested in countless forms. Today, the Nine Great Clans of the continent are said to wield the most refined Blood Techniques in the entire region. Among them, the Sel Clan had risen as a formidable force—so promising, in fact, that it was predicted they might surpass the Blurry Vein Clan. For that reason, they were hunted down and annihilated.
This boy was all the Sel Clan had left, and now he was cornered. The chase had driven him to a desolate temple, far from any city and beyond clan territory. Limping up the temple steps, he cried out as a sword pierced his left leg. Still, he did not stop. He kept climbing. In his trembling hands were the headbands of his mother, father, grandmother, and sister.
Behind him, the five pursuers laughed and jeered, their voices echoing across the stone. But the boy forced the heavy temple doors open and dragged himself inside, leaving a trail of blood across the floor. At the altar sat a man in black robes adorned with ruby-red threads, quietly paying his respects. Slowly, the man opened his eyes and turned toward the boy.
The man watched as the boy carefully placed each headband on the floor before the statue. His gaze swept over him—bruised, bleeding, clothes in tatters, hair wild—yet carrying a fierce determination to see his loved ones honored in death.
When the boy finished bowing in meditation, he lifted his eyes to the incense stand. With nothing but a glance, the stick ignited. A single look had summoned the flame. The man's lips curved into a faint smirk.
But what followed stole his amusement. The boy drew a dagger from his waist, pressed it against his chest, and whispered, "This... this is goodbye, world. You were cruel in this life. May you show me mercy in the next."
The man's voice rang out, sharp and commanding. "Stop! These ants are not worth any more of your blood." In one swift motion, he seized the dagger from the boy and turned toward the five men still mocking outside the temple doors.
With a mere twitch of his brow, the man unleashed a crushing pressure upon the five pursuers, forcing them to the ground. They fell to their knees and hands, groaning in agony beneath the weight of his will.
"Such cruelty," the man murmured. "A battlefield is still a battlefield, I see. Very well... so be it."
Another flicker of his brow, and the five men exploded into a mist of blood. The crimson haze swirled toward him, coalescing at his command. From it, he wove an armor unlike any other—not bulky, not metal, and making no clattering sound. Instead, it took the form of a simple black robe, threaded with crimson veins that pulsed like living vessels.
The man turned toward the boy, sealing his wounds with a touch before draping the newly forged armor upon him.
"You, my child," he declared, "shall be the Blood Emperor of this continent. You will bring calamity to those who deserve it, and peace to those who have been denied it. Come with me, and I will teach you all that I know—all that I have gathered in two thousand years of solitude."
At his word, a red portal bloomed into existence, its edges wreathed in circling black mist. The man stepped forward first, and the boy, after a heartbeat's hesitation, followed.
Beyond the portal stretched a world unlike anything he had ever imagined. Rivers of blood cut across the land. Clouds the color of fresh gore roiled above. In every shadowed corner lurked darkness. Jagged bones jutted from the ground like mountain ranges, each one a monument to the dead. It was a sight the boy had only heard of in legends.
"This," the man said, his voice solemn, "is the Ancient Battlefield. From this place, the Blood Continent was born. Countless planets and suns were buried beneath corpses and oceans of blood. None ever called it home—until the survivors conquered it and claimed it as their own."
His gaze sharpened on the boy. "Now, I want you to rule it."