Looking at the fabrics tied around my chest, shoulder, and waist, I was reminded of the Stone Age cave men.
"Well, this will do for now."
It wasn't like there were fashion designers in District 1.
Shelter 01 was my only base, and I'd just finished building a makeshift bed from scrap metal, wood, and fabric.
I proudly smiled at my newly-made amateur furniture inventions.
"Whew… that's done. It's time to move on to this next task."
I sank onto my new wooden chair and took out a blood vial. It emitted a glowing, crimson hue.
[ 1st Kindred Blood Vial ] - Transforms you into a 2nd Kindred Bloodfiend, but the process of transformation is excruciating.
"Am I going to survive this? Well… here goes nothing."
I tipped the vial back and swallowed.
I closed my eyes, bracing for the worst.
Nothing happened.
A minute passed. Then five. As I was closing my eyes with expectation. I opened my eyes with a frown.
"Hm? I thought I was supposed to be in excruciating pain—Aghhh!"
Crash! The empty vial shattered on the floor as I clutched my chest, my teeth grinding together.
"Ugh! It hurts!"
My blood felt like it was boiling. My organs were bursting, and needles pricked every inch of my skin.
It felt like my head was being slammed by a hammer, over and over.
I was on the verge of passing out, but I couldn't.
I had a sickening feeling that if I closed my eyes, I'd either die or awaken as a mindless monster.
What a waste of a 1st Kindred Blood Vial that would be.
So I held on. I focused on regulating my breathing, leaning hard against the chair as my vision tinted crimson.
Madness erupted from the deepest core of my mind, threatening to consume me.
It was the most pain I had ever felt in my life.
...
After several eternal minutes, the agony began to subside.
I had somehow survived.
"Huff… ha…" I panted, slumping in the chair.
"I thought… I was going to lose my first clone."
But it had succeeded. A new, pulsing strength filled my body.
I could feel the blood in my veins, ready to follow my will. It was an evolutionary change like ascending to a higher lifeform.
I had complete control and awareness of my body—enhanced muscle density, regeneration, and a hyper-aware nervous system.
As long as I was supplied with blood and emotions, I could live indefinitely, never aging.
"I'd heard that Bloodfiends go crazy at the taste of blood. Why do I feel… unaffected?"
As for why I had those thoughts? Bloodfiends always worshipped the thought of blood. They'd have the urge to imagine it and crave it.
They delighted in it. It was more than a way to satiate their psychological hunger for a moment. It was more like a deep-seated desire enough to twist them into monsters.
I paused. "Ha. Who am I kidding? I've only just transformed. I'll have to drink something eventually, just to make sure I don't grow weaker."
I'd have to monitor myself for symptoms—the obsession for a "bloodfeast," the desire to turn people into walking blood-bags.
Those were the common, uncontrollable urges for Bloodfiends who couldn't manage their psychological hunger.
Still, I wondered how Don Quixote-Alonso, a First Kindred, and Sancho, a Second Kindred, had managed to live their lives without being affected by this problem.
"Wasn't it… having a dream?" I tilted my head while touching my chin.
That idea felt too vague. How do you know if a dream is truly what you seek?
Not everyone could find something like that.
I glanced at my reflection in a shard of mirror. My eye color had changed to crimson.
I ran a hand through my bangs, nodded at my reflection, and laughed off the narcissistic joke in my head.
I took out the Blade Lineage Syndicate Member Identity. It was a dark-toned voucher with the Syndicate's symbol at the top center.
"It's time to move on to the next task."
I tore it off.
A dazzling yellow light flashed, encasing my mind in memories that weren't mine.
When I opened my eyes, I was somewhere else.
Rain lashed down, turning the narrow back alley into a black river choked with blood.
Corpses were scattered everywhere. My leather coat was plastered to my skin.
Beside me, an old man named Seo coughed—a wet, ragged sound. He leaned heavily on his sword while resting his hands' edges on the hilt.
His face was pale, his coat stained with fresh blood, but the exhaustion in his eyes was old. Despite facing heavy injuries, his eyes never changed.
It was surprising to see him this weak. After all, this was a man I'd seen block and dodge bullets without even needing to look.
"Huff… Ha… They'll be here soon," he rasped, his breath misting in the dim light between the tall buildings. "Kurokumo. And those S Corp dogs."
I gripped my own sword, so familiar it felt like a part of me. The metal was slick with rain and blood.
"How many of them are arriving as reinforcements for this side?" I asked. The voice that came out was steady, cold, and not my own.
Old Man Seo just shook his head, a gesture of weary acceptance. "More than enough for us, boy. Hahaha…"
He watched the alley entrance, where a distant neon sign cast sickly green and purple reflections on the puddles. His eyes, though pained, were still sharp.
"Remember my words," he said. "Yield your flesh... to claim their bones."
I nodded. I knew the words. We lived by them. Every scar on my body was a proof to that creed.
Splashing footsteps echoed from the alley.
They emerged from the rain-soaked darkness: Kurokumo Clan members with their eyes glinted in coldness reflected from the neon lights.
I was so weary of seeing those bastards.
"Ha… do you have a cigarette?" Seo asked.
"No." As a man of few words. I didn't say no more to the snickering old man, who cared more about smoking a cigarette instead of the rushing enemies.
We weren't gonna make it. If not… then I'll stay my ground and kill as many of them.
I continued to glance at the Kurokomo Members, our rivals and enemies.
Their katanas were already drawn. Behind them, the glint of S Corp armbands.
Old Man Seo coughed again, spitting a fleck of red into the churning water at his feet. He pushed himself upright.
His sword, despite its age, rose with the slow, deliberate grace of a seasoned warrior.
"Go," he ordered, his voice suddenly strong, cutting through the rain. "Run, boy. Live to fight another day."
I paused and stared at him, standing alone against the encroaching shadows.
"No," I said, stepping forward, my hand moving to draw my blade.
It was cowardly to run when a comrade was facing so many. No matter how strong Old Man Seo was, he was still just a wounded warrior alone amidst the tides of bloodthirsty enemies.
He looked at me, a flicker of something unreadable in his eyes. "Tsk. You remind me of my younger self. Makes me sick."
He stopped me with a hand on my arm. His grip was surprisingly firm, his hand a mass of bulging veins and old scars.
"It isn't time for you to kick the bucket, kid. I'm old. I want a warrior's death, if you interfere, you'd just get in my way," he said, as if muttering his old creed: "A warrior knows when to sacrifice themselves."
I looked from his tired face to the overwhelming tide of enemies.
We both knew one more sword—even mine—wouldn't change the outcome.
My jaw clenched. I hated this. Every fiber of my being screamed to stand and fight. But I knew what he was asking. I knew what it meant to yield.
Even if I tried to drag him, we'd both be caught. One of us had to be the decoy.
I turned and ran. The rain tried to wash away the shame and helplessness, but it clung to me, cold and heavy.
I heard sounds of swords clashing and Old Man Seo shouting to come at him while laughing. My senior who had guided me in those exhausting times, now gone.
It was inevitable.
This was the City… No matter what friends you make, they never last long enough.
The dazzling yellow light receded, and my mind snapped back to the present.
I grasped my head, the phantom rain and shame still fresh. I was fine.
"Damn."
If not for my mental erosion immunity, I knew those memories would have placed significant influence over me. After all, an identity was like another possible version of myself in another life.
"Hmm… I don't have any workshop weapons."
I closed my eyes, concentrating. I commanded my blood, urging it to form a Chokuto like what I had held in those memory as a Blade Lineage member.
It hardened into a blade, sharp and tough, similar to Bamboo Hatted Kim's signature weapon.
"And this."
I formed a long sheathe to match. I would need it for the Iaijutsu techniques.
After all, the Blade Lineage Syndicate was an outcast group of ronin, living by that one creed, "Yield my Flesh to Claim Their Bones."
It was the philosophy behind the special attacks of those die-hard maniacs, trading their own life to take their enemy's.
I swung the blood-sword. Flashes of dark purple and bright crimson light followed the blade, leaving phantom trails.
It felt textbook. These were just memories, phantoms of the past.
This Identity wasn't like the ones from Limbus Company or Library of Ruina.
It didn't seem to require Light, nor did it come with an E.G.O. Or was Light something I could use to enhance these techniques?
I pondered these questions as I continued to practice.
I practiced the forms. Drawing the sword in a crescent moon arc. Making sweeping cuts like a river. Imagining the "Red Plum Blossoms" cut.
Deflecting attacks and following up with combos.
Practicing the counters, the mindset of yielding flesh to claim bone. Slowly, the techniques began to feel familiar to me.
It didn't take long to learn the basics. Now, I just needed experience.
I lost track of time, practicing without a care in the world, as if possessed by a mad sword-lunatic.
Perhaps this was a side effect of absorbing an Identity.
It felt like I was forgetting something important.
Well… even if it was, it could wait until tomorrow. Becoming stronger was far more important.