In the depths of the Great Wilderness, where the wind screamed through broken trees and the night creatures' sounds echoed in the darkness, the boy's body lay stretched on a barren patch of earth, covered in blood, sweat, and dust. His breathing was uneven, his face pale as if he had fought a thousand battles without blinking. Every muscle in his body was exhausted, every hair on his skin bore witness to an unbearable struggle, but he had not fallen. He was not just a child being defeated; he was a spirit trying to rise from the ashes.
But something had changed.
His eyes, once dull, now glowed faintly red, like embers about to burst into flame. This was not just a light; it was a feeling of rebirth, a living power preparing to break free.
"What… is this feeling?"
His voice trembled as he placed his hand on his chest. His heartbeat was no longer human. Each beat felt like a small explosion echoing through his veins, and with every pulse, something deep inside him stirred, groaned, demanding release, control, war!
Suddenly, a violent scream tore from his throat, uncontrolled, fierce, and strange. It was not just a cry of pain; it was a cry of rebirth, a scream of old blood mixing with raw instinct.
The blood in his veins began to move unnaturally, as if it had become a living beast ready to strike, roaring inside him, searching for an outlet, a target, prey, conflict, destruction.
His body trembled. He heard his bones crack and shift. His muscles stretched and tightened as if being reforged anew, growing stronger and enduring more than any human could.
Then, red markings appeared on his skin, strange symbols faintly glowing, one by one, across his shoulders, chest, and back.
Primitive runes.
Not just tattoos, but blood runes, signs of the initial activation of the Primordial Bloodline at 30 percent.
The ground around him shook, and a faint air vortex formed above his body, as if the entire wilderness were watching this awakening, whispering in awe:
"The Primordial Blood has awakened!"
Hours passed.
When the storm had calmed, the boy lay on the ground, breathing steadily, his face firm, and his gaze was no longer that of an outcast child.
He rose slowly. He could feel everything—every ant crawling under the soil, every insect hiding under rocks, every breath of wind.
His strength was no longer the same.
But he did not yet know that this was only the beginning, the first spark in a coming wildfire that would make the world kneel.
He took his first steps into the forest, without a map, without supplies, without allies.
But his heart had become a weapon.
Far away, among the black mountains, an old sage opened his eyes suddenly, staring at a table made of bones.
"Primordial Blood?"
In the depths of a poisoned valley, crimson eyes blinked open in the darkness.
"The heir has awakened."
In a palace shrouded in mist, a silver-haired girl whispered, her face cold as death:
"He will come. The Path of Blood has begun."
Is he truly alone?
Or are the beasts beginning to gather in the shadows, sensing his awakening power and preparing to hunt?
The wilderness was quiet now, but it was not empty. Every movement, every sound, was felt in his veins, as if nature itself was watching the birth of a power that would change the world.
And so the path began: the Path of Blood, the path of strength, the path of revenge that would make him an unforgettable legend.