The red light that was swallowing the ashes slowly faded…
Then everything disappeared.
When Ashen opened his eyes, he was no longer in the arena, nor in the gray void.
He was standing in a wide stone hall, lit by warm torches hanging from the ceiling, filled with the scent of burning wood and tribal incense.
Laughter, footsteps, the clinking of cups on tables…
Everything was alive.
His clan — all of them — were there.
Familiar faces, warm smiles, proud eyes.
The young men who had died for him yesterday rushed to greet him.
Children who had not yet been born ran between legs, laughing.
Men and women in his clan's colors greeted him with respect, as if not a single drop of blood had ever been shed in their history.
In the center of the hall sat his mother, drinking tea and smiling gently.
Beside her stood his father, broad-shouldered as always, calm-eyed, as if he had never burned.
Ashen hesitated, then walked forward with uncertain steps.
The closer he came, the more warmth he felt in his chest — both comfort and pain at once.
"Mother…? Father…?"
His mother smiled at him.
"At last, you've returned, young master. You've been gone for so long."
His lips trembled, as if he had forgotten how to speak.
"Is… is this real?"
His father let out a short laugh, one so familiar it hurt.
"What is real, my son? The pain? The blood? Or this warmth you feel now?"
Ashen looked around — everyone was smiling.
The sounds, the colors, the warmth… it was too perfect to be real.
But he didn't want to doubt it.
For the first time in nine hundred years, he felt peace.
He sat among them, ate their food, listened to the old tales he had heard as a child, and laughed with the cousins he thought were gone forever.
The moments were brief, but they felt like a lifetime.
---
Then came the first crack.
A sharp laugh echoed from one corner, but the man's face wasn't steady.
It melted for a moment, turning into a lump of ash, then returned to normal.
Ashen stopped eating and looked around.
Everything was beginning to lose shape.
The torches on the walls started to bleed instead of burning.
The wooden floor turned into living flesh.
The sound of laughter twisted into muffled screams.
"What… is this?"
He looked up — his mother was staring at him.
Her smile hadn't changed, but her eyes were empty.
A drop of blood fell from one eye, then another, and small cracks opened on her cheeks, spilling fine gray dust.
"Ashen…"
Her voice was soft, but broken, coming from a deep pit.
"Why are you crying? We've been waiting for you…"
Another scream echoed, closer this time.
Ashen turned and saw the young man who had died for him clutching his head with both hands as black blood streamed between his fingers.
His face split in half, and from within came thick black smoke.
In an instant, the hall became a hell of fire and ash.
The smiling bodies turned into gray statues that shattered one by one.
Their voices merged into a single echo, like a collective wail.
The air itself screamed, and the light broke apart.
Ashen stepped back, eyes wide open.
"Stop… please stop!"
---
From the ashes, a figure emerged — his father.
The upper half of his body was made of drifting ash, the lower half of burning fire.
Each step he took set the ground aflame.
He stopped before Ashen and reached out his hand.
"My son…"
His voice was deep, yet carried the same warmth Ashen remembered.
"We didn't die for you to mourn us."
He stepped closer, the fire in his body rising with each word.
"Live for our blood."
He extended his burning finger and touched Ashen's chest.
Time stopped.
At that moment, Ashen saw something he had never seen before:
A massive blood symbol swirling inside him, like a star of the primordial lineage.
Interlocking circles, ancient runes moving in terrifying harmony, connected by lines of red light.
Inside his chest, he heard a shared heartbeat — not his own, but the pulse of hundreds of hearts that had died.
Each beat whispered his name.
"Ashen…"
"We are your blood."
"Live and keep us alive."
The fire and ashes vanished suddenly, and the hall went dark like a candle blown out by a cold wind.
The last thing he saw of his father was a faint smile before he faded with the light, leaving behind a single sentence:
"He who remembers his blood is never defeated."
---
Ashen woke up slowly.
He was lying on the bloodstained ground.
His broken body was healing bit by bit — muscles closing, bones reforming, skin regrowing as if time was running backward.
But his face… was empty.
No fear, no anger, no sadness.
Only a deep stillness, as if everything inside him had died, leaving behind only ashes moving by instinct.
He looked at his hand and saw a faint mark on his chest — a large blood seal pulsing softly.
He touched it with his fingers and felt a gentle warmth — not painful, but familiar.
"Their blood… still lives."
He stood up slowly and looked toward the endless bloody arena.
His eyes were calm like a graveyard.
Inside him, he heard the last echo of the dream:
"He whose heart becomes the grave of his clan will never know peace again."