Aaron Cross remembered the explosion like a memory burned into glass. The heat, the noise, the blinding white light—he had expected pain, screaming, and finality. Instead, there was silence. A void that stretched endlessly, hollow and indifferent. In that emptiness, he had expected peace. A final release.
He had been wrong.
When he opened his eyes again, the first thing he felt was blood—his blood, yet not. Warm, thick, alive, coiling inside him as if waiting to be released. He flexed his fingers, and the veins in his arms shifted subtly, obeying him, whispering promise, hunger, and chaos.
"Fantastic," he muttered, voice raw and sarcastic. "Dead once, now reborn. Great. Really great."
The room was sterile. White walls, a metal table, faint hums from unseen machinery. A hovering interface pulsed faintly in front of him.
[SYSTEM ONLINE]
[USER: AARON CROSS]
[STATUS: REINCARNATED]
[OBJECTIVE: AVENGE YOUNG SISTER]
Aaron raised an eyebrow. "Reincarnated to kill people? Classic."
[POWER ACQUIRED: BLOOD MANIPULATION]
[ABILITY LEVEL: INITIATE]
[NOTES: YOUR BLOOD IS YOUR WEAPON, YOUR ARMOR, AND YOUR ART.]
He flexed his hand experimentally. A thin crimson thread arced into the air from his fingertip, twisting, almost sentient. A flick of his wrist, and it cut a perfect line across the table, leaving no stain. He smirked.
"This is… kind of fun," he said softly, voice low, tinged with amusement. "Finally, something worth waking up for."
The system chimed again.
[MISSION INITIATED: AVENGE ALICE]
[TARGET: UNKNOWN]
Aaron crossed his arms, leaning back. Curiosity simmered where grief might have been. The world had taken everything once. Now, it owed him amusement.
"Fine," he murmured. "Let's see how broken this world really is."
The city greeted him like a predator. Neon lights reflected in rain-soaked streets, painting fractured colors on asphalt slick with water and oil. Engines roared, sirens screamed in the distance, and somewhere, a building groaned as fire climbed its walls.
Aaron walked casually, bored, hands in pockets, eyes scanning the chaos. Civilians pushed past each other, faces pale, eyes wide. Children clung to mothers, street vendors abandoned carts mid-step. Not one of them looked at him. They were too busy running from their own panic.
He sighed. Humanity never disappointed.
A sudden scream split the air. Flames erupted from a low-rise apartment, curling smoke toward the sky. People stumbled, tripped, fell. The smell of burning plastic and asphalt filled his nose.
From the chaos, an evacuation unit appeared—uniformed, disciplined, trying to herd civilians into safety. They shouted commands, waved, tried to bring order. Too slow. Too neat. Too predictable.
Aaron stepped forward. Not fast, not urgent. Casual, almost bored. The blood in his veins tensed, coiled, eager to obey. Crimson tendrils unfurled invisibly first, then solidified in the air, slicing the asphalt with invisible precision.
The soldiers froze, faces pale. The first one collapsed. Then another. Their bodies moved unnaturally, blood twisting like living ropes, bending and breaking them from within. Civilians screamed, some fainted, some scrambled backward.
Aaron leaned lazily against a lamppost, observing. Hands in pockets. Eyes glinting crimson.
"Relax," he said softly, almost amused. "I'm just getting started."
He moved on. Testing, experimenting. A passing thug tried to grab a purse, screaming like he'd just seen the devil. Aaron extended a finger. The blood in the man's veins rose in sharp arcs, slicing his own arm clean off. The man's scream ended abruptly, replaced by silence.
Aaron smirked, shrugging. "You've got to hand it to them. Always dramatic."
The rain fell heavier now, sizzling against pools of blood and fire. He could feel the city—its fear, its tension, its desperation—like a pulse beneath the concrete. Every heart, every drop of life, was a string he could tug, cut, or crush. And he was just getting started.
Hours passed. Or minutes. Time blurred in the chaos. Aaron wandered through streets littered with overturned cars, shattered glass, and bodies, occasionally testing his blood manipulation. A gang attempted an ambush—five, maybe six men armed with knives and low-grade firearms.
They screamed. He yawned.
He didn't move fast. Not really. He lifted a hand. Crimson tendrils snaked from his veins, twisting around each thug, forcing them to stumble and trip. They tried to shoot, to strike—but their own blood betrayed them. Limbs bent backward, veins ruptured internally. They collapsed like puppets, twitching. Aaron crouched to tie a loose thread around one thug's wrist, casually inspecting the texture of the blood as if reading a book.
"Hmm. Needs more salt," he muttered, flicking his wrist. The blood cut the thug's bindings like a whip, and he slumped unconscious.
A neon sign flickered overhead: "WELCOME TO DOWNTOWN—ENJOY YOUR STAY." Aaron chuckled darkly.
"Perfect slogan," he murmured. "For a city about to bleed."
By midnight, the city was a warzone. Fires burned, alarms shrieked, sirens wailed. Civilians hid in shadows, too afraid to move, and anyone in the streets knew to either run or die. Aaron crossed a wide avenue, ignoring burning cars and the occasional falling debris.
Then he noticed it—a figure, standing perfectly still on a rooftop above the chaos. Dark silhouette, hood drawn, motionless. Eyes, if it had any, were unreadable. And somehow, Aaron knew… it was watching. Waiting.
He smiled, low, sardonic.
"Well, well," he muttered. "Looks like the city isn't boring me enough yet."
The rain fell heavier, blood mixing with water on the streets below. Neon reflected in crimson puddles. Shadows stretched long. And Aaron Cross, overpowered, sarcastic, and unconcerned with morality, had just begun to play.
The world would bleed.
And he would watch.