The battlefield was a landscape of ruin. Mud clung to armor, horses slipped in crimson-stained puddles, and the air hung thick with the stench of smoke, blood, and iron. Broken shields littered the ground like fallen leaves, and shattered weapons gleamed dully beneath the faint morning sun.
Aren Hale knelt in the mud, the weight of his armor pressing into his shoulders, his fingers trembling as he gripped a sword far too heavy for his strength. Around him, soldiers screamed, clashed, and fell, their bodies adding to the river of blood that wound through the valley like a dark omen.
From the ridge above, generals observed the chaos, their expressions a mixture of contempt and amusement.
"Pathetic," one muttered, shaking his head. "Look at him. Aren Hale… the last of a dead bloodline, crouching in the mud while the battlefield devours him."
Aren had heard the words his entire life. Born of a lineage wiped from history, marked as weak and discarded, he had spent years learning only one truth: the world had no place for those like him. Every taunt, every failure, every mockery had been carved into his soul.
And yet… he survived.
Rain fell in light, cold sheets, mixing with the blood and mud to form a tapestry of decay. Aren's eyes scanned the battlefield, the clamor of dying men and clashing steel filling his ears. He could feel it: the rhythm of life around him, a pulse in every drop of blood, in every scream, in every falter of the soldiers before him.
A voice, faint and alien, whispered in his veins: Blood… obey me.
He froze. For a moment, he thought it was his imagination, a trick of exhaustion and fear. But the whisper persisted, growing louder, stronger. Aren's chest tightened as a warmth spread from his heart to every extremity, a thrum that seemed to resonate with the very earth beneath him.
His vision sharpened. He noticed details he had never observed before: the subtle tremor of a soldier's hand, the slight shift in an enemy's footing, the patterns in the way blood spilled across the battlefield. It was as if the world had slowed, and he could see every thread of life, every heartbeat, every movement.
Aren rose slowly, his knees sinking into the mud. He flexed his fingers, feeling a strange tingling in his veins, and then the voice came again, louder: Blood… obey me.
A single hand reached forward. The nearest fallen soldier twitched, then slowly lifted from the ground. Mud fell from his armor, and a faint red glow flickered across his eyes. Another body followed. And then another. Aren's heart pounded, but not with fear.
It was awe.
The soldiers, once weary and frightened, now knelt before him as if recognizing a power older than any empire. Aren felt a strange exhilaration, but also a weight he had never known: responsibility. These were lives, and yet they moved as extensions of his will.
He tested it. Raising his hand slightly, he felt the connection deepen. Commands were no longer words; they were thought, intention, and instinct. The soldiers moved in perfect synchronization, every step and gesture anticipating his desire.
From the ridge, the generals began to murmur, their laughter replaced by confusion and fear.
"What… what is happening?" one stammered.
"I… I don't understand," said another. "This… this shouldn't be possible."
Aren did not answer. He did not need to. The battlefield itself seemed to bend toward him, obeying his emergence. Every swing of his sword, every motion of his body, was amplified. His wounds, shallow and deep alike, closed before he felt the pain, leaving only the faint glow of crimson veins along his arms.
Hours passed in slow, torturous rhythm. Aren's senses absorbed everything: the cries of the wounded, the stench of rain-soaked mud, the metallic tang of blood. His mind cataloged every soldier, friend and foe alike, noting their strength, their weakness, their potential.
And still, he grew.
The first enemy commander appeared, riding a massive black steed and wielding a glaive tipped with silver. Aren's hand tightened around his sword, but he did not charge. He did not panic. Instead, he observed, calculating, waiting for the precise moment to act. The battlefield slowed further in his perception. The glint of the weapon, the way the enemy's horse shifted its weight, the tension in the rider's stance — all became patterns he could predict.
When he finally moved, it was deliberate, almost serene. A swing, precise and controlled, met the enemy's attack. Sparks erupted, and the clash echoed like thunder across the valley. The enemy faltered, and Aren stepped forward, calm and unshaken. With a final, controlled strike, the commander was unseated, the glaive shattered.
The soldiers around him paused, uncertain, then erupted into coordinated movement, following his silent command. Every strike, every advance, every tactical maneuver flowed naturally, perfectly. Aren had become more than a soldier. He had become a Bloodcommander, a force that could reshape the battlefield at will.
Yet even in this triumph, a weight settled on him. He looked at the rivers of blood, at the fallen men, at the lives he now commanded, and felt a pang of something he could not name. Power came at a price — and it was one he had not fully measured.
He knelt briefly, touching the mud beneath his boots. Whispering, almost reverently:
"They called my bloodline dead… but it lives. And it will rise again."
Around him, the Bloodforged soldiers stood at attention, their glowing eyes reflecting his crimson aura. The generals on the ridge retreated, fear and awe in their expressions.
Aren Hale lifted his gaze to the distant horizon. The empire would notice him soon. Nobles would whisper his name with fear. Generals would plot his death. And enemies… enemies would learn the terrifying truth: when blood obeys the Bloodcommander, the battlefield kneels.
For the first time, Aren felt something he had never known: purpose. Not survival. Not revenge. Not power. Purpose.
The wind carried the scent of iron, rain, and blood. Aren Hale stood, mud and blood dripping from his armor, his crimson aura flaring faintly in the dim morning light. The battlefield, once chaotic and cruel, now obeyed his will.
And this was only the beginning.
Crimson Ascension had begun.