The forest was silent.
Varlin knelt, watching the deer's breath. Its chest rose and fell slowly, drawing in the cold of the soil. He raised his blade.
And then—
The wind stopped.
Leaves froze in place, birds fell silent all at once.
As if the forest itself… was listening.
Varlin's hand froze midair.
A cold sweat formed on his brow.
Something was wrong.
The deer suddenly thrashed, struggling as if to tear free. Its eyes were wide with terror. Then it fled. Varlin did not stop it. The hunt no longer mattered.
The air grew heavy.
Breathing became difficult, an invisible weight pressing against his chest. Varlin stood and scanned his surroundings. Thin cracks had appeared along the tree trunks, as if the ground beneath them was straining.
He lifted his head.
The moon…
It was neither pale nor bright.
It had no light, yet it existed.
Like a wound hanging in the sky.
Its color was uncertain—close to red, but deeper, more suffocating.
The horse neighed.
Varlin noticed the animal trembling. Its ears were pinned back, eyes locked onto the darkness. He had spent years on these lands, but reactions like this were rare.
This was a blood resonance…
A faint vibration rose from beneath the ground. Under his feet, barely perceptible, yet persistent.
This was not an attack.
This was not a call.
This… was a price.
Varlin's expression hardened. He tightened his grip on the reins. A thought he did not wish to name slowly began to take shape inside him.
He mounted his horse.
"To the village," was all he said.
The horse tore down the dirt road. As the trees fell behind them, animal cries rose from deep within the forest—panic, flight, fear.
The moon remained above, watching every step.
Varlin felt his heart beating faster than it should. A sensation he had not felt in years—one he had tried to forget—was returning.
Something like this…
Always cost a life.
And for the first time, he was truly afraid.
When Varlin reached the entrance of the village, the horse stopped on its own.
There were no screams,
no crackle of fire.
Only… too much silence.
The wind carried the scent of burned wood, but no smoke rose. The fire was already over. Whatever had happened had occurred very recently.
Varlin dismounted.
The moment his foot touched the ground, he felt something off. The soil was wet.
But it hadn't rained.
He took another step.
He saw the first body.
A guard lay face-down beside the watch post. His armor was shattered. There was a single cut across his throat.
But the blood…
The blood was wrong.
What should have been red was dark, almost black. The ground had not absorbed it. It was as if the blood had poisoned the soil.
Varlin knelt. He moved his fingers close, but did not touch it.
"This… is no ordinary wound."
He stood.
Looked into the village.
Doors stood open. Some houses were burned, others half-standing. Bodies lay scattered along the street.
Women.
Children.
Unarmed villagers.
All bore the same mark.
The aftermath of blood arts.
Varlin clenched his jaw.
Then—
Footsteps.
He slipped into the shadows.
Near the center of the village, in front of a collapsed house, two men stood. They wore dark clothing, their faces half-covered by masks. Their eyes were expressionless.
One crouched, examining the blood-soaked ground.
"This many bodies… the Lord overdid it."
"Keep your voice down. Cursed blood was used. The traces are still fresh."
The other straightened, disgust evident in his posture.
"All this destruction, caused by a woman? Ridiculous."
"Not ridiculous. Dangerous."
Varlin's gaze sharpened.
A woman… and a baby.
"They might have escaped."
"Then we follow the trail. Someone who used blood arts can't hide that easily."
Varlin stepped out of the shadows.
He did not shout.
He did not warn them.
He simply walked.
He drew his dagger and cut his palm. Blood dripped onto the ground.
The shadows moved.
Varlin's presence blended into the air itself.
When the first assassin turned around, it was already too late. Varlin's hand was on his throat. With a single motion, he snapped the nearest man's neck.
The second reached for his sword, but Varlin's fist slammed into his chest, driving the breath from his lungs. The man dropped to his knees.
Varlin grabbed him by the collar.
His voice was calm.
"The woman and the baby."
"Where are they?"
The man coughed blood—and smiled.
"You're too late… old man."
Varlin tightened his grip slightly.
"What did you do to them?"
The man's eyes dimmed.
"Blood… swallowed everything…"
When Varlin released him, the body was already lifeless.
He stood.
And then he realized—
There were too many corpses here.
All the assassins were present. None had made it back.
Blood trails stretched out of the village. But this was not the mark of an escape.
This… was a final walk.
The land was not dead.
The land was drained.
The ground did not look burned—it looked hollowed out. As if the world had breathed in blood for a moment, and never exhaled.
The trees were not uprooted. Their insides had burst. Bark remained standing, but nothing lived within.
The bodies were not scattered. They were arranged.
Some on their knees,
some still gripping their weapons.
There was no fear on their faces.
Only emptiness.
Varlin walked.
With every step, he felt the ground give way slightly. The blood had been drawn underground, but the scent remained—metallic, wet, suffocating.
He passed one corpse. There was no wound in its chest, yet it had collapsed inward. Its heart… had been pulled out along with the blood.
She didn't call the blood, he realized.
She spent it.
The space narrowed.
And then he saw her.
Lira.
She was on her knees. No one stood near her—because no one had endured this far.
Her hands were buried in the soil. Her fingers were not coated in blood, but in life itself. Her back was soaked red, yet nothing flowed.
Because there was nothing left to flow.
Varlin fell to his knees.
Lira.
Her hair was matted with blood. Her hands trembled. Before her lay a complex pattern drawn in blood—completed, yet still alive. As if the earth itself refused to forget it.
Varlin took a step.
Lira lifted her head.
She smiled.
"You're late," she said weakly.
Varlin's knees trembled.
"My daughter…" he said without thinking.
"You chose not your own blood… but another's fate."
Lira's breath came in broken gasps.
"There was no other way," she said.
"The blood… didn't choose me…"
Her eyes shifted to the small bundle beside her.
"…It chose him."
Varlin knelt.
At the center of the earth, wrapped in cloth, lay a small body. Not a single drop of blood had touched it. As if the pattern had deliberately protected him.
Lira's hand slowly fell.
The earth fell silent.
The moon faded in the sky, its color draining away. The weight slowly lifted, but something remained—a hollow that could never be filled.
Varlin gathered Lira into his arms.
This time, he did not shout.
He did not cry.
He simply lowered his head.
Blood had taken its price.
But this time, the price…
was not his.