The corridor widened, and the black stone gave way to something older.
Blaine stepped out of the narrow passage into a chamber that felt less like a hunting ground and more like a graveyard. The walls were carved—not by claws, but by tools. Faint patterns, long eroded, traced the stone in spirals and sharp angles. The floor was smooth, worn down by centuries of footsteps that no longer echoed.
Someone built this place. Before the creatures. Before the gates. Someone was here first.
The warmth in his chest pulsed once. Not warning. Recognition. The bloodline had felt this place before. Or something like it.
He moved through the chamber, the pipe loose in his grip. The scan picked up nothing. No signatures. No movement. The silence was thick, pressing against his ears like cotton. In a zone full of predators, an empty room was never a good sign.
Then he saw it.
A corpse. Human. Not fresh—it had been dead for days, maybe weeks. The body was propped against the far wall in a seated position, legs stretched out, hands folded in its lap. The posture was too deliberate. Too composed. This person hadn't died fighting. They had been placed here. Arranged.
Someone left a message.
Blaine crouched beside the body. Male. Middle-aged. No visible wounds. No signs of struggle. The skin was pale and drawn, but the expression was calm. Resigned. The hands—callused, scarred—held a small object: a fragment of black stone, polished smooth. Engraved on its surface was a single symbol. Two parallel lines crossed by a third. Simple. Precise.
The rival's mark.
The warmth pulsed again. Stronger this time. Not recognition now. Interest.
How old are you?
No answer. Only the steady rhythm behind his heartbeat, patient and deep. But the question lingered. The bloodline had felt this place. Felt the mark. It knew something it wasn't sharing—or couldn't share yet.
Blaine studied the corpse. The cause of death wasn't obvious until he noticed the faint discoloration around the temples. Not bruising. Burn marks. Internal. Something had overloaded the brain.
A system user. Killed by his own power. Or by someone who could turn it against him.
The rival. The one who crossed before. The one who mastered control. This was his work. Not a fight—an execution. Clean. Precise. A message left for anyone who found it.
He's telling me something. Not threatening me. Testing me. Can I read the signs? Can I follow the trail?
Blaine stood. The polished stone felt cold in his palm. He slipped it into his pocket. A marker. A breadcrumb. The rival was ahead of him. Somewhere beyond the inner wall. Somewhere beyond the gates. But he wasn't hiding. He was leaving a path. An invitation.
He wants me to follow.
The chamber ended in a narrow archway. Beyond it, the black stone shimmered with faint, dying light. The air shifted. Thin. Wrong. The same pressure he'd felt at the first gate, but stronger. Closer.
The inner wall is near. The real gate.
He stepped through the archway and into a corridor that sloped downward. The darkness thickened. The scan flickered, unable to stabilize. The bloodline pulsed in time with his steps. Not warning. Not guiding. Just present. A partner walking beside him in the dark.
We're getting closer. To the gate. To him. To whatever comes after.
The corridor ended at a door.
Not a crack in reality. A real door. Old wood. Iron hinges. A handle worn smooth by use. It looked out of place here, in the depths of Sector 9, surrounded by black stone and ancient carvings. It looked human.
Blaine stopped. The pipe came up. The warmth behind his ribs held steady.
He pushed the door open.