The Blood Flood surged, rising higher, filling every crevice of the cathedral like a crimson tide. What had begun as a haze thickened into a choking fog, a living ocean of blood that clung to flesh and bone. Zealots staggered, gasping, their chants crumbling into coughs as their lungs filled with the haze. Their eyes reddened, veins bursting in crimson webs across their skin.
Noctis walked among them, no longer stooped or hidden. Each step rippled the tide outward, a sovereign current obeying his will. The woman who had almost cried alarm now writhed at his feet, clutching her throat. He did not look down.
The first scream came then, sharp and raw. It triggered the collapse. Zealots stumbled into one another, their ritual lines dissolving into chaos. Priests shouted for order, but their voices drowned in the thickening mist.
Noctis raised his hand. The Flood answered.
Blades formed in the air, drawn from the haze like steel forged in an unseen furnace. Crimson Arsenal awakened—phantom swords, halberds, and axes dripping with liquid light. They hovered in a slow orbit around him, each weapon a shard of his will, each edge thirsty.
He swept his arm. The Arsenal obeyed.
Dozens of weapons shot forward in a fan of slashing steel. The nearest zealots were carved apart before they could take a step, their bodies falling into the tide, their blood sucked into the mist to feed the next blade. The sound was a symphony of tearing flesh and cracking bone, drowned beneath the hiss of mist and the wet clang of spectral steel.
The Cardinal reacted at last. Raising the black chalice, he spilled its contents across the altar. Chains of shadow burst upward, writhing serpents of iron that sought to bind the intruder.
Noctis turned, his eyes burning brighter. One word slipped between his fangs, quiet but edged like a curse.
"Break."
The Blood Flood surged upward, tendrils of mist twisting into a wall. The chains struck—and dissolved, their metal corroded into nothing by the crimson tide. The Cardinal's face blanched as he staggered back, chalice trembling in his hands.
Noctis advanced. Each step echoed, steady as a drumbeat, the Arsenal orbiting wider, cutting down those who dared approach. A priest lunged with a consecrated blade—only to be split down the center by a phantom halberd. Another tried to chant a ward—but his throat was filled with blood, the words gurgling uselessly as he collapsed.
The Cardinal screamed, voice shrill and desperate.
"Father of Chains! Deliver us!"
The ceiling groaned. The great statue above the altar cracked, iron links carved into its stone arms. But before divine power could answer, Noctis lifted both hands.
The Arsenal struck as one.
Every weapon, every spectral edge, speared forward into the altar. Stone shattered in a storm of dust and crimson light. The statue exploded into fragments, shards raining down upon the faithful. The chalice fell from the Cardinal's hands, rolling across the floor, spilling black tar into the tide.
The Blood Flood swallowed it whole.
The last zealots tried to flee, scrambling toward the cathedral doors. They did not make it. The tide surged with a final roar, slamming them against the walls, bursting their bodies like ripe fruit. Silence followed—a heavy, absolute silence, broken only by the soft ripple of blood mist withdrawing into the cracks of the floor.
Noctis stood alone in the drowned sanctuary, Crimson Arsenal hovering at his back like a crown of blades. Slowly, the weapons dissolved into motes of red light, drawn back into his veins. The mist thinned, leaving only ruin: corpses sprawled in heaps, walls painted crimson, the altar reduced to rubble.
He drew a breath. The taste of iron filled his mouth, sweet and bitter both.
"Sanctuary," he muttered, his voice dripping contempt. "Nothing but a tomb."
The Flood receded fully into him, leaving behind silence and death. Noctis turned, robes dragging through pools of blood as he walked toward the inner door beyond the altar.
Beyond it loomed a narrow archway, barred once by chains, now corroded to rust by the Flood. The door creaked open at his touch, groaning like a dying beast.
The air inside was colder. No incense, no chanting—only the faint pulse of something alive.
He stepped through.
The chamber beyond was carved from black stone, its walls slick with condensation. A single pillar rose at its center, and upon it lay a body—emaciated, bound by hooks of iron and veins of chain. Its chest rose shallowly, a breath pulled once every long moment, as though death and life fought for ownership.
Eyes half-opened. They glowed faintly red.
For the first time that night, Noctis stopped walking.
The silence deepened. The chained figure smiled—weak, broken, but aware.
"...Inheritor." The voice was dry, rasping like ash. "You are late."
Noctis's claws flexed, his own blood stirring.
The Flood had only begun.
The air in the inner sanctum was colder than death. Noctis stood at the threshold, the remnants of the Flood seething faintly at his feet, eager yet restrained. Before him, upon a pillar of black stone, lay the figure bound in rusted hooks and living chains. Its body was withered, skin like parchment stretched too thin, but the eyes—those faintly glowing eyes—held an ancient depth that cut through the dark like twin coals.
"Inheritor," the voice rasped again, cracking with dryness, yet resonant with something older, heavier. "Blood answers blood. I had wondered… if your line had perished."
Noctis said nothing at first. His golden-crimson gaze narrowed, flicking across the chamber. The walls were carved with veins of iron, each one glowing faintly red, pulsing like arteries in stone. Every beat sent a tremor through the chains that bound the figure, as if the cathedral itself was alive, and its heart pinned here.
Finally, he spoke. His tone was low, edged with suspicion."What are you?"
The chained one laughed, a hollow sound that grated against the walls. Dust fell from the ceiling with the vibration."What am I? Once, I was a saint. A martyr to their false god. Now? A prisoner of faith and chain."
The chains tightened as though in rebuke, digging deeper into the figure's flesh. He did not flinch. If anything, his smile widened.
"They named me heretic," the figure whispered, "because I saw what they worshipped for what it was. The Father of Chains does not save. He binds. He devours. And I refused."
Noctis stepped closer, the Blood Flood humming inside him, restless as a caged storm. Every instinct screamed caution. Yet something in the figure's presence stirred his veins, as though his own blood recognized the resonance.
"You call me Inheritor," Noctis said. His voice was quieter now, but sharper. "Inheritor of what?"
The figure's eyes flared faintly, red light spilling like embers."Of wrath. Of vengeance. Of the crimson river that flows before the end. You are the flood they feared, the storm they tried to chain. Your blood is not accident, child of betrayal—it is legacy."
The words struck like iron. Noctis's breath slowed, each exhale heavy. Legacy. Flood. Chain. All the grid's whispers he had glimpsed in fragments now coiled into shape.
The figure leaned forward as far as the hooks allowed, chains rattling with a dreadful harmony. His voice dropped to a hiss."They will come for you. Priests. Hunters. Even your kin. The world will choke itself in chains to stop what you are meant to become. Unless…"
His cracked lips parted into a grin that showed blood-stained teeth."…you set me free."
The chamber fell silent again, the words hanging in the air like a blade poised above the neck.
Noctis did not move. His claws flexed once, the Flood trembling on the edge of release, but he gave no answer. Only his eyes burned, and the chamber's heartbeat quickened in reply.
The figure's grin lingered, crooked and sharp despite the withered flesh. The chains tightened again, hooks biting deeper into his chest, yet he did not scream. Instead, his laugh was a rasping whisper, thick with defiance.
"You feel it, don't you?" His words crawled across the stone, echoing like the brush of steel on bone. "That tide in your veins. That hunger that does not rest. They will tell you it is corruption, curse, madness. But it is not. It is birthright."
Noctis's eyes narrowed, though his silence betrayed nothing. The Blood Flood inside him pulsed, answering the voice as though stirred awake.
The figure lowered his tone, almost conspiratorial."Long ago, before they bound me here, before they named me heretic, I too drank deep from that river. I too felt the chains pressing from all sides. But I refused their Father. I spat upon their chalice. And for that, they pierced my flesh with hooks and bound me in their sanctum, hoping I would fade into dust."
The walls shuddered faintly at his words, red veins pulsing brighter, as if even the stone remembered.
Noctis spoke at last. His voice was low, measured."You call it a birthright. But all I've seen of it is ruin."
The figure's head tilted, eyes flaring faintly."Ruin to them. Power to us. They fear what bleeds without prayer, what devours without permission. Blood unbound is freedom. Blood forged is empire."
He leaned forward, the chains straining. The sound of tearing flesh accompanied the motion, but still he smiled."They have shackled the world in lies. Their god is not a savior—it is a jailer. Every zealot who bowed in this place was another link in its chain. And you, Inheritor… you are the breaker."
The words lanced through the silence. Noctis's jaw tightened, his fangs glinting faintly in the red gloom.
"What do you want from me?"
The figure chuckled, dry as falling ash."Want? Nothing but truth. You must see it for yourself. But…" His voice dropped lower, tempting. "If you set me free, I will show you the path they buried. The rites older than their god. The power of blood before it was chained. With it, you will not fear gods, demons, or kings."
The chamber's heartbeat quickened, chains vibrating with each pulse. Dust sifted from the ceiling as if the stone itself trembled at the offer.
Noctis's claws flexed once. His blood roared in his ears, half urging him forward, half warning him away.
The figure's smile faded into something colder, a shadow of sorrow passing across his broken face."Or perhaps you will leave me here, to rot and whisper to stone. But know this, Inheritor: every chain you do not break will one day coil around your throat. They will not stop. Not until you are bound as I am. Choose wisely."
The words fell into silence, heavy as iron. The figure leaned back against the pillar, his breathing shallow, eyes never leaving Noctis's.
The sanctum held its breath.
Noctis stood motionless, his aura shrouded, his answer locked behind the burning gold of his eyes.
The choice would not be made tonight.
Noctis stood still in the dim sanctum, the chained figure's words dripping like venom, hanging between them.
Then, slowly, his lips curved into a smile. A low chuckle slipped out, dark and humorless, echoing against the stone.
"You talk too much." His voice cut sharp through the gloom. "I don't care about your god. Or your chains. Or the history you choke on. I only want one thing."
He stepped closer, the Flood whispering at his heels. The figure's eyes widened, confusion flickering through the red glow.
"Revenge."
In a blur of movement, Noctis leapt. Chains clattered as he crossed the chamber in a single bound, descending upon the pillar like a predator. Before the figure could speak again, before he could offer another promise, Noctis's fangs sank deep into his throat.
The taste of ancient blood erupted across his tongue, thick and burning like molten iron. The figure convulsed, body writhing against the hooks, but Noctis held fast, drinking greedily. The veins carved into the walls pulsed harder, faster, the chamber itself trembling as though it, too, were being drained.
The saint's eyes flared once in horror, then dimmed. His smile faltered, then broke, lips parting in a final, silent gasp.
Noctis did not stop until there was nothing left. Essence, vitality, centuries of chained power — all drawn into him, feeding the Flood, swelling his core. His grid seared bright, bloodlines igniting with fresh resource until it felt his veins would split with abundance.
At last, he pulled back. The body hung limp, pale and hollow, nothing but withered husk and bone.
Noctis wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, crimson smearing across his pale skin. His eyes burned brighter now, golden fire rimmed with scarlet, a storm coiling within.
He glanced at the corpse, at the skeletal frame still pinned to the pillar.
"I'll leave the bones," he murmured, voice low, deliberate. "They'll serve me better in the crucible… when I'm ready."
Turning, he stepped down from the altar, his aura a roiling sea of crimson power. The sanctum still trembled with the aftermath of the feeding, as if the cathedral itself recoiled from what had been unleashed within it.
Noctis smiled again, sharper this time. Revenge had been fed — and it hungered for more.
The sanctum throbbed with silence. The husk of the chained saint sagged on rusted hooks, its essence gone, its body a pale shell. Noctis closed his eyes.
The Blood Grid bloomed before him.
A lattice of crimson runes stretched across endless dark, every branch glowing brighter than ever. His ledger swelled with stolen essence, a bounty greater than any he had known.
📜 Essence Ledger (Post-Saint)
Blood Essence: 183
Faith Essence: 25
Iron Essence: 12
Soul Essence: 3
Wraith Essence: 1
Apex Essence: 1 (Unique / Wildcard)
⚔️ Claiming the Tier I Foundation
The nodes pulsed, whispering to him. His claws twitched.
He reached first for a faint glyph at the edge of the lattice. The rune flared, and a wave rolled outward from his chest. Hidden lives flickered into his perception, faint echoes crawling in the cathedral's walls. Sense Pulse. A hunter's tool.
Next, shadow coiled in his veins. His heartbeat stilled, footsteps silenced, even his presence folded inward. Ghost Vein. He chuckled quietly — a ghost among zealots.
Then warmth surged. Blood essence wrapped around faith, knitting itself into his flesh. Wounds would mend faster, essence weaving itself into recovery. Sanguine Recovery.
Another node tore free, sharper, hungrier. Pain lanced his hands as spectral talons burst from his knuckles, dripping with crimson hunger. Crimson Grasp. He flexed once, the air recoiling.
Two more nodes lit in quick succession. One sharpened his lunge into a spearpoint — Piercing Fang. Another curved into silence, a strike from shadow that left wounds bleeding faster, deeper — Silent Rend.
Finally, a veil of false sanctity coiled over him, a shroud woven from blood and stolen faith. Sanctified Shroud. Its glow mimicked divine wards, promising to deceive even holy eyes.
His foundation was stronger now — stealth perfected, recovery secured, grappling claws ready to bind, sight sharpened to hunt.
📜 Essence Ledger (After Tier I Unlocks)
Blood Essence: 111
Faith Essence: 20
Iron Essence: 2
Soul Essence: 1
Wraith Essence: 0
Apex Essence: 1
⚔️ Reaching into Tier II
The grid pulsed again. Above his foundation, higher runes awoke, their light brighter, hungrier.
A forge bled fire into the lattice, demanding marrow. He pressed his will into it, and the node roared alive. A hunger not for flesh but for bone answered in him. Sanguine Crucible. The saint's husk behind him seemed to creak, as if it knew what fate awaited it.
Then his gaze found a spiral of runes at the far side of the grid. Dark, sharp, every glyph dripping with hunger. The moment he touched it, his veins trembled. Pain seared his chest, his blood screamed, and the node shattered into him. Exsanguinate. The art of ripping blood straight from living veins, ignoring armor, ignoring prayer.
He exhaled, steadying his breath. His arsenal was deeper, sharper, more merciless than before.
📜 Essence Ledger (After Tier II Unlocks)
Blood Essence: 77
Faith Essence: 12
Iron Essence: 2
Soul Essence: 1
Wraith Essence: 0
Apex Essence: 1
⚔️ Newly Revealed Tier II Branches
His new foundation lit the way forward. Above the nodes he had just claimed, fresh glyphs glimmered faintly, awakened by his choices:
Blood Echo (20 Blood) – Expands Sense Pulse, marks targets through walls.
Blood Chains (22 Blood + 5 Iron) – Binding tendrils grown from Crimson Grasp and Piercing Fang.
Crimson Cocoon (True) (20 Blood + 5 Faith) – A hardened regenerative husk born from Sanguine Recovery.
Assassin's Surge (18 Blood + 5 Faith) – Silent Rend blossoms into chained stealth executions.
Anointed Husk (20 Blood + 8 Faith) – Strengthens Sanctified Shroud into false divine warding.
They glowed faintly, beckoning like veins just beneath the skin. Not yet claimed, but waiting.
⚔️ Tier III Skills
Exsanguinate (Unlocked) – Rip blood directly from living foes.
Bloodstorm (28 Blood + 8 Iron) – Battlefield-wide crimson eruption.
Marrow Forge (40 Blood + 12 Iron) – Evolves Crucible into permanent relic-forging. (Locked.)
Phantom Dash (25 Blood + 1 Wraith) – Spectral burst-step through enemies. (Locked.)
The lattice dimmed, but the hunger of one node still pulsed inside him — Sanguine Crucible.
He turned to the husk. Hooks creaked as the saint's bones strained against their rusted bindings. Marrow glimmered faintly within them, a resource centuries in the making.
Noctis stepped closer, talons scraping against the pillar. With a twist of his claw, he severed the husk free. The body crumpled, brittle and weightless. What mattered was not the flesh — but the bones.
He pressed his palm to the ribcage. Blood flowed from his skin, seeping into marrow. The Crucible ignited.
The bones groaned. Cracks spread, not from decay but transformation. Blood wrapped them, burning crimson runes into their surface. Fragments tore loose, elongating, condensing, fusing under his will. A handle formed, a guard of serrated ridges, and a long, slender blade — pale bone streaked with living crimson veins.
When the glow faded, Noctis held a katana forged from saint-bone, the edge gleaming like ivory drenched in blood.
He drew it once through the air. The sound was a low hiss, as if the weapon itself thirsted.
Noctis smiled faintly. "A fitting grave."
He narrowed his eyes. The world shimmered red as his Crimson Eye of Revelation opened. Runes flared across the blade, revealing its truths:
🩸 Item Created: Saint-Bone Katana
Type: Forged Weapon (Unique)
Material: Bones of a Chained Saint, bound with blood-essence
Core Properties:
Bone-Edge: Cuts with marrow density equivalent to iron.
Faith-Scarred: Residual sanctity resists holy wards and pierces divine barriers.
Exsanguinate Conduit: Amplifies the Exsanguinate skill, drawing blood directly through the blade.
Durability: 100% (stable under Crucible forging)
Potential Evolutions:
Reinforce with Iron Essence → Harden into bone-steel.
Temper with Soul Essence → Awaken memory-echoes of the saint, granting phantom strikes.
Merge with Marrow Forge (Tier III) → Ascend into a relic weapon.
Then he poured essence into it. Crimson Grasp seeped into the blade, coating the edge with serrated talons. Serrated Edge whispered at the rim of his grid, and though not yet claimed, the Crucible's hunger mimicked its promise, lacing the weapon with barbed bite. Exsanguinate coiled through its veins, ready to rip blood straight from any who met its edge.
The katana pulsed once in his grip, alive, eager.
Now he carried not only essence, but a weapon born of vengeance — a saint's bones reforged into a blade that would drink the blood of zealots.
He turned from the husk and stepped into the cathedral's deeper dark. Shadows recoiled from his presence.