The air was heavy... as if the entire cave was struggling to breathe, exhaling bloody steam trapped between the stone walls. The sound of dripping water from the ceiling was like sad whispers, striking the muddy ground and fading into silence.
Ashen stood there, his bare body covered in cracks of wild red energy. His eyes were empty of any trace of humanity, staring into the void — as if he saw something no one else could see, something buried deep within his shattered consciousness.
He slowly raised his hand. He couldn't feel its weight or warmth. Everything inside him was void of life, yet he possessed something else — something older than life itself: the instinct to survive and dominate.
He stepped out from the altar surrounded by kneeling corpses and walked toward the cave's entrance. His steps were slow, but each one echoed like a hammer striking hollow metal. Every step carried a terrifying weight, as if the ground feared being crushed beneath him.
When he emerged, the world opened before him. Sunlight pierced his eyes for the first time in a thousand years. But he felt no warmth — only a strange glare, like a stab of light in a being that no longer belonged to it.
He stood at the mouth of the cave. Before him stretched a chaotic scene of scattered rocks, a massive mountain range extending to the horizon, and the air thick with the scent of iron and blood. But what caught his attention were the people.
Dozens… no, hundreds stood outside the cave. Armored men, surrounded by circles of glowing crimson runes. Their faces were cautious, yet filled with arrogant confidence.
When Ashen walked out quietly, silence fell. Every gaze turned toward him. For a moment, the air was so tense that even their breathing became audible.
Then one of them stepped forward — a thin man with a bloody tattoo on his neck. He pulled out an old parchment, examined it for a moment, then his eyes widened. Raising it high, he shouted in a nervous voice filled with shock:
"It's him! That's exactly his face! After a full year of chasing him — the one who stole the young master's treasure… it's him!"
Everyone's expressions changed. Their eyes burned, voices rose, and whispers turned into chaos.
"Call the commander immediately!" "Inform the young master! No one moves until orders arrive!"
Suddenly, one man stepped forward, his face twisted with hatred as he shouted:
"You filthy thief! You dared to steal our young master's chance? You think you can escape after what you did? Kneel now — any resistance is useless!"
Laughter filled the air, sharp and mocking. But Ashen didn't move. He didn't speak. He didn't even lift his head. His eyes were glassy, completely devoid of emotion.
That silence — that indifference — was more terrifying than any threat. It was as if their existence meant nothing.
Someone yelled angrily:
"Are you mocking us?!"
He raised his hand suddenly. The runes on his body began to glow with savage crimson light. Huge blood circles formed around him, twisting in the air like serpents of raw energy. Then, in a flash, a sharp blood crystal shot forward like lightning toward Ashen's chest.
The air tore apart. The sound was like the whistle of death.
But Ashen didn't move. He didn't even blink.
At the exact moment the crystal reached him, his hand moved with impossible speed — and caught it with his bare fingers.
Time froze. Breaths stopped. Then… the crystal shattered like fragile glass in his grip.
Shards sparkled in the sunlight as they scattered, while Ashen stood still, unmoving, unbothered.
Someone whispered in shock:
"Impossible… he caught a blood spell with his bare hand."
But the real terror began when Ashen moved.
It wasn't a normal movement — it was disappearance.
In the blink of an eye, he vanished and reappeared in front of the man who had attacked him. No one saw how he moved — they only heard the air being torn apart, then saw his hand gripping the man's throat.
Ashen lifted him effortlessly with one hand, like holding a child. His glassy eyes shone with cold, deadly calm.
"Who… are you?" the man gasped.
Those were Ashen's first words since his return — his voice hollow, like it came from a grave.
"It doesn't matter."
Before the man could scream, Ashen's other hand moved in a straight line. No flash, no sound — only a thin red crack in the air.
Then the head fell.
It rolled on the ground, droplets of blood dripping slowly onto the scorched earth. The others stepped back, their shock turning into real fear.
"Attack him! Don't let him move! Use the blood control spells!"
Instantly, the entire mountain range lit up crimson. Countless symbols formed in the air, filling it with the metallic taste of blood.
Dozens of blood spells rushed toward him — red crystals, blood blades, spiked chains, and fiery whips of dark red energy — all aimed at one target: Ashen.
But he didn't move. He simply closed his eyes.
When he opened them again, everything changed.
An indescribable wave burst from his body. The wild intent that had slept since his rebirth exploded like an eternal storm.
The sky turned red. The mountains trembled. The air grew so thick it felt like mud.
The energy flowing from him was ancient, as if it came from an age unknown to existence itself. The land around him became a boiling crimson sea.
Every spell directed at him vanished — not shattered, not dispersed — simply lost its meaning before his absolute dominance.
Those surrounding him began to tremble. Their minds no longer responded. Their primal instincts screamed to run, but their legs refused to move.
They felt something they had never known before — the terror of the first creation, the fear felt by prey when it opens its eyes and sees the predator before it.
Then something unimaginable happened.
Ashen's eyes moved slowly, shifting into a deep black glow laced with crimson threads. Within his pupils, endless spirals of eyes appeared, spinning like gateways to nothingness.
In that instant, his spiritual embryo reacted. The inner eye — the one that sees souls — awakened and merged with his gaze. Then, within the sea of wild intent around him, a phantom took form: two enormous bestial eyes appeared behind him, filling half the sky.
The heavens themselves seemed to shrink under their weight. The air grew thick, and all sounds ceased.
Then… the disaster began.
The giant eyes fully opened. A bloody flash swept through the land like a falling star, and in the next moment, the men surrounding him began to fall one after another.
No screams. No struggle. Only death.
They collapsed, bodies twitching, then went still. From their noses, ears, mouths, and eyes — blood burst out like tiny fountains, painting the ground red.
Silence returned once more. The wild intent faded, but its scent lingered in the air like an unending nightmare.
Ashen stood in the middle of the scene, still and expressionless. There was no regret, no satisfaction, not even awareness of what he had done. Killing seemed to him as natural as breathing.
He lifted his head toward the sky. A gentle breeze passed through his messy hair, carrying traces of blood and ash. Then he stepped forward, leaving without looking back.
The mountains stretched before him like a forest of stone. Each step he took echoed deeply, as if the earth itself bowed beneath him.
In the sky, the faint image of the two colossal eyes slowly faded, leaving behind an everlasting trace of savage aura.
And so, with cold, lifeless steps, Ashen walked away from the cave — leaving behind a field of countless corpses and immeasurable fear.
He didn't know where he was going. But he knew one thing — he had to take revenge. Against whom or for what, even he did not know.