The wind was still.
A heavy silence suffocated the mountain range, as if time itself had stopped to watch what had happened here.
The cave walls were coated with a layer of dried blood, but the blood wasn't dead. It moved slowly, as if life hadn't fully left it. In the deep cracks, small drops clung to the stone, then crawled upward against gravity, heading toward the center of the cave—as if searching for something lost.
The air was thick, tainted with the smell of iron and burnt flesh.
The ground was wet, but not with rainwater — it was soaked with something unknown, perhaps blood or the condensed energy of vanished souls.
Ashen didn't realize that his murderous intent was not just power or skill. It was a terrifying extension of his will — his savage will that did not fade, but remained, turning the place into a living nightmare.
In the distance, dozens of red lights appeared.
Marching footsteps approached — soldiers carrying banners made of skin engraved with bloody symbols, and armor lined with ancient runes that gleamed in the dark.
Hundreds of soldiers arrived, led by two men walking in front. One was a young man in a dark crimson cloak, a proud smile on his face that showed arrogance and authority. Beside him walked the leader of the guards — a massive man with dark gray skin polished like stone, and eyes that gleamed like knives in the darkness.
They stopped at the cave entrance.
Everyone who stepped inside felt something pressing on their chest — something unseen, but reminding them of death.
The air inside the cave was alive.
One of the soldiers stepped back and whispered,
"Sir… the smell of blood here isn't like any blood I've ever known… it's like it's breathing."
The young man smiled coldly and said mockingly,
"It's just the smell of fear. You're the one breathing it, not the cave."
Then he pointed forward. "Continue."
The guard leader stayed silent, but he felt something he couldn't explain.
He took out an ancient tablet made of gray bone, carved with black runes, and began chanting a spell to reveal the aura.
But when he uttered the last word, the tablet shook in his hand.
The runes started to melt, dripping down as real blood!
The drops fell to the ground and crawled toward the walls, forming circles no one had drawn.
The guard leader gasped, his voice hoarse:
"The aura… it refuses to be examined!"
He lifted his head suddenly, and his face froze. The wall before him was no longer rock — it had turned into a liquid mirror of blood. His reflection looked back at him… and smiled before he did.
Everyone felt chills running through their veins.
One soldier screamed and swung his sword at the wall, but the blade passed through the blood without resistance — then his body split open from shoulder to waist… with no visible cause.
The blood on the wall rippled gently, as if tasting something it liked.
The young man gave a short, cold laugh. "He's still here… he never left this mountain range, did he?"
The guard leader replied in a trembling voice, sweat pouring down his face,
"Yes, young master… but this entity is dangerous and unknown. We should call for reinforcements."
The young man slowly turned his head toward him, his eyes sharp as blades.
"Reinforcements? What are you afraid of? A ghost? The ones who died here were weak trash. If he's the killer, so be it. We'll find his body—or what's left of it."
He then walked deeper into the cave.
Each step echoed strangely, as if the ground itself was breathing.
Despite his pride, he felt for a brief moment that the shadows were moving behind him, watching him with a malicious smile.
A drop of blood fell from the cave ceiling onto his armor.
When he looked up to find its source, he saw something he would never forget:
Dozens of corpses were hanging upside down from the ceiling, completely dry — as if their insides had been sucked out, leaving only empty skins.
But their eyes… were still open.
One soldier vomited instantly, another mumbled a forgotten prayer out of terror.
The guard leader spoke in a faint, trembling voice:
"He left something here… a trace of his soul, or maybe something deeper…"
The young man ignored him, his eyes burning with a strange curiosity — a curiosity close to madness.
"A trace of his soul? No… it's a trace of his power. Imagine it, commander — a power that erases flesh without leaving a mark, turning blood into conscious energy. If I could control that… I would become immortal."
He laughed quietly, and his laugh blended with the sound of blood still dripping from the ceiling.
Then, the air trembled.
Soft whispers spread in every direction — inhuman whispers, as if the rocks themselves were speaking in forgotten tongues.
Every wall began to pulse, and the red light filling the cave dimmed and brightened again in a rhythm like a beating heart.
The guard leader turned to the young man, his voice filled with real fear.
"This is not a place for men to stand. The ground itself is screaming here."
But the young man smiled, placed his hand on his sword, and answered with an emotionless calm:
"Let it scream all it wants. I came to find who did this, not to run from a rock's cries."
He ordered them to move forward.
The squad advanced, their steps hesitant, the sound of their armor clashing like the heartbeat of something anxious.
But in the shadows behind them, something began to move. It wasn't an animal, nor a human.
It was a shapeless figure, gliding through the walls like water.
The guard leader turned quickly, but saw nothing.
Still, he felt something cold touch his neck — a touch that left no wound, but stole something from him, something within.
He didn't yet realize that a part of his soul had been torn away, without a single drop of blood spilled.