Pain was the first thing Orion felt.
Not the clean, merciful pain of a blade or a bullet.
This was something older. Deeper. A grinding ache that lived inside his bones, as if his skeleton had been assembled wrong and left to rot.
—hhk—
His breath scraped through his lungs in shallow, burning pulls, each one tasting of iron and damp straw. Cold stone kissed his cheek. When he tried to move—
CLINK.
Chains answered.
Darkness pressed in, broken only by a thin blade of torchlight leaking through iron bars ahead.
…Not my body.
The realization came with terrifying clarity, sharp and undeniable. Memories rose unbidden.
Earth.
A leaking orphanage roof in winter.
Graveyard shifts at a convenience store.
Headlights.
A truck that didn't stop at the crosswalk.
A meaningless death.
Then—
Nothing.
Now this.
Orion stayed still, forcing his breathing to slow. Panic was useless. Panic was for people who still believed the world cared.
He listened.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
Water somewhere nearby.
Muted voices above, distorted by stone.
And from the cell beside him—a wet, animal snuffle. Large. Hungry.
He shifted his weight.
White agony detonated through his body.
—KRSH—
His vision dimmed. His left leg folded uselessly beneath him, refusing to bear even a fraction of his weight. He bit down hard, swallowing a scream.
Thin arms. Protruding ribs. Skin stretched tight over bone.
A boy's body.
Fourteen. Maybe fifteen.
Malnourished. Scarred. Broken.
His fingers traced his shoulder—one sat higher than the other, a bone that had healed wrong and been left that way.
Perfect, he thought coldly.
They gave me the discard pile.
With effort that made sweat bead along his spine, he dragged himself into a sitting position against the wall.
CLINK—CLANK.
Chains rattled.
The movement tore at scabs along his back.
Whip marks.
Fresh and old, layered together like rings in a dead tree.
This body had been used.
Recently.
A memory surfaced—not his, yet undeniable.
Mud soaking into his knees.
A boot grinding between his shoulder blades.
Laughter. Armored men.
A voice spitting a name—
"Cursed whelp."
His gaze drifted to his left forearm.
There.
A brand.
A circle split by a jagged line, burned deep into flesh.
Slave mark.
Property of House Valthor.
The skin around it was swollen, crusted with yellowed pus.
Infection.
Untreated.
Without medicine… days, maybe a week.
Orion smiled faintly.
No humor touched his eyes.
First problem, then.
Don't die before I start.
The cell was small and wet, carved straight into bedrock beneath Blackiron Keep—the border fortress of the Kingdom of Valthor. The borrowed memories whispered truth into his thoughts.
Slaves like this one weren't meant to live.
Mine fodder.
Beast bait.
Ritual offerings for mages who needed "impure blood."
Tomorrow—
Execution day.
The crippled.
The sick.
The failures whose blood affinity was too thin to awaken.
Convenient timing.
Orion closed his eyes.
If this was that kind of world—and floating torches and magical slave brands strongly suggested it—then there should be—
—CHIME—
A sound felt more than heard.
Blue light bloomed behind his eyelids.
[Bloodfallen System Initializing…]
[Host Compatibility: 99.7% — Fallen Blood Resonance Detected]
[Binding Complete.]
[Welcome, Inheritor.]
Orion's heart skipped.
Then steadied.
A translucent panel hovered in his vision, sharp and unreal, like augmented reality text suspended in darkness.
Name: Kai Voss (Host Soul) / ??? (Vessel)
Age: 15 (Vessel)
Rank: Mortal (Unawakened)
Bloodline: dormat Fallen Fragment (Sealed)
Strength: 3
Vitality: 4
Affinity: 1
Shadow: 0
Skills: None
Titles: None
A new line burned itself into existence.
[Hidden Quest Generated: Survive the Cleansing]
Objective: Escape execution before dawn
Reward: First Blood Awakening
Failure: Death
Time Remaining: 9:47:12
Orion exhaled slowly.
There it was.
The cheat.
The golden finger every transmigrator dreamed of.
And yet—
Strength 3.
An average adult on Earth would have been 10.
Vitality 4 meant this body was already halfway to the grave.
Affinity 1.
No wonder they were killing him. His magic potential was trash.
They think I'm worthless.
His gaze hardened.
Right now… they're not wrong.
Footsteps echoed down the corridor.
THUD. THUD.
Heavy boots. Approaching.
Torchlight flared brighter.
Two guards.
One laughed—a wet, phlegmy sound.
"…Tomorrow the little cripple goes to the pit. Lord Cassian says his blood's too thin even for the hounds."
"Shame," the other replied. "Pretty eyes. Could've sold him to the pleasure houses if he weren't broken."
Chains rattled elsewhere as other prisoners stirred.
Someone whimpered.
The guards stopped at Orion's cell.
JINGLE.
Keys.
KRRRREEE—
The door swung open.
Light flooded in.
Orion sat slumped against the wall, head bowed. Dark hair matted with filth and dried blood. A ragged fur cloak—more holes than fur—hung loose over narrow shoulders. Patched rags barely clung to his frame. Bare feet crusted with grime. Ankles raw from iron cuffs.
His crippled leg lay twisted at an ugly angle.
He looked exactly like what they expected.
A half-dead slave waiting to be thrown away.
The bearded guard sneered. "Still breathing, rat? Good. Makes it more fun when they drop you in."
The younger one kicked a wooden bowl across the floor.
CLACK—SPLASH.
Thin gray slop sloshed inside.
"Eat up. Last meal."
Orion didn't move.
Then—slowly—he dragged himself forward on one knee.
SCRAPE. CLINK.
Chains rasped against stone.
His head stayed bowed. His hands trembled. Weak. Broken.
Inside, his mind was cold and precise.
Distance to the bars.
Angle of the torch.
Keys on the younger guard's belt.
Heartbeat rhythm.
He reached the bowl and lifted it with shaking fingers, slurping noisily. Slop dribbled down his chin.
The guards laughed.
Then turned away.
KRR—CLANG.
The door locked.
Darkness reclaimed the cell.
Orion set the bowl down.
Carefully.
His hands no longer shook.
He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand and stared at the faint glow of the system panel only he could see.
Nine hours.
Plenty of time.
Beneath the skin of his branded forearm, unseen in the dark—
A faint red light pulsed.
Thump.
Thump.
The Fallen Blood was waking.
And Orion—
Had never been the type to stay weak for long