Chapter 352: The Symphony of Blood

Lucas stared wide-eyed as the old man moved with impossible speed, faster than anyone else on the battlefield. With effortless strength he tore apart clawed hands slick with blood—at least, if Lucas’ shocked mind wasn’t deceiving him. Armored warriors, heavy and solid as mountains a moment ago, were shredded as if they had never existed at all.

But it wasn’t just the speed that froze Lucas in place. The man’s aura was something entirely alien. It wasn’t merely power—something lived within him. A hunger. A ravenous presence that reached out, clawing at Lucas’ very soul, desperate to consume him and everyone else in the clearing.

Then the fire began.

Crimson flames erupted across the ground, licking upward into the air itself, two meters high. They twisted and writhed like serpents, more alive than mere fire had any right to be. These weren’t sparks or embers. No, they were towering tongues of flame coiled in the clearing, painting the battlefield in blood-red light.

Lucas stood frozen in horror, only snapping back to awareness when the fourth man collapsed with a scream that echoed like steel scraping stone. Blood poured from the dying, but instead of soaking into the dirt, it slithered toward the armored figure as though the man himself were the ocean, and their lifeblood the rivers rushing to feed him.

“Move! Mages, unleash your skills!” Lucas bellowed, finally wrenching himself from his stupor. His twin blades flashed free of their scabbards. He planted himself in a defensive stance alongside four other warriors, forming a wall before the archers and mages. They had to protect the casters long enough to charge their skills, which were powerful enough to blast this abomination into pieces.

And hopefully, Lucas thought, the man’s armor had some sort of repair enchantment. Destroying such a treasure would be a crime. With gear like that, he could tear through E-grade challenges as if they were nothing.

But how was this man so strong? It made no sense. No F-grade should wield such power—not even many E-grades could. Some kind of boosting skill, then? Was he burning his own life force for this? Either way, it couldn’t last long. No skill did.

Lucas almost smiled. This fight would be over soon, and the fool’s strength would drain away.

On the far side of the clearing, another group pressed their attack. The armored man evaded an arrow from behind by twisting at the last possible instant. Too perfect. Too precise. Omnipresence? Or just blind luck? The shot skewered the unfortunate warrior before him, blasting away his entire midsection. The armored man didn’t even flinch.

Danger Sense, Lucas thought. A rare reward from special quests. The skill warned its bearer moments before a strike. That would explain his flawless evasion. This guy must be absurdly lucky.

But luck wouldn’t save him here.

Already, three melee fighters surged forward to engage him. One lifted a massive battle hammer high overhead, the weapon big enough to crush bone and armor alike. It reminded Lucas of the brutal hammers wielded by orcs. Another bore a spear easily three meters long, glowing faintly with its own power—a sure sign of a high-grade weapon. The third carried a curved blade etched with faint runes.

Lucas’ lips curled. Such weapons would be fine additions to his amulet collection. Between the three groups, the loot promised to be plentiful. Some of his men would surely die, but that was a small price for ascension. Weaker than him, all of them. And after this trial ended, perhaps he’d cull them anyway. Too much wealth divided among too many hands was dangerous. Better to claim it all for himself.

But before that thought could settle, the armored man drew his sword.

A blade of dark red steel, slick as if painted in blood. Flames, the same unnatural crimson, roared to life along its edge.

Lucas’ breath caught. The man’s movements were swift, elegant, terrifying. The three melee fighters never even had the chance to strike. In a single blur of motion, all three were cut apart as easily as paper.

Lucas squinted. Was that a thin sheen of blood coating the blade?

At last, the mages unleashed their spells. His own mage conjured a vertical windblade sharp enough to slice a beast clean in half. The other group’s casters hurled icy lances and cubes of frost. Hope stirred in Lucas’ chest—this was power, concentrated and deadly.

But the armored man merely pivoted and swept his sword in a blur too fast to follow. Crimson arcs burned across the air, carving apart the spells as if they were nothing more than mist. Not only that—the sword drank from them. It absorbed a piece of their magic, glowing brighter and hungrier.

Then he released it.

A single horizontal slash unleashed a wave of mana that screamed across the clearing. The air itself trembled around it, vibrating with destructive force. Warriors caught in its path were torn asunder, while the strike detonated against an obstacle with an explosion of crimson flame.

The blast wasn’t the worst of it. Fire spilled everywhere, alive and writhing. Fighters rolled in the dirt, screaming as the flames clung like parasites, eating into their flesh. Even when a mage drenched the area with torrents of water, the screams did not cease. Lucas watched in dawning horror as their veins darkened, glowing faintly with a malignant red light.

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These flames were no ordinary fire. They were an infection.

The armored man, unfazed, stalked the survivors. Lucas snarled, his patience snapping. He activated his own skill.

“Flamedance. Formation Six.”

Dark red fire erupted along his blades, coiling hungrily, eager to be unleashed. He grinned—until the color of the flame changed.

Dark red. Not bright orange.

Something was wrong.

He hurled the conjured fiery blades anyway, but as they tore free, they twisted, warped—flames dislodging from his control. They struck his leather armor, and the moment they touched him, they grew stronger, feeding on something deep within him.

Lucas screamed as the alien fire spread across his body.

Their mage reacted instantly, drowning him in a conjured torrent. Cold water slammed into him, knocking him forward into the dirt. For a heartbeat the pain dulled, but then it surged back with merciless ferocity. It felt like something had burrowed inside him, hatching, spreading through his blood.

Heat flooded him. Hunger followed.

A strong arm hauled him upright, though Lucas’ vision was a haze of crimson. He could barely see, as though his eyes were bleeding.

“Lucas! What’s happening to you?” a voice bellowed near his ear.

He barely heard it. His legs trembled, then gave way. He screamed, raw and broken, until someone forced a healing potion between his lips. The cold liquid eased the agony for an instant, granting him a desperate breath of clarity.

But then the fire returned—twice as fierce, as if it had devoured the potion itself and grown from it. Resistance crumbled. Pain detonated through every vein, every nerve. His body wasn’t merely failing—it was transforming. Something clawed at his very soul.

And beneath it all was the thirst.

The pounding of his heart thundered in his ears, a war drum demanding tribute. With every beat, the craving swelled. Metallic. Hot. Sweet. Blood.

Lucas’ thoughts unraveled into spirals of desire. He tried to resist, but every effort only made the hunger stronger. His senses sharpened. He could hear every breath, every heartbeat. He could smell blood everywhere—but most of all, the fresh pool beside him, spilling from a comrade’s headless corpse.

No. He couldn’t. He mustn’t.

Think, Lucas. You’re in control. You’re the master of your own thoughts.

But even as he told himself that, his body crawled forward. The smell dragged him like a moth to the flame. Voices shouted around him, dim and distant, drowned out by the intoxicating rhythm of his own heartbeat.

He was on the corpse before he knew it. A dagger materialized in his hand, plunging into the chest almost of its own accord, seeking the heart.

“Is he trying to eat his heart? Lucas, what the hell are you doing?” someone shouted, horrified.

But the words were muffled, irrelevant. The only thing that mattered was the blood. Hot, metallic, alive. He sank his hands into the corpse and drank, gulping greedily. With every swallow, strength surged through him. At first, he had to suck at the wound, but soon the blood flowed into him of its own will, as if eager to be devoured.

His comrades’ voices grew sharper. “Lucas, stop! Your eyes... they’re red!”

“What’s with his aura? Get it together! The armored bastard is finishing the others. We need that armor and those riches!”

But Lucas no longer cared.

He could see the blood inside their veins now, luminous and irresistible. The chant of his heartbeat became a grand symphony urging him forward. His grip on his sword tightened. He lunged.

The red flames obeyed him this time, surging along his blades as he slashed deep into another warrior. His comrades’ shocked cries barely reached him. Prey. That’s all they were now. Prey stumbling back, steps uncertain, fear painting their movements.

Lucas relished the shift. He had changed. He was faster, stronger—reborn.

He cut down two of his former allies with practiced ease. A lance speared him through the back, bursting from his chest. Pain should have wracked him, but it didn’t. Only the song of blood thundered in his skull. He tried to drag himself forward along the shaft, teeth bared for his attacker’s throat. The warrior kicked him off, tearing his insides apart. This time, he screamed.

Collapsed on his back, strength fading fast, Lucas crawled toward more blood. His fingers clawed into corpses, teeth sinking into wounds. He drank, and the blood healed him, knitting flesh, returning strength.

When at last he stood, blood dripping from his chin, he was stronger than ever. His veins burned with red fire, his vision sharpened to impossible clarity.

And then he saw him.

The armored man, watching him with glowing crimson eyes.

The grand symphony itself.

Lucas fell to his knees in awe, staring up at him with reverence.

“This curse is far more potent than I imagined,” the armored man said, his voice edged with something that might have been worry.