The wind howled across the barren wasteland, carrying with it the scent of decay. Viktor Draven stood atop a jagged outcrop, his crimson eyes scanning the lifeless expanse. His appearance was striking: pale skin like porcelain, long black hair streaked with silver, and piercing red eyes glowing faintly in the dim light of the twin suns. His high-collared cloak billowed around him, the crimson accents catching the light like streaks of blood. Around his waist hung several belts, each carrying small vials filled with a viscous red liquid, a testament to his reliance on the artifact's power. He exuded an aura of predatory elegance, the sigil on his forehead pulsing faintly—a reminder of the power bound to him and the price he paid for it.
It had been decades since Viktor first drank from the Blood Chalice. Though his body now appeared youthful, vibrant, and almost immortal, his mind bore the scars of over a century of pain and loss. He no longer remembered the face of his mother or the voices of his kin, their memories eroded by the endless tide of blood and vengeance. What he did remember, vividly, was the day his life changed forever.
Sixty years ago, Viktor had been an old man—a survivor in a world that had already taken everything from him. His people, a nomadic tribe that roamed the wilderness, had been reduced to ashes in a mimic attack. The mimics had come not as beasts but as humans, infiltrating their camp under the guise of friendship. By the time the truth was revealed, it was too late. Viktor had fought desperately, wielding his blade with the ferocity of a man who had nothing left to lose, but even his strength had faltered against the sheer brutality of the attack.
When the massacre ended, Viktor lay broken among the corpses of his tribe. He remembered the feeling of warm blood pooling beneath him, the weight of failure crushing his chest. The mimics had left him alive, a cruel gesture to let him witness the aftermath. Dragging his shattered body across the wasteland, he sought shelter in the ruins of an ancient temple. It was there, among the crumbling stones and the faint echoes of forgotten prayers, that he found it: the Blood Chalice.
It had glowed with an eerie crimson light, pulsating as if alive. Viktor felt its presence in his mind, a wordless invitation that promised salvation at a cost. Desperate and broken, he crawled to the chalice and lifted it to his lips. The blood within was warm, thick, and alive, flooding his body with power the moment it touched his tongue. Pain surged through him, a fiery agony that seared his veins and burned away the weakness of age. When the transformation was complete, Viktor was no longer the frail old man who had crawled into the temple. He was something else entirely.
But the chalice's gift was not without its price. The blood it granted demanded sustenance, and Viktor's hunger became insatiable. His once-tired body now brimmed with strength, his reflexes sharpened to a predatory edge. Yet his mind—his mind had become a battleground. The voices began soon after his transformation: whispers of his lost tribe, accusing him, begging him, haunting him. "You failed us," they said. "You let us burn." No matter how far he wandered, their words followed him, a constant reminder of his guilt and shame.
Now, Viktor descended from the outcrop, his boots crunching against the dry, cracked earth. The air was heavy with tension, the kind that came before a storm. In the distance, a small settlement lay nestled in the shadow of a ruined spire. Smoke rose from its chimneys, a sign of life in a world that had so little of it. Viktor approached with measured steps, his cloak trailing behind him like a shadow. He could already feel the pulse of blood within the settlement, hear the steady thrum of life coursing through its inhabitants. It was both a comfort and a curse, a constant reminder of his hunger.
The settlement's gates were crude—wood reinforced with rusted metal—but they would not keep him out. Viktor raised a hand, and the veins on his arm glowed faintly as he channeled his power. Blood seeped from the ground beneath the gate, twisting and contorting into jagged spikes that tore through the wood with ease. The gate crumbled, and Viktor stepped inside.
Panic spread through the settlement as its inhabitants caught sight of him. Men and women scrambled for weapons, their faces pale with fear. Viktor's reputation had spread far and wide; he was a figure of legend and terror, the Crimson Sage who walked the wastelands, leaving death in his wake. He could see it in their eyes—the mixture of fear and hatred that defined humanity. They saw him as a monster, no different from the mimics that hunted them.
And perhaps they were right.
A young man, no older than twenty, stepped forward, holding a rusted sword with trembling hands. "You don't belong here," he said, his voice shaking. "Leave, or we'll make you."
Viktor tilted his head, a faint smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "Brave words," he said, his voice smooth and cold. "But bravery without strength is just foolishness."
The young man charged, and Viktor moved faster than the eye could follow. In an instant, he was behind the boy, his hand gripping the back of his neck. "You've got fire," Viktor said, leaning close to whisper in his ear. "But fire alone won't save you." With a flick of his wrist, he sent the boy sprawling to the ground, unconscious but alive.
The others hesitated, their fear outweighing their courage. Viktor's gaze swept over them, his crimson eyes burning with a cold, predatory light. "I'm not here for you," he said. "But cross me, and you will die."
The voices in his head grew louder as Viktor approached the settlement's center, their accusatory tones clawing at his sanity. He clutched his temples, his veins glowing brighter as he fought to suppress them. They mocked him, their words blending with the cries of his lost tribe. "You're no savior," they said. "You're a parasite, feeding on the weak." Viktor gritted his teeth, forcing the whispers into silence with sheer willpower. But their words left their mark, deepening the lines of guilt etched into his soul.
As night fell, Viktor stood alone on the outskirts of the settlement. He had taken what he needed—supplies, information, and a measure of their blood to sustain him—and left them alive. It was not mercy, but pragmatism. Killing them would serve no purpose, and he had long since abandoned the desire to inflict unnecessary suffering.
It was then he sensed it—a presence in the darkness, sharp and unnatural. A mimic. This one was different from the others he had encountered; it radiated a malevolent intelligence, its form flickering between human and beast as it stalked him. Viktor turned to face it, his crimson eyes narrowing.
The mimic lunged, its claws slicing through the air with lethal precision. Viktor sidestepped effortlessly, his movements fluid and precise. He extended a hand, and blood from the vials at his waist erupted forth, coalescing into jagged crimson spikes that shot toward the creature. The mimic dodged, its form dissolving into shadow before reforming behind him. Viktor spun, his cloak billowing as he summoned a barrier of blood to deflect the creature's attack.
The battle was a deadly dance, each move and counter-move executed with precision. Viktor's powers gave him an edge, but the mimic was relentless, its attacks fueled by an unyielding hunger. Finally, Viktor unleashed his ultimate ability. He raised his hand, and the blood within the mimic's own body rebelled, twisting and contorting under his command. The creature writhed in agony as Viktor's will crushed it from within, its form collapsing into a pool of black ichor.
As the stars lit up the dark sky, Viktor's thoughts turned to the city. It loomed on the horizon like a beacon, its lights defying the darkness of the world. To many, it was a symbol of hope, a sanctuary against the chaos of the wastelands. To Viktor, it was a monument to humanity's cowardice. He despised the city and the people who cowered behind its walls, living in blissful ignorance of the horrors beyond.
One day, he would tear it down. He would show them the truth of the world, the truth carved in blood. For now, he would bide his time, honing his powers and unraveling the mysteries of the artifacts. The Blood Chalice pulsed at his side, its crimson glow a reminder of the pact he had made and the power he wielded.
As Viktor turned to leave, the whispers quieted, replaced by a single voice—his own. "The strong thrive, the weak perish," he murmured, his crimson eyes fixed on the horizon. "This is the truth carved in blood. I am its messenger, and the world will kneel before its eternal flow."