The battle rages on, and it's nothing short of a massacre—but not the one I'd hoped for. The orcs just keep coming, relentless and tireless. Korin's arrows slow, his quiver nearly empty. Kirelle's flames are dimming, her breathing ragged from overexertion. Then it happens—an orc's club comes crashing down, sending Korin sprawling. He hits the ground hard, his bow skittering out of reach, and doesn't get up.
"Korin!" Kirelle screams, but there's no time to check if he's alive.
The orcs press forward, their brutish faces twisted in cruel triumph. I step in front of Kirelle, trying to shield her while fending off the attackers with my dagger and shadows. But it's no use. I'm exhausted, my arms heavy, my vision narrowing as my stamina drains away.
We're out of options. It's over.
No.
A cold, desperate anger surges within me. I won't die here. Not in this forsaken dungeon, not at the hands of these monsters. I glance at the bodies littering the ground, the blood pooling around them.
I've tried to avoid this. I hate using it. My bloodline ability—it's too dangerous, too addictive. But if I don't, we're all dead. And I'm not about to let that happen.
I close my eyes and take a deep breath, reaching deep into myself, into that primal, forbidden part of my being. The power is there, waiting, eager to be unleashed.
Blood manipulation.
The moment I tap into it, the air around me seems to shift, thickening with an almost tangible energy. The blood on the ground begins to stir, rising in dark, sinuous tendrils. The orcs hesitate, their confidence faltering as they sense the shift in the battlefield.
"Get behind me," I bark at Kirelle.
She doesn't argue.
I raise my hand, and the blood surges upward, forming thousands of razor-sharp spikes that hang in the air like a crimson storm. With a flick of my wrist, I send them hurtling toward the orcs.
The spikes tear through their ranks, piercing flesh and armor alike. Screams fill the air as the creatures fall, one after another, their blood joining the growing pool at my feet. The power courses through me, intoxicating and overwhelming. It's like nothing else, a rush that threatens to consume me.
But I don't stop. I can't.
I shift my focus, condensing the blood into massive, bladed tendrils that lash out with brutal precision, slicing through the remaining orcs. One leaps at me, and I form a shield of hardened blood, the impact sending it staggering back. Another charges, and I craft a whip that wraps around its neck, snapping it with a sickening crack.
The orc leader roars, finally stepping into the fray. Its runes glow brighter, and it charges, swinging its massive axe with deadly speed. I dodge, barely, and retaliate by forming a spear of blood and hurling it at the beast. It deflects the attack, but I'm already moving, summoning a hail of smaller spikes to distract it.
The leader is strong, far stronger than the others, but I can feel myself growing stronger too. The power surges within me, pushing me closer to the edge. My vision blurs, the world narrowing to the fight, to the blood, to the raw, unrelenting power of my ability.
I craft a massive scythe from the blood, its blade gleaming with dark energy. With a guttural shout, I charge the leader, meeting its axe head-on. The impact sends shockwaves through the cavern, the force of the clash shaking the ground beneath us.
It's a brutal, savage dance of life and death. I dodge and weave, my scythe slashing through the air, while the leader counters with its monstrous strength. Each clash sends sparks flying, the sheer intensity of the fight pushing me to my limits.
And then I feel it—a breaking point, a surge of energy unlike anything I've felt before. My body tenses, and I realize what's happening. I'm on the verge of breaking through, of ascending to Rank A.
I grit my teeth and push harder, the blood around me responding to my will with newfound ferocity. I form a swirling storm of blades and tendrils, engulfing the leader in a maelstrom of destruction. It roars in defiance, but it's no match for the sheer overwhelming force.
When the dust settles, the leader falls to its knees, its massive frame collapsing with a thunderous crash. The cavern is silent save for my ragged breathing.
I stand there, the blood receding back into the ground, leaving behind only the carnage. My hands tremble, the weight of what I've done sinking in. The power still hums within me, tempting, whispering, but I shove it down, forcing it back into the depths where it belongs.
I glance at Kirelle. She's staring at me, her face a mixture of awe and fear. Korin is still unconscious, but alive.
"It's over," I say, my voice hoarse.
But I know it's not. Not really.