Ryxar Draven's eyes fluttered open, and the harsh reality of his surroundings greeted him. The stench of blood and death hung in the air, thick and oppressive. His senses screamed in protest, but he silenced them. The world was always like this. Destruction, carnage, and the quiet, suffocating pull of the Blood Core embedded in his chest.
The caravan before him was a massacre—a once-thriving group of merchants reduced to nothing but broken carts and scattered bodies. The cold wind carried the whispers of those who had died, but there was no mourning in Ryxar's heart. He had long since abandoned that weakness. He stood up slowly, his long black cloak billowing around him, his dark eyes scanning the scene with cold detachment.
"Another slaughter," he muttered under his breath, fingers grazing the jagged stone embedded in his chest. The Eternal Blood Core—a curse, a gift. Power beyond reckoning, but at a cost. The whispers had only grown louder, their hunger more insistent with each passing day.
"Feed me, Ryxar..."
The voice was always there now, a gnawing presence that clawed at his thoughts, urging him to consume. To drain, to take, to destroy. At times, it was all he could hear. At others, he could silence it long enough to regain control. But not for long.
He shoved the thought aside, focusing on the task at hand. The Bloodshade Bandits had attacked this caravan, seeking something—something that was now his. Ryxar was well aware of their goal. They were after the artifact.
Ryxar stepped forward, his boots crunching against the broken remains of the wagon. His eyes narrowed as he noticed a faint movement in the distance—something, someone, still alive.
The woman lay sprawled on the ground, barely conscious, her face a mix of dirt and blood. Her clothes were torn, and she was covered in cuts and bruises, but her eyes, even through the blood, still held a flicker of life.
"Help..." she whispered weakly, her voice raspy.
Ryxar knelt beside her, ignoring the sickly feeling the Blood Core sent through him. His gaze softened for the briefest of moments, but only for the briefest. He had no time for weakness.
"Who did this?" His voice was like ice, emotionless.
The woman's eyes fluttered open, locking with his. Her lips parted in an attempt to speak, but all that came was a broken cough. She looked at him with a mixture of awe and terror, her voice barely a whisper. "B-Bloodshade... Bandits... They... they wanted the artifact..."
The word artifact struck him like a spark. She was not the first to mention it. Ryxar's hand instinctively reached for the Blood Core embedded in his chest, its pulse quickening in response. His own hunger gnawed at him, but he fought to hold it at bay.
"You're still alive," he said, his voice flat, almost bored. "You should have died with the rest of them."
Her eyes widened in fear, and she recoiled slightly, but there was no strength to back her movement. "Please... you don't understand... they'll come back for me..."
Ryxar rose to his feet, his gaze shifting to the horizon. He could feel them before they arrived—like a dark cloud moving across the landscape. Bloodshade Bandits.
The leader of the group was a hulking brute, his armor dark and twisted, his aura a sickly shade of crimson that marked him as a Blood Ascendant. Ryxar could taste the power radiating from him.
The bandit leader's voice bellowed over the wind as he strode toward Ryxar, his presence imposing. "I knew it," the leader snarled, his hand resting on the hilt of his massive broadsword. "Another scavenger. Hand over the artifact, or I'll make you regret it."
Ryxar's lips curled into a faint, almost amused smile. "You think you can threaten me?"
The bandits fanned out, closing the distance, their weapons drawn. But Ryxar didn't flinch. His gaze was locked on the leader, who was now charging toward him with murderous intent.
The first bandit came at him, wielding a broad axe. Ryxar didn't move at first. The air was thick with tension as the bandit swung down. In a flash, Ryxar sidestepped, drawing his dagger in a smooth arc. The blade slid easily through the man's throat, the lifeblood spilling out before he even had a chance to scream.
Another bandit rushed in, wielding a sword. Ryxar parried with fluid precision, his movements graceful and swift. His dagger flashed again, this time striking the bandit in the chest. The man crumpled, his life snuffed out before he even hit the ground.
The leader, his face twisted with rage, charged in, his broadsword swinging in an arc of raw power. The ground shook with the force of his strikes. Ryxar didn't retreat. He met the blow head-on, his dagger flashing out to deflect the leader's blade with a precision born of years of battle.
The two clashed in a flurry of steel, their auras colliding like thunder in the storm. Ryxar moved with a fluidity that seemed almost unnatural, his body anticipating every strike, every feint. The leader's blows were powerful, but they lacked the grace of Ryxar's precise movements.
In a final moment of brutal elegance, Ryxar dodged one of the leader's wide strikes, slipping in close to deliver a thrust straight into the man's heart. The leader gasped in shock, his blood pouring over Ryxar's hand as he collapsed to the ground.
The remaining bandits, witnessing their leader's death, turned and fled into the trees, their spirits broken. Ryxar didn't chase them. There was no need.
He turned back to the woman, who was now watching him with a mix of awe and fear. She tried to sit up but failed, collapsing back into the dirt.
"You're safe now," Ryxar said, his tone still flat. He didn't offer her comfort, didn't give her a reassuring smile. There was no point.
Her eyes were wide with disbelief, but her words came out in a broken whisper. "Who are you?"
Ryxar's gaze hardened as the Blood Core pulsed inside him, urging him to take more, to consume. He ignored the call—for now.
"I am Ryxar Draven," he said. "And this world will bend to my will."