Ash rained down, sticking to the sweat and blood coating Xu Qing's face. Screams of his dying neighbors still echoed in his ears, sharp and agonizing. Far behind him, orange flames licked the night sky, swallowing his childhood home in a greedy maw of destruction. His throat burned with the taste of soot and copper, a bitter reminder of the slaughter he had barely escaped.
Running was his only option. Branches tore at his tattered tunic as he plunged deeper into the forbidden forest, the dense canopy blocking out the cold moonlight. Mud squelched beneath his bare, bleeding feet, but he barely felt the sharp stones cutting into his flesh. His heart hammered against his ribs like a trapped bird, desperate and wild.
Barely fifteen, he had never known the brutal reality of the martial world until tonight. Bandits wearing the dark red crest of the Crimson Syndicate had swept through his village like plague locusts. They had shown no mercy, slaughtering the young and old alike, leaving nothing but ruin and ash in their wake. His family, his friends, his entire life had been erased in a single hour of terror.
"Find the boy!" a gruff voice roared from the tree line, shattering the fragile silence of the woods. Cruel laughter followed, sending a spike of pure dread down his spine. They were hunting him like an animal, enjoying the sport of his desperation, mocking his futile struggle for survival.
Clutching his left side, Xu Qing gritted his teeth as a sharp pain threatened to buckle his knees. Warm, sticky liquid seeped through his fingers, staining his hands a dark, visceral red. Earlier, a stray blade had grazed his ribs during his escape, leaving a deep gash that refused to stop bleeding. Every step felt like a hot iron pressing against his flesh.
Heavy footsteps thudded against the damp earth, closing the distance with terrifying speed. Desperation drove him forward, forcing his failing muscles to push past their absolute limits. He could not die here, not like this, not before he made them pay for every drop of blood they had spilled.
Cold air whipped through the ancient trees, carrying the scent of damp moss and impending death. He could hear the crackle of dry twigs breaking behind him, a constant reminder of how close his pursuers were. His lungs screamed for oxygen, but he forced himself to stay silent, swallowing the bile that rose in his throat.
Tripping over a rotting root, he fell hard, face-planting into the wet foliage. Slime and decay filled his mouth, but he didn't dare make a sound, clamping his jaw shut until his teeth clicked. His hand brushed against something cold, hard, and distinctly unnatural amidst the soft dirt.
Digging frantically, his fingers wrapped around a heavy, rectangular object buried beneath the roots of a dead willow. Pulling it free, he realized it was a book, bound in tattered black leather that felt unnaturally cold, almost like frozen flesh. Faint, unholy symbols were etched into the cover, resisting the dirt and grime of the forest floor.
Whispers seemed to echo from the dark binding, low and enticing, urging him to hold tight. Shoving the heavy volume against his chest, he scrambled back to his feet, ignoring the screaming protest of his injured leg. Torches flickered through the dense canopy, casting long, twisted shadows across the trunks.
"He couldn't have gone far! Track the blood trail!" another voice shouted, closer this time. Panting heavily, Xu Qing scanned his dark surroundings with rapid, calculating eyes. Intellect had always been his only true weapon in a village that valued physical strength he completely lacked.
Calculating his survival chances, he realized they were slim. Zero if he kept running in a straight line through the open woods. Looking up, he spotted a jagged rock formation hidden behind a thick curtain of thorny briars. A small, dark crevice yawned near the base, barely wide enough for a slender youth like himself.
Crawling on his belly, he dragged himself through the thorns, ignoring the sharp pricks that tore at his skin and clothes. Damp air washed over his face as he squeezed inside, entering a narrow, pitch-black cave. Silence enveloped him, heavy and suffocating, broken only by the ragged sound of his own breathing.
Pressing his back against the cold stone wall, he pulled his knees to his chest, trying to make himself as small as possible. Outside, the orange glow of torches painted the entrance of his hiding spot in a sickly, flickering hue. Shadows stretched across the cave ceiling like reaching fingers.
"Where did the little rat go?" a bandit muttered, his shadow passing right across the narrow opening of the cave. Xu Qing clamped a hand over his mouth, holding his breath until his lungs burned for oxygen. Tears of frustration and grief pricked his eyes, but he refused to let them fall.
Images of his mother falling to the ground, her chest pierced by a cold steel spear, flashed behind his eyelids. He remembered the exact sound of her last breath, a wet gasp that would haunt him forever. Memories of his younger sister screaming as she was dragged away by her hair tore at his remaining sanity, leaving nothing but a raw, bleeding void.
Weakness had cost him everything. Because he lacked the talent to cultivate, because his body was frail, he could only watch as his world burned. "He must have headed toward the ravine," the bandit outside grunted, his footsteps finally fading into the distance.
Slowly, Xu Qing let out a trembling breath, his chest collapsing in a silent sob of relief and agony. Darkness inside the cave was absolute, yet his eyes slowly adjusted to the faint, eerie glow of the forest night filtering through the cracks. Looking down, his gaze locked onto the tattered, black-bound scripture still clutched tightly in his trembling arms.
This book was his only possession now. It felt heavy, far heavier than any normal text of its size, as if it contained the weight of an entire mountain. Dirt clung to the frayed edges of the leather, but the symbols on the cover seemed to repel the grime, shining with a faint, oily sheen.
Anger warred with curiosity inside his chest. He was a scholar by nature, a boy who spent his days reading while others trained their fists. Yet, no book in his village library had ever felt like this, pulsing with a faint, rhythmic vibration that matched the beating of his own heart.
Could this be his salvation? Or was it merely another curse in a night already overflowing with them? He didn't care anymore, not when the alternative was dying like a dog in the dirt, unremembered and unavenged.
Dragging his fingers over the rough leather, he felt a bizarre warmth that suddenly began to emanate from the binding. It was as if the book was waking up, reacting to his touch, recognizing the desperation pouring from his soul.
---
Hours seemed to pass as he sat in the damp cave, listening to the distant, fading calls of the bandits. The forest outside gradually grew quiet, the crackle of distant flames dying down to a dull, smoky hum. He was alone, truly alone, the sole survivor of a massacre that would never be recorded in any official history.
His analytical mind, usually so calm and ordered, was a chaotic mess of grief and fury. He visualized the faces of the bandits, memorizing every scar, every laugh, every brutal gesture they had made. They belonged to the Crimson Syndicate, a shadow organization known for their merciless cruelty across the outer provinces.
To face them, he needed power, a power he had never possessed. He had been tested at age ten, only to be told his spiritual meridians were blocked, useless for cultivation. He was deemed trash, destined to live a quiet, unremarkable life as a village scribe.
Now, that quiet life was gone. Only a hollow shell remained, fueled by a single, burning purpose: vengeance. He would hunt them down, every single one of them, and make them feel the same terror they had inflicted on his family.
Staring at the black-bound scripture in his lap, he traced the jagged edges of the cover. The book was devoid of any title, showing only the intricate, twisting patterns that resembled veins rather than letters. It was a forgotten relic, unearthed from the deepest part of the forbidden forest, a place no sane villager ever dared to tread.
Deep within his chest, his heart thudded like a hollow drum of terror and burning vengeance. He knew that taking this path, whatever it was, would change him forever. There would be no turning back, no returning to the innocent boy who spent his afternoons reading poetry by the river.
Innocence was dead, slaughtered alongside his family. He had to become something else, something terrifying, if he wanted to survive in this cruel, martial world. He would embrace the dark, the forbidden, the monstrous, if it gave him the strength to strike back.
Shifting his position, he felt the sharp pain in his ribs flare up once more. The wound was deep, the blood sluggish but persistent, soaking through his tattered shirt and dripping onto the stone floor. He was losing strength, his vision blurring slightly at the edges from the blood loss.
If he didn't do something soon, he would bleed out in this cave, his death unnoticed and unavenged. His enemies would go on living, laughing, and killing without ever knowing the name of the boy they had destroyed. He couldn't let that happen.
Clutching the book close, he leaned his head against the cold stone, letting out a ragged sigh. The copper smell of his own blood filled the cramped space, mixing with the damp earth and rot of the cave.
As his fingers trace the ancient, unholy symbols on the Kitab Kabut Darah's cover, a faint, metallic tang fills the air, and the book pulses with a deep, crimson light, mirroring the blood seeping from his wounds.