The smell of blood was everywhere.

  It clung to the grass. Hung in the air. Painted his tongue.

  Alistair’s fangs throbbed.

  The hunger crept in slow, insidious. Not a gnawing pain, but a pull. A tightening in his spine. A whisper in his skull.

  Feed. You need to feed.

  He pressed a hand to his ribs. Breathing hurt. The cuts across his chest burned.

  [HP: 43 / 130]

  Not fatal. Not yet.

  But he could feel it, the slow unraveling. The drain from the sunlight. The recoil from the magic.

  And the ache.

  The beastkin’s body lay nearby. The brown one. Muscular. Bleeding. Fresh.

  He didn’t want to.

  He did it anyway.

  He crawled forward, dragging himself over bloodstained roots. His hands trembled, not from pain but from the restraint he was about to break.

  He sank his fangs in.

  Hot blood filled his mouth.

  It was thick, copper-sweet, full of strength and wildness. It rushed down his throat like fire, flooding his limbs, his chest, his brain. The pain faded. The tremors stopped.

  And then the system chimed.

  [Ability Activated – Blood Drain]

  HP Restored: +32

  Status Applied – Adrenal Surge (60s): +2 Strength, +2 Speed

  [HP: 75 / 130]

  He leaned back, licking the blood from his lips.

  It helped.

  Gods, it helped.

  But it wasn’t enough.

  The forest screamed. Spells exploded in the distance. Alistair lifted his head, eyes narrowing.

  They were coming.

  Champions swarming through the trees, drawn by scent or system or instinct.

  Killing each other. Hunting what remained.

  And that's when he heard it footsteps close, fast, headed his way.

  [XP Gained]

  +1200 (Kill: Tabaxi Lv.14)

  +980 (Kill: Tabaxi Lv.10)

  +1050 (Kill: Tabaxi Lv.11)

  Alistair’s vision pulsed briefly as his experience bar surged.

  Not enough for a level. But close. Painfully close.

  He smirked. His hands were still damp with blood. His lips tingled from the feeding. His breath came quick, but steady.

  For the first time in ages, he felt alive.

  Actually progressing. Imagine that.

  Around him, the Arena pressed in, champions spilling in from every direction like wolves who'd scented blood. Most ignored him.

  But not all.

  A few circled at the edge of the trees, eyes lingering too long. Watching him. Measuring.

  Same level. Less bloodied. Better armed. He wasn’t exactly subtle right now. Or equipped.

  He caught one pair of eyes, a wiry dwarf with a tangled beard and an axe carved with old runes. The dwarf grinned.

  Alistair winked back.

  Then bolted.

  He cut through the battlefield like a gust of wind, limbs light from the Adrenal Surge still humming through his system.

  [Status – Adrenal Surge]

  Remaining Duration: 38s

  Buffs: +2 Strength, +2 Speed

  Every footfall hit with purpose. His breath stayed smooth, his awareness sharp. He zig-zagged past dueling champions, ducked under the swing of a halberd, vaulted over the corpse of something that had far too many legs.

  [SP: 101 / 132]

  [HP: 89 / 130]

  Even with the sun overhead gnawing at his stats, his speed carried him like a shadow caught in motion.

  He wasn’t at his best.

  But he was still a vampire.

  Still a monster.

  A bolt of energy cracked past his head.

  He twisted mid-sprint, letting it glance off the ground beside him. A nearby mage cursed in frustration.

  Alistair didn’t stop to banter.

  Not yet.

  But the thrill of the chase pulsed through his veins.

  Alistair ducked a spear, twisted past a spellburst, and vaulted over a pair of grappling champions, all with the unhurried grace of someone dancing through a battlefield.

  Even under the punishing glare of the sun, even drained and unequipped, his movements were sharp. Efficient. Predatory. And while his instincts were sharp, instincts alone wouldn’t block a fireball.

  Get moving. Find cover. Find loot. Don’t die.

  His mana bar flickered in his vision, low but crawling back.

  [Mana: 38 / 82]

  [Regeneration: 1.2/sec]

  He’d need to conserve it. Every spell mattered now.

  Stamina, on the other hand, plummeted with each step.

  [SP: 67 / 132]

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  Nothing to be done. He couldn’t stop. The only thing waiting behind him was death.

  His health bar had mostly recovered, though a portion remained greyed out, sunlight vulnerability. The rest was strong.

  [HP: 75 / 130]

  [Environmental Penalty – Sunlight Exposure]

  Max HP reduced by 20%

  Still alive. Still moving.

  Then he noticed something new.

  A string of numbers hovered in the corner of his vision. Subtle. Shifting constantly.

  [1596/ 1662] → [1479 / 1662] → [1417 / 1662]

  He frowned.

  What the hell?

  They weren’t tied to his stats. Not resources. Not XP.

  And then...

  He watched a high elf get skewered by a fan of ice spikes. They hit like hailstones, bone-snapping, organ-piercing. The elf crumpled mid-scream.

  The number dropped again.

  [Champion Count – Active]

  Remaining: [1417 → 1415]

  A chill prickled his spine.

  Oh. Champion count.

  The Arena was tracking every single life like a stock ticker.

  Because why just fight for your life, he thought grimly, when you can watch it trickle away in real-time?

  Somewhere, the gods were watching those numbers too.

  Betting. Cheering.

  Waiting.

  The thought sickened him and lit a slow-burning flame in his chest.

  Not me, he thought. Not yet.

  He slipped deeper into the trees, toward the heart of the Arena.

  Finally, as the forest swallowed him, Alistair felt a surge of relief wash over him.

  The roar of battle behind him dulled with each step. In its place came a softer chorus, rustling leaves, distant birdcalls, and the rhythmic crunch of twigs underfoot.

  He didn’t stop.

  Didn’t slow.

  The dense canopy above offered blessed shadow, shielding him from the sun’s hateful glare and the constant pain eased. It felt like sanctuary.

  But the system had other ideas.

  When he checked his status, the effect was still active. His attributes still diminished.

  “Of course,” he muttered, ducking under a low branch. “Why would the shade of a giant, ancient forest help? That would be too easy.”

  Still, it was quieter here. The screams behind him faded, swallowed by the undergrowth. The air cooled. Shadows stretched.

  But Alistair didn’t dare stop.

  The echoes of combat still rippled through the trees, distant, warped, hard to place. Whether they were real or memory, he didn’t know. He only knew one thing:

  Keep running.

  His lungs burned. His legs throbbed. Every step became a battle of its own, but he didn’t stop. Couldn’t. Not yet.

  Time blurred.

  His stamina ticked down like sand through a broken hourglass.

  [SP: 54 / 132]

  And then...

  A sound.

  Subtle. Sharp. New. Exciting.

  BING

  He stumbled. Blinked. Slowed his pace just long enough to register the chime echoing faintly in the back of his skull.

  Another one followed.

  BING

  He knew that sound.

  Recognition surged through him.

  [Passive Ability Activated: Treasure Seeker]

  Source: Wreath – Blood Mistress

  Nearby treasure detected

  His mouth curved into something dangerously close to a smile.

  The Blood Mistress's gift. The strange little perk she’d whispered into his soul.

  “Was wondering when you’d show up,” he murmured, scanning the forest.

  Treasure Seeker. Finally doing something useful.

  The pull wasn’t verbal. Not visual either. Just… a tug. Like a thread tied to his ribs, guiding him forward. Despite the ache in his limbs, despite the blurred edges of exhaustion closing in, his mind sharpened.

  What if this was it?

  A weapon. An item. A break.

  Something, anything, to balance the scales.

  He moved fast now, slipping through undergrowth and tangled roots, every step drawn forward by that magnetic pulse.

  Screams still echoed faintly behind him. Steel rang. Magic cracked. But it all felt distant and muted by the rush of anticipation in his ears.

  Then...

  A shimmer.

  Faint. Golden.

  [Treasure Identified]

  Distance: 8 meters

  Value: High

  Status: Unclaimed

  Alistair dropped to one knee beside a massive oak, leaves crunching beneath him.

  The chest was nestled beneath the roots, half-buried and camouflaged by moss and detritus. But the moment he touched it, the system flared.

  [Treasure Unlocked]

  Source: Forgotten Cache

  Tier: Rare

  The lid creaked open.

  The hinges groaned.

  Inside, nestled in velvet, was a small trove of treasure: gleaming gems, polished coins, and magical trinkets glinting with faint enchantment.

  He stared, mouth slightly open.

  This haul, this cache, was enough to fund one of his father’s campaigns without putting a dent in the treasury. The sheer value of it…

  His hand hesitated over the riches.

  Then his eyes locked onto something else.

  A sword.

  Small, delicate, almost hidden among the jewels.

  Its hilt shimmered like glass. The blade itself narrow and sharp, its edge catching the dappled light like ice.

  He reached out, brushing away coins as they clinked to the side.

  It was light. Cold. Deadly.

  And his.

  [Item Acquired – Redcrystal Shortsword of Slaying]

  Classification: Rare

  Attack: 13–16

  Durability: 42/42

  Trait – [Blood Tithe]: +30% XP from kills

  Trait – [Bloodthirst]: Weapon strengthens when fed blood [0/500]

  Alistair ran his fingers along the uneven facets of the blade, rough, unfinished crystal, impossibly strong. A primal connection tugged at him immediately. It felt right. Made for him.

  And when he read that last trait, [Bloodthirst]. A slow, knowing grin curled across his face.

  A weapon that grew stronger the more it killed?

  Just like me.

  It looked… raw. Incomplete. Like someone tried to shape it but stopped halfway. But its edges, gods, those edges, were razor-sharp. Just brushing them drew a bead of blood from his fingertip.

  He hissed, then laughed.

  “Now that’s what I’m talking about,” he said, turning it over. The hilt was unadorned, just red leather, wrapped tight. Functional. Firm. Deadly.

  No gem-studded pommel. No fancy sigils.

  Just purpose.

  Beneath the blade, half-buried in coin, three vials caught his eye.

  He plucked them free one by one.

  The first was a dull red. A health potion. He rolled his eyes and tossed it back in.

  “Useless.”

  But the second glinted with swirls of silver suspended in grey liquid.

  Minor Invisibility Potion.

  He held it up to the light, lips quirking. “You’ll come in handy.”

  The third vial stopped him cold.

  A dark liquid sloshed within, sluggish and thick, pulsing faintly like it was alive.

  [Item Acquired – Toxin Tide]

  Classification: Epic (Consumable)

  Durability: 7/12

  Effects:

  Releases toxic flood on break

  Inflicts immediate poison damage on contact

  Contaminates terrain with lingering poison

  Area remains hazardous for prolonged time

  Alistair whistled low.

  Now that was a weapon.

  He could already picture it, breaking the vial, watching enemies drop, choking and clawing at their own throats.

  “Nice,” he said, grinning like a kid at Solstice.

  He gathered the rest quickly: a small handful of high-value gems, a pouch stuffed with gold crowns, and two sealed scrolls tucked in one corner.

  [Loot Acquired]:

  ? Redcrystal Shortsword of Slaying

  ? 1x Minor Invisibility Potion

  ? 1x Toxin Tide (Epic)

  ? 1x Health Potion (Discarded)

  ? 185 Gold Crowns

  ? 46 Gems of varying clarity

  With no proper bag, he sighed and yanked off his velvet vest, tearing it into makeshift straps and pouches.

  He was used to vaults, ledgers and feasts. Now here he was, elbow-deep in roots, grinning like a lunatic over trinkets and swords.

  “From ballroom to bushwhacker,” he muttered. "Oh, how the mighty have fallen," he mused bitterly to himself.

  He tied the vials to his belt, bundled the loot, and slung the improvised pouch over his shoulder.

  Then, gripping the sword in one hand, he straightened and exhaled.

  “Well, well,” he murmured, gaze sweeping the trees. “Rags to riches. Blood to blade.”

  His eyes glinted.

  “Let’s see who bleeds next.”

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