Alistair stood at the base of it, Buddy at his side, every instinct screaming at him to keep his head down, his posture deferential, his mouth shut. Which he did.
Mostly.
She hadn’t said anything for a while. Just watched him. Smiled with her mouth, not her eyes. That was always the dangerous kind.
Then she leaned forward, resting her elbow on the thigh of a faceless acolyte who trembled at her touch.
“Tonight,” she said, voice syrup-thick and loud enough to make the walls listen, “a banquet will be held in your honor, Alistair.”
The room didn't cheer. It exhaled. A hushed wave of motion, robed servants nodding, shadows shifting like they'd been waiting for her to say it all along.
Alistair blinked. “A banquet?”
“Of course.” She smiled, slow and dreadful. “The gods are curious. Some are... smitten. You’ve become… popular.”
That last word was laced with something he didn’t like. Something possessive.
“You mean I’m the Pantheon’s latest chew toy.”
She chuckled. “You’re more than that. You’re the wager. The wildcard. A Soulbinder with a hellhound, a glimmering scorecard, and just enough chaos to keep the gods entertained.”
“And this is my reward?”
“No. This is your debut.”
He swallowed. “Lucky me.”
"You’ve made quite the impression,” she continued, brushing blood from her nail like it was powdered sugar. “The bets have grown absurd. Even my rivals have started tuning in.”
Alistair cleared his throat. “So... it’s a dinner party?”
She grinned. “Of sorts. But first rest. You’ve earned a few hours of indulgence. I want you... polished. Presentable. You will be the centerpiece.”
That didn’t sound like a compliment.
With a flick of her wrist, she dismissed him. “Go. Bathe. Rest. Dress well. I want you gleaming when they see you.”
Two attendants in red stepped forward, heads bowed, palms extended. One gestured silently for Alistair to follow. The other turned to Buddy, who growled low and bared his fangs.
The attendant didn’t flinch. Instead, he whispered a word in some ancient tongue, and a shimmer of silver magic raced across the floor and wrapped around Buddy like steam. The hellhound yelped, stumbled, then froze.
Alistair spun. “Hey! what the hell did you...”
Then stopped.
Buddy was clean.
Like… clean. Fur brushed to a sheen, blood and gore gone, teeth white and gleaming like polished ivory. He looked like some beastly showdog prepped for a royal parade. He looked… furious.
Buddy snarled, but it was cut off mid-growl. The hellhound trembled with affront.
“You look like someone’s prized pony,” he muttered.
Buddy growled low and glared murderously at the air.
Alistair patted his side. “Don’t worry. I’m sure they’ll put a ribbon on you too.”
Buddy growled again, less threatening this time, more wounded pride.
“I know, bud. I feel violated for you.”
The red-cloaked attendants gestured again, silent and urgent.
Alistair sighed and followed.
They walked in silence through the palace. The corridors twisted like arteries, arched, pulsating faintly with power. There was no dust, no scent, no warmth. Just the sound of his boots on slick marble and the flickering glow of runes that slithered along the walls like whispers.
Eventually, they reached a set of blackstone double doors the height of a cathedral. The moment the attendants touched them, the doors swung open without a sound.
Alistair stepped inside.
And stared.
The chamber was absurd.
Vaulted ceilings arched impossibly high, their surfaces traced with veins of crimson glass that pulsed gently, like a heartbeat behind stone. The floor was velvet, actual velvet, so plush it muffled his footsteps. In the center of the room sat a bath the size of a village pond, steaming gently, surrounded by obsidian tile and candles suspended midair.
And lounging all around it, posed across divans, sprawled on silken cushions, reclining against the marble edge, were people.
No. Not people.
Beauties.
Dozen of them.
Men. Women. And others that defied category, fluid, otherworldly, perfect in ways that made Alistair’s brain itch. Their bodies gleamed, oiled and bare, expressions soft and inviting. Each one watched him with anticipation, hunger, willingness.
Alistair took one step inside and stopped. Buddy padded up beside him, looked at the scene, then looked at Alistair with something disturbingly close to judgment.
“I know what this looks like,” Alistair muttered. “And yes, I’m also horrified.”
One of the lounging figures, a statuesque woman with molten-gold hair and nothing but a crimson ribbon around her throat rose and approached him.
“Champion,” she purred. “You’ve arrived.”
“Noticed that, did you.”
She stopped just shy of touching him. “We are here to prepare you.”
“For the banquet?”
“For anything you desire.”
Oh no.
Another figure approached, a pale-skinned man with silver piercings and black eyes like tar. “The Bloodmistress has offered us freely. You may feed, touch, command.”
Alistair lifted both hands. “Okay. First off, I just got out of a god-sanctioned bloodbath. Second, does nobody in this city believe in boundaries?”
They didn’t laugh.
They smiled.
Which was worse.
One of them reached for his cloak. Another gently tugged at his vambrace. The golden-haired woman extended her hand toward his face, slow and reverent.
“You’ve done great things,” she said. “Let us give you peace. Just for a moment.”
Alistair stood still. So still.
Then exhaled.
“Fine. But if this turns into a human charcuterie board, I’m flipping a table.”
He didn’t resist when they undressed him. He did flinch when one began massaging his shoulders and another fed him a fig laced with something sweetly narcotic.
“Careful,” he warned, eyes half-lidded. “I bite.”
They laughed like bells.
He let himself be lowered into the bath. The water was the perfect temperature, of course it was. Scented with spices he couldn’t name. One attendant poured something over his head, another scrubbed his arms. Somewhere nearby, someone started playing a harp.
Of course.
Alistair leaned back, eyes closed.
“This is either the best trap ever designed,” he murmured, “or the world’s most aggressive honeymoon.”
No one answered.
Not that he expected them to.
They bathed him.
With oils. Perfumes. Strange salts that made his skin feel like it didn’t belong to him anymore. They massaged his shoulders. His legs. One plucked invisible threads from his hair. Another fed him slices of fruit soaked in wine he couldn’t name. One sang while cleaning beneath his nails. Buddy growled every five minutes just to feel heard.
It was, objectively, the most luxurious experience of his life.
And it was wrong.
Too clean. Too silent. Too practiced.
Even pleasure, here, was just another performance.
“I don’t trust anything that doesn’t squeak,” Alistair muttered, slumped in a sunken lounge chair while someone rubbed lotion into his calves.
One of the attendants cocked their head. “Squeak?”
“You wouldn’t understand.”
As he sat among a sea of too-perfect bodies, a glass of violet wine in one hand and a velvet robe on his shoulders, Alistair stared into the bath’s steaming surface and muttered:
“What kind of banquet is this, exactly?”
Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author's consent. Report any sightings.
The hooded attendant standing nearby answered without hesitation.
“One where you are expected to survive.”
Alistair drained the wine. “Of course it is.”
Alistair lay in a sea of limbs and silk.
The bed was ludicrous. Bigger than some town squares he’d passed through. Pillows everywhere, scattered like casualties of some decadent war. Bodies draped over every surface, dozing, sighing, glowing faintly from the blood loss in that blissed-out way only the truly willing manage.
He was half-covered in them. Chest smeared faintly red, lips stained deeper. His fingers curled in a mane of silver hair belonging to a moaning elf with gold tattoos. Someone was snoring into his thigh. Another was giggling quietly in her sleep.
And he felt...
Amazing.
Terrifyingly amazing.
His heart was actually beating from the excess blood he had consumed. The blood was singing in his veins. Each servant he fed from had tasted different, notes of sorrow, lust, hope, raw ambition. No bland nourishment here. Each sip had been a gourmet explosion. And he'd... overindulged.
He licked his lips. Smiled lazily. Turned his head.
A horned woman lay beside him, dark-skinned and glossy with sweat. Her neck bore the faintest set of fang marks.
“You,” he murmured, “taste like secrets wrapped in cinnamon.”
She giggled. Or moaned. Possibly both.
He kissed her shoulder, her collarbone. His fangs slid free and sank gently into her neck.
Her fingers curled against his side. She shivered.
[+4 HP Restored.]
It wasn’t about the numbers. Not tonight. It was about...
DING.
A notification blinked in his vision.
Then another.
Then five more.
Alistair groaned and pulled away, fangs retracting as he flopped onto his back, arms stretched dramatically.
“Darling,” he said to the woman breathlessly cradled against him, “if I don’t check these alerts, I fear the system might revoke my immortality.”
She giggled again, too dazed to respond. Someone else kissed his knee.
Alistair’s eyes turned glassy as he focused on the incoming flood.
[System Notification: Level Up!]
New Level: 24
+12 Attribute points
+9 Agility
+6 Dexterity
More messages poured in:
[Skill Increase – Light Armor: Level 11]
New Passive Ability Unlocked: [Blood-Dyed Leathers]
Type: Passive – Light Armor
Effect: Whenever you kill a target with a melee attack, gain +2% damage resistance for 10 seconds. Stacks up to 3 times.
Lore: “The more you bleed others, the harder you are to hurt.”
[Skill Increase – Dual Wielding: Level 12]
New Passive Ability Unlocked: [Offhand Savagery]
Your offhand strikes deal 15% increased damage if they follow a successful main-hand hit.
[Skill Increase – Short Blades: Level 12]
Bleeding duration extended by 1s. Bonus crit chance: +2%.
[Skill Increase – Swordsmanship: Level 17]
Precision and control improved. Melee stamina cost reduced by 5%.
[Leadership Domain: Level 12]
New Active Ability Unlocked: [Battle Testament]
Type: Active
Cooldown: 180 seconds
Effect: For the next 15 seconds, all assigned allies share 20% of their damage taken with you.
While active, you gain +2 to all stats per connected ally and regenerates 3 HP per second.
Lore: “Their pain becomes mine. My rage becomes theirs.”
“Umm,” Alistair muttered. “Who said I wanted to become a martyr?”
[Thorncall: Level 2]
Thorn projection range increased by 1m. Poison duration extended slightly.
[Dark Magic: Level 8]
Shadow effects gain increased potency.
[Searing Vein] and [Darken Sight] deal +5% damage.
[Earth Magic: Level 6]
Stone-based summons gain +20% durability.
[Fire Magic: Level 9]
New Spell Option Unlocked: [Scorchpulse]
Type: Fire Magic (Area Disruption)
Mana Cost: 25
Cooldown: 18 seconds
Effect: Release a circular pulse of heat around you (4m radius).
? Enemies caught are staggered and take 40 fire damage over 6 seconds.
? If enemies are burning, they are knocked back and suffer [Scorched] — reducing fire resistance by 20% for 10 seconds.
Lore: “Sometimes the fire doesn’t consume. It drives everything else away.”
He exhaled slowly, the smile returning to his face.
“Three levels,” he murmured. “Hells.”
He’d killed more than he realized. Lost track somewhere between the exploding gnoll and the acid-spitting spider-hulk. Somewhere after Vesselbreaking that half-troll.
Another notification blinked in:
[XP Overflow Detected.]
You are approaching the threshold for your next Class Evolution.
Progress: 87% toward next milestone.
“Class evolution, huh?” he murmured aloud.
The horned woman beside him shifted, pressed closer. Someone behind him rubbed their cheek against his back.
Buddy, curled on the far side of the room like a flaming rug of violence, let out a low snore.
Alistair looked around at the obscene display of comfort, blood, and luxury and for a moment, just a moment, he allowed himself to enjoy it.
Just a little.
He’d earned it.
Right?
A moan escaped someone under the sheets.
He blinked at the faint notification hovering in his vision, irritated.
[You have unspent Attribute Points.]
[Status Sheet Updated.]
[Recommended: Allocate now.]
"Oh, for the love of fangs..." he muttered, then kissed the horned girl beside him and whispered, “Don’t wait up, darling. My stats need me.”
He flicked his hand and pulled the interface into view. The translucent glyphs glowed above his chest like a divine spreadsheet.
“I am officially the most charming, agile piece of overclocked bloodsucker hardware in the Arena,” he muttered.
He had dumped his latest attribute points into Endurance, Intelligence, and Constitution, because at this rate, he'd need brains, guts, and staying power in equal measure.
Alistair blinked up at the slowly fading notification windows, his half-naked blood-donor pillow squad softly breathing around him like living decor.
But something still pulsed behind his eyes. A tiny, unread something buried under the cascade of system updates from earlier.
He frowned. Sat up a bit straighter. And there it was.
[New Trait Acquired: Crystal Dragon Essence]
[Skill and Trait detected. Analysis Recommended.]
“Oh right,” he murmured. “The reason everyone was busy dying around me.”
He brought it up with a twitch of his finger. The display expanded. Ornate, shimmering with gold-traced runes and the faint outline of scaled wings. Classy. Overcompensating.
[CRYSTAL DRAGON ESSENCE – BONDED]
Core Passive – Inherent Power
[Pulse of the Ancients]
? +1 to all Attributes
? +5% resistance to all elemental damage types
(Selection already locked.)
Alistair studied it a moment.
A flat bonus like that wasn't sexy, but it was undeniably effective. That kind of stacking efficiency didn’t come from standard gear or enchantments. This was baked-in pedigree. And that alone would've made it a prize.
But this thing had layers.
Trait Slot Unlocker
[Dragonmark Slot Unlocked]
A unique perk slot that can only hold traits tied to dragons, ancient magic, or soulforged remnants.
Slot Status: [Dragonbone Surge]
“Lovely,” Alistair muttered. “A soul pocket labeled ‘insert abomination here.’ Just what I needed.”
Blood-Bound Utility
[Dragonbone Surge] (1/day)
? Cone of pure damage, bypasses all resistances
? Chance to strip enemy buffs
? Leaves a glowing battlefield scar enemies instinctively avoid
He reread the last line twice.
Something about it tickled the back of his mind. Not just power. Presence. Territory. It didn’t just hurt people; it changed how the fight played out. Like dropping a myth onto the battlefield and daring others to pretend it wasn’t real.
[Soulforging Material]
Can be used to create:
? Living equipment that evolves with the wielder
? Items that inherit divine traits (anti-magic, emotion-based, anti-dragon, etc.)
? Hybrid soulbound weapons with unlockable abilities
Now that gave him pause.
Living weapons? Bonded gear that responded to use and growth? That wasn’t just rare, that was borderline forbidden in some parts of the world. Anything with a will was a liability. Dangerous. But it was also unmatched.
The kind of power you didn’t just find… the kind you were either born into, or bled for.
He was starting to see why the gods were paying attention.
Divine Reaction
- Certain dragons, godlings, and ancient factions now recognize you
? Some may seek to test you
? Others to claim you
? Or worse… to inherit you
Passive World Effect: Your fate is now entangled with draconic legacies.
Alistair read the entry again. Slowly. Every word felt like a nail hammered into his spine.
Not influence. Not interest.
Inheritance.
He had become an asset. A token. A relic. A living fragment of something older and bigger and more tangled than even the gods were willing to explain.
And worse?
He hadn’t been given a choice.
“Well,” he muttered darkly. “I always did want to feel special. Just didn’t think it’d involve becoming a spiritual trust fund.”
[Bonus Mystery Mechanic: ???]
“This item reacts to leyline proximity, dragonkin resonance, and bonded essence. Full potential unknown.”
Note: Hidden potential may unlock under extreme magical duress.
Alistair exhaled sharply through his nose.
“Of course it does. Because nothing says ‘legendary artifact’ like a fucking emotional support dragonbone that only works when you're already bleeding out.”
He sat there for a long moment, eyes tracing the quiet flicker of the text.
He’d carried this thing into battle. Into blood. Into lightform. Into death. And still… it hadn’t shown its full face.
Which begged the question...
What exactly was it waiting for?
The status screen faded, but the thoughts lingered.
Dragons. Gods. Weapons that breathed. Fates tangled like spiderwebs.
He lay back against the mountain of velvet and flesh, exhaling slowly, watching the ceiling like it might blink.
“Just a little bloodsport,” he muttered. “What could possibly go wrong.”
Then...
A ripple through the air.
Not sound. Not sight.
Presence.
He felt her before he saw her. Pressure curling at the edges of his awareness like the tide dragging nails through sand.
The chamber grew still. Breathless.
The door creaked open.
Slow. Heavy. Like it resented the task.
Alistair sat up, took a long, bracing breath.
“…Of course.”
Get early access to chapters, bonus content, and more. Now’s the perfect time to jump in!
Patreon