Blood Requiem: The Rise of Ethan Cross

Chapter 5: Blood Trial

The clang of iron gates ripped Ethan from uneasy sleep. Torchlight spilled into the dungeon, chasing back the shadows that had been his only companions. Guards in black armor stalked inside, their pale faces twisted with cruel delight.

“On your feet, slave,” one hissed, jerking Ethan up by the chains. His legs trembled, but rage kept him upright.

The prisoners around him shrank away, eyes wide with dread. They knew what came next. The Blood Trial.

Dragged through winding corridors, Ethan was hauled into a chamber vast as a cathedral. Crimson banners hung from obsidian pillars, each painted with the sigil of the vampire lords—a black sun devouring the moon. A circle of spectators lined the upper balconies, their whispers slithering like snakes.

At the center of the chamber lay an arena slick with blood. Bones crunched underfoot as Ethan was thrown inside. His chains were cut loose, but not in mercy. No, this was freedom only in name—a chance to die on his feet instead of his knees.

A horn sounded. The gates on the opposite side creaked open, and from the darkness staggered a figure. Human once, twisted now. His flesh was gray, veins bulging with black ichor. Eyes hollow, teeth jagged—another Blood Slave, broken beyond repair.

The crowd howled for c*****e.

Ethan’s pulse thundered in his ears. He had no weapon, no strength left but what his fury could summon. The creature lunged, shrieking, claws slicing through the air. Ethan rolled aside, narrowly avoiding death, his body moving on sheer instinct.

Pain seared his ribs where the claws grazed him. He gasped, tasted iron. But in the haze of agony, he felt something stir—deep, primal, foreign. His vision sharpened. His muscles, though starved, burned with sudden vigor.

The creature lunged again. This time Ethan did not run. He stepped in close, seizing the monster’s wrist. To his own shock, he stopped the blow. The strength in his grip was not human.

Snarling, Ethan twisted hard. Bone snapped like dry wood. The creature wailed, stumbling, and Ethan pounced, driving his chained fists into its skull. Again. And again. Until the blood splattered hot against his skin and silence fell.

The arena quaked with roars of approval. Vampires above clapped, laughed, their hunger inflamed.

Ethan staggered back, chest heaving, the corpse at his feet. He looked at his bloodied hands, trembling—not from fear, but from the terrible rush that coursed through him. Strength. Power. The taste of victory.

From the balcony, a figure leaned forward. Selene. Her eyes glowed like molten rubies, watching him with a mixture of fascination and something almost tender.

A voice boomed across the chamber, commanding silence. It belonged to Lord Malachai, the master of this domain.

“Ethan Cross,” he declared, lips curling into a cruel smile. “You have survived. You are no longer merely a slave—you are mine. And your trials have only begun.”

The chains clattered as guards moved to drag Ethan away. But in that moment, he no longer felt like a prisoner. Something inside had awakened, something dark and unrelenting.

For the first time since his fall, Ethan did not feel broken.

He felt dangerous.