He stepped through the doorway without hesitation.

The moment his foot crossed the threshold, the air changed—subtly at first, then with the force of an unseen tide washing over stone. The temperature shifted, warmer than the hall behind him, carrying faint traces of dust and old minerals. He felt the world settle into a deeper sort of reality on this side, as though the space he entered had existed long before he woke and required no coaxing to hold its shape.

The robed servant who had opened the door remained bowed, head lowered in reverence, still and rigid. He did not rise, nor speak again, simply held his posture with unwavering discipline.

The man—lord of this strange reborn place—walked toward him with slow, deliberate steps. His bare feet made no sound, though the stone under him was rougher than the polished hall. He paused in front of the bowed figure.

For a moment there was silence.

The servant remained perfectly motionless, the fabric of his robes pooling around his feet in still folds. Even the light seemed to avoid disturbing him.

The man lifted his right arm.

The movement was quiet, fluid, effortless. His hand rose until it hovered above the servant's lowered head. Then, without flourish, without haste, he rested his palm directly atop the bowed skull.

The servant exhaled—not in fear, not in surprise, but in a soft, peaceful sigh, as though he had reached the completion of a long-awaited pilgrimage.

The man did not tighten his grip. He did not whisper a spell. He barely formed a thought.

And the servant exploded.

Not violently, not chaotically, but with the terrible beauty of something preordained. His body disintegrated in an instant, rupturing from within as if every drop of blood had decided simultaneously to abandon its vessel. Flesh burst outward in a controlled bloom of crimson mist. Bones shattered, scattering into red dust before they had the chance to hit the floor.

Blood splattered across the room—in great arcs across walls of stone, in dark streaks across the ceiling, in thick pools on the ground. It was a massacre performed with the precision of an artist's stroke.

But not a single drop touched the man.

The airborne mist parted around him, splitting like curtains before a king. Every droplet curved, swerved, bowed its trajectory, refusing to stain his skin or hair or the pale fabric that clung to him like a shadow of clothing. He did not flinch, did not blink. His fangs did not extend, nor did hunger shine in his eyes. He merely lowered his hand, as calm as if he had touched nothing more significant than a chair.

The remains of the servant continued to settle around him.

Strangely, the dead man still wore a smile.

A faint, serene curve of lips, frozen in the brief moment before detonation, now lingering in the air like an echo. His final expression was not terror, not regret, but acceptance. No—anticipation. As though he had known, truly known, that this was his purpose, his offering, his final rite in a cycle performed countless times before.

A tradition.

Yes. The man felt it. Not in memory, but in instinct. This had happened before. Not with this specific servant perhaps, nor in this specific place, but in many eras, many halls, many lives. The offering of blood upon waking. A greeting of devotion that required death.

The ritual felt ancient—older than the walls, older than the slumber he had risen from.

He lifted his gaze.

The blood, still steaming slightly from its abrupt release, began to rise.

At first, only a few droplets lifted from the floor, trembling in the air like beads of dark red mercury. Then more rose, sheets of liquid peeling away from stone, rippling upward like crimson silk caught in a wind only they could feel. The walls shed their stains, the ceiling surrendered its splatters, every last drop leaving the surfaces pristine.

The blood gathered into the air above the man, swirling into an orbiting cloud.

Then it moved.

Like water pulled through a funnel, the blood twisted inward, condensing into a spinning sphere. It tightened, tightened further, drawing every molecule into a perfect globe suspended above the ground. Its surface wavered, shimmering like polished glass.

Inside the sphere, something began to change.

The centre brightened—as though lit from within—its dark colour thinning, softening. Red receded to pink, then to translucent pearl. Slowly, an image took form inside the liquid lens.

Shapes. Light. Distance.

A scene sharpened, clear as if he peered through a vast orb of polished crystal.

The outside world.

A cave ceiling filled the top portion of the view—jagged stone slick with mineral sheen. The entrance sloped downward, letting in daylight that poured across uneven ground and spilled into tangled roots and moss beyond. The cavern's maw opened toward a rolling expanse of green.

He watched silently.

Miles of forest stretched outward in every direction. Ancient trees rose like pillars of life, their canopies forming a vast emerald ocean. Wind rippled across the leaves in gentle waves. Birds flitted through branches. Predators prowled in shaded underbrush. Prey fled in bursts of movement only to halt moments later, sensing safety again.

The world was calm.

Peaceful.

In a ten-mile radius, there was nothing but untouched nature—a sanctuary of balance where tooth and claw existed without malice, simply as part of the ancient rhythm.

Further out—perhaps one hundred miles to the north—the scene shifted again as the orb zoomed outward. Built roads cut through the land like veins. Simple but sturdy vehicles pulled by animals moved along them. People walked with relaxed expressions, trading goods, chatting, living.

The architecture was grand in its simplicity—stone buildings with thick foundations, wooden beams meticulously carved, rooftops layered in protective slabs. Everything appeared secure, well-maintained, unthreatened by war or ruin.

Humanity lived as though danger were a foreign concept.

As though the world had earned peace.

And for a moment—for the first time since he had awakened—emotion breached the surface of the man's cold stillness.

A single tear welled at the corner of his left eye. The white one. The pale, moonlit orb with its delicate silver undertone. The tear gathered there, trembling as if uncertain whether to fall.

Then it slid down his cheek.

A cold trail. A whisper of vulnerability. A memory of something lost.

He inhaled slowly, though he needed no air.

His voice, when it finally came, was soft—not fragile, but weighted with centuries of quiet observation, the exhaustion of eternity, the gentleness of something ancient remembering why it once cared.

"Peace… After so long, the world breathes softly again."

The words hovered, almost reverent, almost sorrowful. He did not smile. His expression remained cold, distant, but the tear continued its path until it reached his jaw and fell.

The blood sphere responded.

The image inside collapsed inward, folding in upon itself. The condensed liquid darkened instantly, the translucence giving way to deep, viscous crimson once more. The sphere shrank—tightening to the size of a fist, then a marble, then a pea.

The tiny bead of blood pulsed.

Then it expanded.

Violently.

In less than a second, the minuscule droplet stretched outward, the crimson surface rippling like a living membrane. It grew larger than any human could hold, swelling to a shape two meters wide and four meters tall. The air trembled around it with a deep, resonant hum, vibrating through stone and bone alike.

Now it was a full gateway—a looming barrier of blood, quivering with restrained potential.

He regarded it with an expressionless stare.

Then, with the same calm with which he had ended the servant's life, he raised his arm once more.

This time he pointed.

Not randomly, nor experimentally. His gesture carried intent—focused, absolute, commanding.

The blood obeyed.

It shot forward as a spear of compressed fluid, its speed tearing the air apart in a deafening sonic boom. The force cracked the cavern walls, splitting stone and shaking loose cascades of fragmented rock. Echoes thundered through the cave like distant storms.

Small creatures near the mouth of the cave jolted into frantic motion. Birds burst skyward in explosions of feathers. Insects scattered. Larger animals fled into the forest, instincts screaming at them to avoid whatever ancient predator had returned.

Dust settled slowly.

The man walked.

He stepped through the destruction he had created as if it were nothing more than a doorway he had always intended to use. The torn stone offered him a new opening to the world outside—a jagged, uneven frame that revealed the sunlit forest beyond.

He emerged from the cave with both elegance and absolution.

The awkwardness that had gripped his limbs upon waking was gone entirely, replaced by a regal precision. Every movement was a proclamation of authority, the gait of someone who had once commanded legions, toppled kingdoms, or shaped eras.

The sunlight did not burn him.

It did not even sting.

Instead, the rays bent around him, shimmering slightly, sliding over his skin like respectful attendants parting way for a sovereign.

He stepped forward, out onto a ledge of stone where the mountain sloped gently downward. The world spread below him in vast, breathing colour. The air was rich with the scent of pine and soil and fresh wind. Leaves rustled in distant waves. A river murmured somewhere unseen.

He stood tall—spine straight, shoulders back, chin lifted—like a statue carved in reverence to some eldritch deity.

From below, one might think he was admiring the world.

But his eyes told a different story.

His body carried the grandeur of pride, the posture of someone accustomed to adoration and awe. Yet his right eye—the abyssal black—held no shine at all. It looked hollow, ancient, as if it had witnessed too many cycles of rise and fall to be impressed by greenery or peace.

And his left eye—the white one—still glistened with the faint memory of the tear he had shed.

Together, the eyes painted a portrait of a being who walked like a god but felt like a ghost.

He surveyed the land with that dual gaze.

Not with hunger.

Not with ambition.

With fatigue.

A deep, immortal exhaustion. The kind worn by someone who had lived through ages of roaring chaos, endless war, or something darker still.

His long white hair flowed in the forest breeze, framing his expressionless face. His lips did not curve even a fraction. His pale skin caught the sunlight without reaction, like marble blessed with life.

He took another step forward.

And the world seemed to hold its breath.

The forest quieted. The wind paused. Even the river's distant murmur softened, as though nature itself recognized that someone powerful—someone forgotten, someone feared in old stories—had returned.

He placed his hand on a smooth boulder beside him.

The stone cracked beneath his touch, splintering into lines of fractured rock before settling into stillness again. Not from force, but from the natural weight of his existence.

He exhaled—slow, controlled, unnecessary.

"So it begins again," he murmured.

Not triumphant. Not curious.

Resigned.

Then he stepped off the ledge and began his descent into a world that had forgotten him.

A world he had slept through.

A world that had calmed, grown gentle, grown soft.

A world that had no idea its quiet age had just ended.