Alistair gasped as he came to, jerking upright like he'd surfaced from drowning.

  For a moment, he just sat there, breathing hard.

  No pain.

  His chest wasn’t torn open. His fingers weren’t slick with blood. No hollow cavity where his heart used to be.

  He touched his shirt, perfectly smooth.

  No rip. No wound. Not even bloodstains.

  He blinked. Slowly. Then checked the window.

  [HP: 104 / 104]

  [Status: Stable]

  Still alive.

  Technically.

  A flicker of hope rose up in him before he stomped it flat. He knew better.

  “You didn’t dream it,” came the voice.

  Alistair froze.

  The Blood Mistress sat not far away, coiled in her throne like a question you couldn’t afford to answer wrong. The crimson motes hovered around her like lazy fireflies made of hunger.

  “Most mortals scream for quite a while.”

  “I’m pacing myself,” Alistair said, sitting up. “Screaming seems so... cliché.”

  He tried to make it sound flippant, but the effort fell flat. His hands were still shaking. His mind hadn’t caught up with what had happened. What he’d done.

  He remembered the feeling of his fingers digging into his own chest. The slick warmth of his heart.

  He shuddered.

  “I’d say I feel amazing,” he said, voice hoarse, “but that might jinx it.”

  “You feel alive,” she said. “For now.”

  “Charming.”

  He looked around the chamber, red, black, quiet. The same place she’d ripped his heart out and smiled while doing it.

  He shifted his shoulders, trying to get the tension out.

  “Am I meant to thank you?”

  “No,” she said. “You’re meant to listen.”

  He rolled his eyes. Just a little. She didn’t comment.

  “You asked why I chose you,” she said, not moving from her throne. “I’ll give you more than most ever get.”

  Alistair crossed his arms. “Lucky me.”

  “The Arena is not for subtlety,” she said. “It is divine theater. A bloody ballet for gods and children with too much power. The Twelve send their favorites. The rest send hopefuls. The godlings wager status and influence on whose pet survives longest.”

  “And you?” he asked.

  “I send weapons,” she said. “Usually the kind no one sees coming.”

  “And this time you picked me because…”

  “I have agents across Helios. Hidden in empires, forests, crypts. All moving at my command. Each has their place. Embedded. Subtle. Pushing my influence from the shadows. I do not waste tools that still have purpose. none of them are expendable.”

  Alistair frowned. “Then why not send one of them?”

  Her eyes, he could feel them behind the rubies, bored into him.

  And for this... I needed someone visible.”

  She tapped her mask slowly, one ruby nail clicking in rhythm.

  “You are what they expect,” she said simply. “Noble blood. A vampire. Something beautiful. Something tragic. I needed a mask. You are that mask.”

  Alistair blinked. “You really know how to flatter a guy.”

  “I didn’t choose you because I thought you would win,” she said. “I chose you because I thought you might.”

  Alistair narrowed his eyes.

  That... sounded more honest than anything she’d said so far.

  She shrugged. “Everyone expects drama from me. So I gave them drama.”

  Something about that stuck in his ribs.

  There was a pause, long, but not awkward. Just heavy.

  She gestured lazily, and red light formed in the air between them.

  Then a pulse rippled through the air.

  “Let’s see what they’re getting, shall we?”

  He immediately felt something scan him.

  A pulse through his mana core. His spirit guide stirred slightly, a whisper of coils shifting in the dark.

  Her head tilted.

  “Interesting.”

  “What?”

  Her tone flattened. “I expected more.”

  Alistair winced. “That’s the tone my father uses when I breathe too loudly.”

  She flicked through the air, and he felt something probe at his core.

  “Oh! Your spirit guide,” she said suddenly. “Now that’s interesting.”

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  At the mention, Alistair felt a cold presence stir inside him.

  A serpentine shape, barely there, brushed his mind. Curious. Hungry. Almost... flattered?

  Then it recoiled, just as quickly, like a predator acknowledging a greater one.

  The sensation faded.

  She made a small sound behind her mask. “Your numbers are… unimpressive.”

  “Thanks.”

  “No, really. Agility aside, you are underdeveloped. Your willpower is nonexistent. Your mind is blunt. Your health pool is laughable.”

  Alistair crossed his arms. “Wow, tell me how you really feel.”

  “I expected more from your lineage.”

  “I expected more from my life,” he snapped, before he could stop himself.

  The worst part wasn’t the disappointment. It was the silence. No message. No penalty. Just… nothing.

  As if the system had quietly decided he didn’t matter anymore.

  She paused.

  “Your traits show potential,” she said, tapping one finger against the ether. “Especially [Soulbinder].”

  [Trait Identified – Soulbinder]

  [Soul Insight]: Sense whether another soul will play a role in your life. (Current: vague impressions only.)

  [Soul Bond]: Forge an unbreakable link with another being. Share limited skills, abilities, and attributes.

  [Trait Identified – Vampiric Essence]

  [Ethereal Phase]: Transform into smoke; traverse up to 5m; -30% damage taken while active.

  [Summon Chittering Bats]: Summon swarm to distract/harass a target for short duration.

  He squinted at the hovering text. “So basically: creepy intuition, clingy relationships, and party tricks with smoke and vermin. Glad to know I’m the complete package.” He scoffed, shaking his head.

  His special abilities due to his vampiric nature were well known and he had used them on multiple occasions.

  The [Ethereal Phase] had saved his life multiple times when he occasionally gone on a hunt with his father, who had been exceedingly happy when he had acquired the special ability when he had reached level 10.

  The [Summon Chittering Bats] spell was a common ability that most vampires got on early levels, one way or another. Be it chittering bats, phantom bats or wailing bats. Still their effectiveness couldn’t be disputed no matter how common the ability was. It could afford the caster a few vital seconds to retreat or attack.

  “Not bad,” she said. “You might even survive the first match.”

  Alistair snorted. “Glowing praise.”

  She ignored him.

  “I can grant you one more Wreath before you enter the Arena,” she said. “But first... a question.”

  She stood and stepped toward him again, more curious than cruel now.

  “You’re a Soulbinder,” she said. “And yet... no bonds.”

  She tilted her head. “Why is that?”

  Alistair opened his mouth. Closed it.

  Still no bonds.

  Still broken.

  His hands curled into fists.

  Everyone thought it was a gift. A rare trait passed down from ancient lineages.

  He’d met dozens of people. Heroes, nobles, warriors. Lovers. Friends.

  None of them had triggered the Bond.

  His father had bonded half his war council. His brother had soulbound three knights and a courtesan, much to their father’s horror.

  But Alistair?

  Nothing.

  He’d waited.

  He’d hoped.

  He’d tried.

  Nothing ever triggered.

  He'd once shaken hands with a dying oracle who’d bonded half the royal family. Nothing. Spent three weeks in a cursed ruin with a soulmarked thief. Nothing. Even shared blood with a half-fae diplomat known to bond on sight.

  Nothing.

  Not even a flicker.

  And every time he thought maybe it was waiting for someone specific, someone important...

  That hope got smaller.

  It gnawed at him. Quietly. Constantly.

  What if I’m the only Soulbinder who never binds anyone?

  What if I’m the bug in the system?

  “I don’t know,” he admitted quietly. “I might be broken,” he muttered aloud.

  “What was that?” the Blood Mistress asked.

  He looked up sharply.

  She hadn’t moved. But her head was tilted slightly, like a cat watching a twitching insect.

  “You have no bonds,” she said softly.

  “No,” he said flatly.

  “Curious.”

  Her voice was neutral, but her fingers tapped once against her throne.

  Alistair hated how raw the silence felt after that.

  He crossed his arms. “Maybe the system glitched. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  The Blood Mistress smiled behind her mask. “Or perhaps... you were meant for something more.”

  “Or less,” he said before he could stop himself.

  The Blood Mistress studied him for a long moment. Then she nodded.

  “I have my theories,” she said. “If I’m right... it bodes well for my plans.”

  Alistair grimaced. “Care to share?”

  “No.”

  Of course not.

  Before he could snark back, the Blood Mistress waved her hand.

  Light shimmered between them, golden this time, divine.

  Alistair blinked.

  [New Trait Gained – Treasure Seeker]

  Type: Passive

  Effect: Detect items of value in a wide radius. May be activated with minor mana cost to reveal direction.

  Alistair blinked.

  Treasure?

  “Treasure Seeker,” he muttered. “Perfect. While the other champions get holy fire and divine smite, I get the ability to sniff out pocket change and cursed jewelry. Truly, I am the gods’ favorite.”

  He glanced at her. “Really?”

  The Blood Mistress chuckled behind her mask.

  “Greedy, aren’t you?”

  He opened his mouth to protest, but her mask flared, just slightly.

  He wisely shut it again.

  “You’ll need it,” she said. “The Arena is filled with things... long forgotten. Some valuable. Some cursed.”

  Alistair nodded once, quietly grateful.

  He’d expected power. Instead, he got survival tools.

  Even if it was just a chest of coins or a rusty dagger that happened to save his life.

  Maybe that was better.

  He nodded to the interface, then dismissed it with a flick of his mind.

  The Blood Mistress studied him quietly.

  “No quip?” she asked.

  “I figured I’d save it for when I’m not one bad roll away from death.”

  She actually smiled at that. Not kindly.

  He glanced past her at the floating red motes and the silent, writhing wall of cursed souls beyond.

  “I’m guessing you don’t have much advice for the Arena?”

  “You’ve survived me,” she said. “You’re already ahead.”

  “That’s a terrifying compliment.”

  She stood up, her voice lower, heavier. “The Arena will test more than your strength. It will test what you are.”

  “Great. I love personality quizzes with stakes.”

  She ignored him.

  “There will be others,” she continued. “Champions of other gods. Mortals who crave glory. Monsters who think they’re men. And men who’ve forgotten they were ever mortal.”

  “And I get to fight them?”

  “You get to survive them.”

  Her hand lifted, and the motes thickened into a burning sigil beneath his feet.

  Alistair felt it hum through his boots. Deep, hot, final.

  “You’re sending me now?”

  “You’ve received all I can give,” she said. “The rest is yours to earn.”

  He nodded, slow.

  The air shimmered. The ritual circle pulsed red. The room darkened except for her, throne blazing, eyes behind the mask boring into his soul.

  “Wait,” he said.

  She tilted her head.

  “What happens if I win?”

  The pause was long. Then:

  “You’ll be mine. In ways you haven’t even begun to imagine,” she whispered.

  The words were soft. And absolute.

  Alistair swallowed.

  “Figured.”

  The magic surged.

  He squared his shoulders.

  If he was going to die, let it be loud. Let it mean something.

  He was tired of being almost. Tired of waiting for something to start.

  If this was the only way forward, then fine.

  He’d bleed for it.

  Light flared beneath him, the ritual circle burning into the stone.

  She raised a single hand.

  His vision filled with crimson.

  As he vanished, her final words echoed in his mind.

  “Make them bleed, Alistair.”

  And then he was gone.

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