Arcane: Sea of ​​blood

Abel woke up to a searing pain that seemed to pierce every cell of his body. His consciousness slowly returned, but the reality he found himself in was worse than any nightmare. The first thing he saw was a dark, abyss-like sky, filled with thick, heavy clouds that seemed to press down on him with their sheer mass. They were so dense that even the moonlight couldn't penetrate them, leaving the world around him in complete darkness. Only a faint, dim glimmer in the distance hinted that life still existed somewhere.

He lay in a ditch filled with a thick, toxic liquid that bubbled and hissed around him, as if it were a living creature craving his death. The chemicals burned his skin, leaving red, inflamed marks that felt like his body was slowly dissolving in the poisonous mixture. Every breath scorched his lungs, as if he were swallowing hot coals. The air was saturated with a pungent smell that made him nauseous and dizzy. His first attempt to take a full breath ended in a fit of vomiting. His body convulsed, and a wave of pain from the wound in his side made him curl up. He felt the acid rising in his throat, and his mouth filled with a bitter taste. He spat it out, but it brought no relief. Darkness clouded his vision, and he slipped back into unconsciousness.

When Abel lost consciousness, his mind plunged into a chaotic stream of memories. He dreamed of the prison. The Piltover prison, where he had spent the first years of his life. Its cold, damp walls, soaked with the smell of mold and despair. He dreamed of Laura—his mother, strong and defiant, who kept both guards and prisoners in fear. Her voice, quiet but filled with determination, echoed in his ears: "You will survive. You must survive."

But the prison wasn't just a place where he felt protected under his mother's wing. It was a hell, full of deprivation. He dreamed of the days when he and Laura sat in a solitary cell, hungry and exhausted. He saw how the guards tormented them, depriving them of food and water, how they laughed as they watched their suffering. He dreamed of that last day, when Laura, weak from wounds and hunger, still tried to protect him. Her eyes, filled with pain and anger, as she said, "You should never have been born." Those words echoed in his mind, mingling with screams, the clinking of chains, and the sound of blows.

But even in his dream, he found no peace. The prison wasn't just a place of physical suffering; it was a symbol of his inner struggle. It reminded him that he was an outcast, a person who should never have been born. It reminded him of betrayal, pain, and loss. And when he finally began to emerge from this nightmare, he felt his body sinking back into reality—into the ditch filled with toxic waste, where new trials awaited him.

When Abel regained consciousness the second time, the pain was no longer as sharp, but it was still unbearable. His body, battered and wounded, lay in the same ditch filled with toxic sludge, which now seemed slightly less aggressive. The chemicals no longer melted his skin, but they still caused a burning and tingling sensation. The air was just as acrid, but now he could breathe it, though each breath was labored and no longer poisoned his lungs. He slowly turned his head, trying to assess his condition. The wound in his side throbbed, but he felt that his "Adaptation" ability had already begun to work—the edges of the wound were slowly closing. However, the bullet was still inside, and he knew that if he didn't remove it now, it would be even harder to do so later.

Summoning all his willpower, Abel raised his hand and felt for the wound. His fingers trembled, but he clenched his teeth and plunged them into the flesh. The pain was unbearable, but he continued until he felt the cold metal. With a cry that turned into a wheeze, he pulled out the bullet. Blood gushed from the wound, and he, unable to endure any longer, lost consciousness again.

When Abel slipped back into unconsciousness, his mind entered a strange, almost meditative state. He dreamed of his own body, but not as he was used to seeing it. He saw it from the inside—every vessel, every capillary, every nerve ending. He saw how his "Adaptation" ability worked, like an invisible stream gently flushing out the toxins that had entered his body from the poisonous ditch. He watched as this stream purified his blood, as it healed the wound in his side, repairing damaged tissue. It was both beautiful and terrifying—to see his body recovering like a living machine that refused to give up even in the harshest conditions.

But he also saw the cost of this recovery. Without nutrients to sustain his body, "Adaptation" used whatever was at hand—his own muscles. He watched as his body, which he had worked so hard to build in the orphanage, slowly deteriorated. The muscles he had developed over years turned into the energy needed to heal his wounds and fight the toxins. It was as if he were consuming himself to survive.

He saw how his body sacrificed one part to save another. It was a brutal but efficient process. He understood that "Adaptation" wasn't just an ability; it was a gift. It gave him a chance to survive, but it took away what he valued most—his strength, his endurance, his progress.

In this dream, he also felt something new. He sensed that his body, despite its deterioration, was becoming more resistant to the toxins. He saw how his cells were changing, adapting to the poisons that once could have killed him. It was a strange feeling—both painful and hopeful. He realized that his body was growing stronger, but at what cost?

As he began to wake from this dream, he felt his consciousness slowly returning to reality. He knew his body was still in the ditch, that his wound was still bleeding, that his muscles were still deteriorating. But he also knew that his ability was working, that he would survive, no matter what.

The first thing that greeted Abel when he opened his eyes was not the familiar pool of toxins, but a sharp pain in his side and a large rat he saw upon opening his eyes. It was the size of his wrist, and its tail was just a few centimeters from his face. Its sharp teeth gleamed in the dim light as it feasted on his wound. It had already sensed an easy prey—a weakened, wounded body that could barely breathe. Abel realized that if he didn't do something now, he would die. But his body was so weak that he couldn't even stand.

He lay there, feeling fear and despair gripping him. But somewhere deep in his mind, a spark of anger flared. He couldn't die here, not now. Not after everything he had been through. Summoning his last reserves of strength, he suddenly rolled over and pinned the rat with his body. It squealed, its thin, piercing cry shattering the silence. The rat began to thrash, scratching his hands with its sharp claws. Abel felt its claws digging into his skin, but he clenched his teeth and gripped it with both hands.

The rat was strong, much stronger than he had expected. It writhed, trying to break free, its sharp teeth snapping in the air, trying to bite him again. Abel felt its claws tearing his skin, its body writhing beneath him, but he didn't let go. He knew this was his only chance. If he released it, it would return, and this time he wouldn't be able to defend himself.

Summoning all his willpower, he pressed the rat to the ground, its body squirming under his weight. It bit into his arm, its teeth piercing his skin, and he felt blood begin to flow. The pain was sharp, but he knew he couldn't give up. He leaned down and sank his teeth into its neck. Blood gushed into his mouth, warm and salty. The rat squealed even louder, its body convulsing, but he didn't let go. He clenched his jaws tighter until its movements grew weaker and then stopped altogether.

When the rat stopped moving, Abel released it. His body trembled from the strain, his hands covered in scratches and blood. He felt his strength leaving him, but he knew he couldn't stop. Summoning his last reserves of energy, he tore a piece of flesh from the carcass and began to eat. Each bite was a struggle, but he knew it was his only chance to survive. The blood and meat tasted vile, but he forced himself to continue. He knew that without food, his body wouldn't recover, that his "Adaptation" ability would be useless if he died of starvation.

When the last piece was eaten, he felt his strength leaving him. His body, exhausted from pain and starvation, sank back into darkness.

When Abel opened his eyes again, he found his face buried in a beautiful crimson bouquet that remained from the "price of life."

Rolling onto his back in a moment of peace, still feeling the dull pain from his wounds and the slight tingling from the acid, he realized that the days in the orphanage had been nothing but an illusion he had allowed to take hold of him. A beautiful dream. Fleeting, like sparks flying from a fire. All he wanted now was power—power so great that his name alone would make people bow, power so overwhelming that his will alone could drown this city in blood. And power so terrifying that he could protect himself and what he held dear...

Abel understood that his body had grown slightly stronger, but weaker than before. He knew his muscles were depleted, that he needed to find food to regain his strength. But he also knew that his "Adaptation" ability was still working, that it wouldn't let him die. He slowly got up, leaning against the wall of the ditch, and looked around. There was only darkness and silence, but somewhere in the distance, he heard the sounds of life. Zaun. His new home. His new hell.

Summoning his last reserves of strength, Abel climbed out of the ditch. His body was exhausted, but his eyes burned with determination. He knew the path ahead would be long and difficult, but he was ready. He had survived the prison, survived the orphanage, survived the sewers. Now he would move forward, grow stronger, and find those who had made his life a living hell—and take his revenge.