Blood Saga

A cold blaze of air swept through the open window of a room more opulent than anything he could have imagined. The furniture bore intricate carvings, gilded edges gleaming faintly in the dim light. Heavy velvet drapes, embroidered with patterns of silver and gold, swayed gently in the draft. Everything in the room whispered of wealth and power—an unsettling contrast to his current state.

On the grand bed, a boy stirred fitfully, his face twisting with anguish. His brows knitted together, his lips parted in a silent gasp, as though trapped in a nightmare too vivid to escape.

Then, with a sharp intake of breath, he bolted upright, his chest heaving.

"Huff… huff…" His hand clutched his chest, fingers trembling as he tried to steady his erratic heartbeat.

"What the hell…" he muttered, his voice hoarse, as though the words clawed their way out of his throat. "That kid… who was he? And why… why does it feel like my soul's been ripped apart?"

He glanced around, his wide eyes taking in the unfamiliar surroundings. The grandiosity of the room only deepened his unease. The silken sheets beneath him were soft yet foreign, their touch sending a shiver down his spine.

"Where the hell am I?" he whispered, his voice barely audible in the oppressive silence.

He tried to think, to anchor himself, but the memories came disjointed—snippets of pain, flashes of darkness, and then the face of a child he couldn't place.

"And the bigger question is…" he murmured, his voice breaking, "didn't I die?"

The thought hit him like a punch to the gut, leaving him dizzy. His mind raced, scrambling for an explanation.

That kid… the abyss… the pain. Was it real? Was any of it real? And now this place…

A sudden knock at the door snapped him out of his spiraling thoughts. The sound echoed through the room, sharp and intrusive. His body tensed instinctively, his pulse hammering in his ears.

"What now?" he muttered, his hand shaking as it raked through his damp hair, his breath hitching in his chest. He tried to steady himself, to regain some control, but the silence of the room felt suffocating. "Focus. Don't panic. Think. Someone must've found me, right? Maybe they brought me here to... to help.

Summoning what little composure he could muster, he called out hesitantly, "Come in."

"Come in," he called out hesitantly, his voice edged with uncertainty.

The door creaked open, and a young woman stepped inside. She looked to be in her early twenties, dressed impeccably in an elegant maid's uniform. Her movements were graceful, her demeanor calm yet professional.

"Young master," she said, bowing slightly, "I'm here to inform you of a slight delay in Princess Elizabeth's arrival."

For a moment, he stared at her, uncomprehending. Then, the words registered.

"Young master?" he repeated, his brow furrowing. "And… Princess Elizabeth? Who's that?"

The maid froze mid-bow, her expression flickering with surprise before settling into polite confusion. "Forgive me, young master, but… are you feeling unwell? Surely you jest."

"I'm serious," he said, his voice tinged with frustration. "I have no idea who you're talking about."

The maid straightened, her brows knitting together. "Young master," she said carefully, as though speaking to a child, "I'm referring to Princess Elizabeth Eldrith. Your fiancée."

"My fiancée?" He practically choked on the word, his voice jumping an octave. "Wait… did you just say Elizabeth Eldrith?"

"Yes," she replied, her tone patient but puzzled. "Princess Elizabeth Eldrith, the first princess of the Kingdom of Eldoria."

Her words hung in the air, heavy and surreal. The name struck him like a thunderclap.

"That name…" he murmured, his voice barely audible. A wave of recognition washed over him, leaving him breathless. His hands trembled slightly as he clutched the edge of the bed.

"Are you alright, young master?" the maid asked, concern creeping into her voice.

He didn't answer immediately, his mind racing. Elizabeth Eldrith of the kingdom eldoria The name was unmistakable. It was the name of the main heroine in The Might of the Fallen, the novel he'd read before… before he died.

He shook his head, brushing away the bizarre thought. No. That's not possible. I'm not in a book. He forced himself to focus. "I'm fine," he muttered, as though the idea wasn't haunting him at all.

"Fuck," he muttered under his breath, his chest tightening. "What the hell is going on?"

"Pardon?" the maid asked, her brows arching in alarm.

He shook his head, dismissing her question. "Nothing. Forget it."

She hesitated but didn't press further.

"Alright," he said, trying to steady his voice. "Why do you keep calling me 'young master'? And why are you acting like I should know this… Elizabeth person?"

The maid blinked, her calm demeanor beginning to crack. "Young master, I'm… not sure I understand your questions. You are first young master of the Ravenscar household. It is only natural for me to address you with the respect due to your station."

"Ravenscar?" he echoed, his stomach lurching. "What the hell are you talking about?"

The maid's confusion deepened, but her voice remained gentle, as though trying to soothe a troubled child. "Young master… you are the son of Duke Atredies of The Ravenscar household

The name hit him like a punch to the gut. Ravenscar. He knew that name. Another cursed name from The Might of the Fallen.

"No," he muttered, his voice trembling. "No, no, no. This can't be happening."

"Young master?" the maid said, taking a hesitant step forward. "Should I call for a physician? You seem…"

He cut her off, scrambling out of the bed. "I'm fine!" he snapped, though his shaking hands betrayed him.

He stumbled toward the mirror across the room, his breath coming in short, panicked gasps. The maid watched, her concern etched on her face, but she didn't follow.

When he reached the mirror, he froze, staring at the reflection before him. The boy in the glass was beautiful—blue eyes like icy gems, soft features, and pale skin that gave him an almost ethereal look. But none of that mattered.

Because he knew who this boy was.

"Ash von Ravenscar," he whispered, his voice hollow.

The maid flinched slightly at his tone but said nothing.

His legs threatened to buckle, but he clung to the edge of the mirror, forcing himself to meet the eyes of the boy who now bore his soul. His reflection stared back—cold, beautiful, and cursed.

This was no second chance at life. This was a death sentence.

Ash von Ravenscar wasn't just any villain. He was the herald of doom, the pawn who opened the gates for the Demon King to wreak havoc. No one survived his downfall. Not even him.

"How the hell am I supposed to survive this?" he muttered, his voice shaking as dread tightened its grip on his chest.

The maid hesitated. "Young master…?"

His gaze snapped to her, his voice sharp and trembling. "Get out."

She recoiled, startled by the venom in his tone, but bowed obediently. "As you wish, young master."

The door closed softly behind her, leaving him alone with his spiraling thoughts.

Alone, the cold weight of reality settled on him: if he didn't find a way to change the course of this story, death was inevitable. But the worst part? He had no idea where to begin.