Dewy came to for the second time that day, which was rapidly becoming a trend he did not enjoy.
His head throbbed. His ribs felt like they'd been personally rearranged by a meat tenderizer. He groaned, squinting into the light above him—and immediately regretted it when he realized it wasn’t the sky, but someone’s face. Very close. Very serious.
“You’re alive,” the boy said flatly.
“Unfortunately,” Dewy croaked.
He tried to sit up, but a sharp stab of pain in his side made him reconsider. Then he felt a weird buzzing sensation along his jawline—right before a golden glow crawled over his skin like fizzy soda. A cut near his cheek scabbed over in an instant, itching like a thousand fire ants doing parkour on his nerves.
“Gah—! I assume thats healing but why does it hurt so much!?
“Means it’s working.” The boy sat back on his heels, unbothered. “From what I’ve learnt, small wounds regenerate fast. Deeper ones will take longer. Try not to move.”
Dewy blinked up at him. The kid looked about seventeen, with a buzzcut and a permanent dead-eyed stare like someone who had seen way too much for his age... and didn’t care in the slightest.
“I saw you go down during the first wave,” the boy said, checking Dewy’s arm. “Thought you were dead. You twitched, so. Not dead.”
“Thanks?” Dewy said.
“You’re welcome.”
There was a pause.
Dewy glanced at his face. “You’re not freaking out.”
“Nope.”
“People were screaming. Running. Crying.”
“I noticed.”
Another beat.
“You’re kinda terrifying,” Dewy muttered.
The boy shrugged. “I’m also blessed by that weird blood god guy.”
Of course he was.
“I’m Nico,” he added. “Nico Salvi.”
“Dewy,” Dewy said. Then paused. “Wait. Salvi? Like—like the Salvi Family? The mafia guys?”
Nico nodded. “My dad was killed when I was nine. Rival faction. Turf war. Lot of blood.”
Dewy stared at him. Nico stared back.
“I’ve killed over a hundred people,” Nico added casually, like he was mentioning how many Pokémon he’d caught.
There was no pride in it. No shame, either. Just… nothing. Dewy had met calculators with more emotional nuance.
“I’ve got Alexithymia, by the way,” Nico said, as if that explained things. “And Antisocial Personality Disorder.”
“...What.”
“Means I don’t really feel emotions like you do. Or care about things the same way. Don’t take it personally. You’re probably interesting to someone. Just not me.”
Dewy opened his mouth. Then closed it. Then opened it again.
“Cool, cool, cool,” he said weakly. “Y’know, I was just bleeding to death a second ago, but now I think my soul is injured.”
Nico tilted his head slightly, like a curious bird. “You’re weird.”
There was another awkward silence, filled only by the faint sizzling sound of Dewy’s cuts sealing up under Nico’s glowing hands. The itch was still so real.
“So,” Dewy finally said, “you’re a Blessed?”
Nico looked down at his own interface. “Soul Flayer.”
“That… sounds healthy.”
“Comes with a knife.”
“Of course it does.”
Nico held up a thin, obsidian dagger. It hummed faintly in the air, vibrating like it was whispering things only sociopaths could hear.
“Oh yeah,” Nico added, like an afterthought.” You should check your spell selection menu, It popped up exactly five seconds after that global notification thing- I counted.
Dewy blinked. “Wait, what? Spells?”
“Yeah.”
He swiped through the air with two fingers, mimicking the motion.
“Just think about it. It’ll open.”
Dewy hesitated. He took a breath, closed his eyes, and did as instructed.
Sure enough, a glowing prompt shimmered into existence.
[New Spell Selection Available]
As one of Varnak’s Chosen, you may select your initial spell suite.
Support the creativity of authors by visiting Royal Road for this novel and more.
Current available skills: 3,278
“...What,” Dewy whispered.
A massive list exploded in front of his vision like someone had just downloaded the entirety of RPG mechanics into his frontal lobe. Spells ranging from Wyrmic Flamestep to Molten Toenail Reversal to Arcane Hair Growth (Deluxe) flooded his screen.
“This is a prank,” Dewy said. “A really elaborate, traumatizing prank.”
Nico leaned over without much interest. “Filter it. Think about skills you can actually use. It’ll do the math.”
Dewy did as told, mentally muttering filter by compatibility. The list instantly shrank to six.
Filtered Skills Available (Class Compatibility Detected):
[Mage Path]:
- Meditation (Basic): Increases passive mana regeneration rate while stationary.
- Mana Bolt (Basic): Fires a small bolt of condensed mana. Low cost, moderate speed.
- Mana Shield (Basic): Forms a thin barrier of energy that absorbs a small amount of damage.
[Blood Mage Path]:
- Blood Manipulation (Basic): Grants the ability to control one's own blood outside the body. Fundamental to Blood Magic.
- Blood Spike (Basic): Launches a hardened spike of blood at high velocity. Consumes HP.
- Ritual of Favor (Novice): Perform a blood-based rite to earn the attention and blessings of Varnak, Lord of Endless Crimson.
Note: Varnak has urged all Chosen to select at least one blood-related skill. Failure to do so may result in reduced favor.
Dewy stared.
“So, no pressure,” he muttered.
The blood skills all had ominous vibes. Especially the ritual one, which screamed “unintended consequences” and “cults are fun until someone loses a spleen.” The blood spike seemed cool but… self-harming ranged combat? Not ideal when your top skill so far was fainting..
Blood Manipulation, though. That felt foundational. Like the kind of thing that would lead to other cooler stuff. Maybe eventually blood armor. Or blood clones. Or, heck, blood surfing- oh shi- he really stop thinking about bloody stuff he thought as he almost fainted once more.
He locked in Blood Manipulation.
Then paused.
Three remaining mage skills and two remaining blood mage skills.l. He stared hard at the blood mage skills.
Gaming logic screamed: Specialize early. Pick a path. Get strong fast.
But this wasn’t a game. This was real life. With real consequences. And real blood. (His, apparently.)
He didn’t need to be the most optimized build. He needed to live.
With a deep breath, Dewy locked in Mana Shield as his second skill.
The screen shimmered, then disappeared with a quiet ding.
[Skills Learned]:
- Blood Manipulation (Basic)
- Mana Shield (Basic)
“Good picks,” Nico said quietly as Dewy realised he had spoken his entire thought process out loud like those lonely Anime protagonists . “You’ll probably still die, but at least you’ll look like you tried.”
“Thanks,” Dewy muttered. “Your support is as comforting as a tax audit.”
Nico shrugged. “I try.”
Dewy’s interface faded from view, and for the first time since he’d woken up, he looked around properly.
And immediately regretted it.
The street—if it could still be called that—looked like a butcher’s fever dream. Asphalt was torn up, cars overturned and crumpled like soda cans, and a soft mist of blood still hung in the air, catching the light in this weirdly ethereal, horrifying way.
Bodies. Not like video game ragdoll bodies. Real ones. People—some with limbs twisted wrong, some in pieces, some barely recognizable as people at all. The remains of the goblin-like creatures were scattered too, oozing blackish ichor and green smears that hissed when they touched the ground.
Something buzzed near his foot. A half-dissolved phone vibrated with a cracked screen flashing “Missed Call – MOM <3.”
And then the smell hit him. Metallic and rotten and thick. The stench of death.
Dewy’s brain tried to disconnect. It threw up every mental firewall it had—every movie, every game, every cheerful childhood memory—but none of them held.
This wasn’t cinematic. This wasn’t cool. It wasn’t the start of an epic.
It was a massacre.
And he’d lived through it.
His knees buckled.
“Hey,” Nico said, sounding far away, “don’t—”
Dewy fainted. Again.
___________
Dewy woke up gasping. For a split second, he expected his bedroom ceiling, the hum of a fan, maybe the glow of a charging cable from his nightstand.
Instead, he got the sky. Bleak. Gray. A huge plume of smoke curling upward in the distance like some angry god was still puffing on a celestial cigar.
He sat up slowly, breathing hard. His heart thudded against his ribs like it was trying to kick its way out. His mouth tasted like copper and terror. But—
He wasn’t vomiting.
He wasn’t frozen. He wasn’t in a catatonic ball screaming at the sky.
He... could see the blood.
And he wasn’t losing his mind.
He realized the System must be dulling it—his phobia. Not erasing it completely, but numbing the edges, like an emotional ice pack pressed against a lifelong wound. And in that moment, Dewy almost cried from pure, ugly gratitude.
“Thanks,” he muttered hoarsely, not sure if he was thanking the System or maybe just the universe for cutting him the tiniest bit of slack.
He took a deep breath. Then another. Closed his eyes. Inhaled for four seconds, held for four, exhaled for four.
Box breathing. One of the few things he still remembered from the weekly therapy sessions his mom used to scrape together cash for when he was little. Before life got harder. Before the money dried up. Before— he left.
Dewy’s throat tightened, but he kept breathing.
His dad had walked out when he was twelve. Just vanished one day. No note. No warning. Just a half-eaten sandwich on the table and a pair of boots left by the door like he was coming right back. Dewy waited three days before he even told his mom.
She never talked about it. Never said his name again.
Instead, she worked. Hard. Double shifts, sometimes triples, in a diner by day and a hospital laundry at night. She came home smelling like grease and bleach and exhaustion.
Dewy had always tried to make things easier. Kept quiet. Got decent grades. Learned to cook a little, though he burned toast more often than not. He’d promised himself he wouldn’t be a burden.
But now, lying in a blood-soaked warzone with a magical interface and a whole-ass cemetery around him, he couldn’t help but wonder is she was alright.
He forced himself upright. His fingers trembled, but he was grounded now. Present. A little more in control. He could still feel the edge of the phobia clawing at his spine like a cold hand, but it hadn’t won. Not this time.
And maybe—just maybe—that meant he could survive this.