The last thing Juken remembered was lying beneath his makeshift canopy, the sounds of the forest settling into silence around him. Then—nothing. Now he awoke to bitter cold and the smell of blood. His head throbbed. Chains rattled as he stirred, and he found his arms spread wide, wrists bound in thick iron manacles bolted to a black stone pedestal. His shirt had been torn open. Beneath him, the pedestal rose from a pool — no, not water — blood. Thick, still, dark red blood. The air was damp and metallic. The room was vast, circular, its stone walls slick and wet like the inside of a crypt. Above him, a jagged hole in the ceiling allowed the crimson glow of the full Blood Moon to shine directly down on him. It bathed him in an eerie, otherworldly red. He struggled against the chains, but they held firm. Shadows shifted along the edge of the room — dark figures in deep red robes, silent and still, surrounding the pool like statues. At the base of the steps leading down into the blood, one figure stood apart. Her. Aeri. Her face was pale, her lips trembling. Long, black hair curled down her back like ink poured over snow. Her eyes shimmered with a storm of emotion — anger, fear, sorrow. But she didn’t speak. Not to him. A tear slipped down her cheek as she stepped into the blood pool. The liquid clung to her dress and skin like oil, slow and heavy. She moved forward, up the steps of the central pedestal, blood rising to her hips with every step. Juken’s heart pounded. “Aeri,” he rasped. “What is this? What the hell is this?!” She didn’t answer. Her gaze was locked on him, but distant — as if something inside her was breaking. An elder cultist stepped forward. His voice, sharp and ceremonial, echoed off the stone walls. “It is time, child. Spill his blood into the pool. Complete the ritual. Receive the gift.” She looked back at the elder. Then to Juken. Her fingers twitched. Then—she sank. Without warning, she dropped beneath the surface of the blood as if pulled by unseen hands. Bubbles rose. Silence followed. Juken shouted her name, screamed against the chains, until his voice cracked and broke. The cult didn’t move. Then the blood churned. It frothed and boiled, as if the pool itself had become alive. And from its center, she rose. No longer Aeri. The woman that emerged was like something out of a forgotten myth. Her skin gleamed pale and flawless, her lips blood-red. Her black dress shimmered with woven lace, its fabric clinging to her like shadow and silk. Blood coiled in the air around her in tendrils, floating and writhing like sentient mist. In her hand, she held a dagger — ancient, curved, etched with runes, its blade glowing with pulsing red veins. Her eyes... they burned. Red light poured from them, seething with power and fury. The cult gasped. “She has it,” one elder whispered, his voice trembling. “Blood magic… true blood magic. It has not awakened in centuries.” Aeri turned her head slowly. Her eyes landed on Juken, and for a moment, the power seemed to falter. Her lips trembled. Then she spoke. Her voice was no longer soft — it thundered, every syllable shaking the walls. “I will not spill his blood.” A stunned silence fell. “He is my best friend. My anchor. The only one who has ever truly seen me — who has never feared me, not even when he should have. I would never hurt him. No matter what lies you told me. No matter what you promised.” The blood in the air surged and twisted, responding to her fury. “I love him. In ways you can’t even name. In ways that go beyond friendship, beyond duty, beyond fate.” The cult began to murmur in panic. But she raised her hand, fingers curling slowly into a fist. The room shook. Robes flared. Then screams. Dozens of red-robed figures clutched their faces and dropped to their knees. Blood poured from their eyes like tears. Some collapsed. Others writhed. “You wanted power,” she said coldly. “Now drown in it.” Her expression softened, tears mixing with the red glow of of her power. “No one will ever lay a hand on you again,” she said. “Not even the gods.”