Vol. 2 Ch. 19: Bloodspawn

Author's note: Enjoy an early release! I'll also be giving you a bonus chapter this week as a thank you for first month of Patreon. Recurrin

Author's note:
Enjoy an early release! I'll also be giving you a bonus chapter this week as a thank you for first month of Patreon.

Recurring Characters:
Peter: The protagonist of this novel.
Deathknell: A spirit of chaos that is contracted to Peter as his summon. It's very good with shadow and darkness manipulation. Peter can wear it like a cloak using his title effect.

Mariah: Peter's mother. You can find her picture in Art collection.
Tarin: A 13 year old boy rescued by Peter and Mariah near a fountain during their travel to the city of Rosefall. Picture in Art collection.

Samuel: A bandit with long hair, that Peter subdued in the last chapter. He is under the effects of Mental Domination. A skill of Deathknell.

Recap:

He caught the halberd’s tip with the blade of his scythe. As the weapons clashed, Peter felt an increase in mana drain to retain the shadow’s shape.

…End of Author Note...

‘An enchanted weapon?’ Peter drove his foot into the man’s gut.

The bandit folded in half, air exploding from his lungs in a strangled wheeze. Before he could recover, Peter plunged his hand into the man’s back. His fingers curling around the bandit’s spine.

With a cold, effortless motion, he yanked upward and slammed the man into the ceiling. A dull crunch sounded before the man fell alongside the dust. Peter ended his misery by cutting him down like wheat.

Peter stepped over the crumpled corpse without a backward glance. The camp was fully awake. Figures gathered in the distance, weapons drawn, but none dared to rush deeper into the cave alone. They hovered at the edges, watching, waiting, weapons raised in white-knuckled hands.

Peter turned around and walked into the side wall, melting into its shadow and disappearing from sight. He emerged from the ceiling directly above them—his scythe already lashing out in a swing.

Peter tore through the bandits like a wolf set loose among sheep. He moved with blinding speed, each time his scythe carved through the air, another body hit the ground. His strikes had no elegance, just merciless force. It was a massacre.

Even in the heat of battle, a part of Peter’s mind stayed rational. Those who deserved death were embraced by it. The few who didn’t were left breathing, in one piece, at the mercy of their dreams as Peter only made them unconscious.

Blood splattered on the walls, coating them in red, limbs flew as bandits screamed, faced with an unbeatable enemy deep in their territory.

…

Garron frowned, the smell of iron thick in the air. His eyes narrowed, hearing screams from inside. He heard more than one person gulp in fear around him. The unknown assailant was approaching closer by the proximity of the screams.

Some of his men retreated, wanting to escape. The commotion had send chills up their spine. Thankfully, his new race came with a few perks. Garron tightened his mental compulsion on them, subtly influencing them to be brave. He couldn’t afford to lose fighters right now.

…

Peter finally reached the cavern entrance. Walking forward, he studied the rows of scum awaiting their judgement.

“You’re a bold bastard. I’ll give ya that,” Garron said, spitting to the side.

“You kill half my men, stroll through my den like it’s yours, an’ now you stand here,” he gritted his teeth. “I’ve seen cultists like you. You ain’t the first… an’ you won’t be the last.”

He took a step forward, his voice sharp. “Whatever god you pray to, he ain’t down here. This place? This here’s mine.”

He paused, looking at his men. His lips curled into a smirk. “Make ‘im pay, boys. Make ‘im regret crossin’ us.”

As if they were waiting for the command, they all lunged at once—eyes wild, mouths twisted into maniacal grins. There was no fear in their charge. No hesitation. Only bloodlust, as if pain and death had lost all meaning.

…

Garron snarled, his weapon raised in defiance. “You think fear’s gonna stop me? I’ve lived it. Bled it. Fed it to better men than you.”

His men advanced following his orders, but soon only silence hung heavy around him. They lay scattered across the ground, broken and still. Not one had managed to kill the intruder. All had fallen, crushed beneath a strength they couldn’t match.

Just then, Peter lunged into view, his scythe arcing down toward Garron in a blur of shimmering mana. He was quick, his movement sharp and sudden, but it still wasn’t enough. Deathknell’s forty percent drafted stats had pushed him beyond most foes, but the bandit leader was stronger still.

Blood surged up from the ground, twisting into a solid wall that caught the scythe mid-swing, halting it inches from Garron's chest. Behind it, Garron bared his teeth in a grin. His axe swept out in a vicious arc, aimed low, driving straight for Peter’s side.

The blade failed to hit anything but air, as Peter had melted into the shadow, disappearing like a phantom.

“I wonder…” Garron chuckled, “how long can ya keep playin’ these tricks after fightin’ all my men?”

“I gotta say, you’re a better spellcaster than me,” he growled. “Good enough to stand up to my higher stats… but in a long fight? I’m gonna win. You know it too, don’t ya?”

“Come out... and fight like a true warrior,” he growled, blood coiling around him in a tightening spiral. The corpses nearby withered, their flesh collapsing inward as the last of their blood drained away, leaving behind brittle, empty husks.

Garron’s brow tightened as a strange pull gripped his core, something invasive brushing against the edges of his soul. He clenched his jaw, resisting, then staggered slightly as the force slipped past his defences.

“So, you’ve got an identifying skill,” he spat, a twisted smile crawling across his face. “Doesn’t matter.” He laughed. “Go on. Take a good look. Despair, looking at my filled mana pool.”

…

Inspect…

[

Name: Garron

Race: Bloodspawn

Titles: Serial Rapist, Murderer, Human Trafficker…, Gale Butcher

Class: Battle Scholar lv. 100(Uncommon), Wind Reaver lv. 40 (Unusual)

Level: 140

Health: 3500 (Constitution * 20)

Mana: 1820 (Spirit * 20)

Constitution: 175 Spirit: 91

Strength: 95 Agility: 95

Intelligence: 50 Perception: 28

Dexterity: 25

Skills:

…

]

Peter cast a brief glance at his mana pool, the corner of his mouth curling upward. His opponent had misjudged. The fight with the minions had drained him, nearly a thousand points gone in the massacre. But despite that, he still had a reservoir remaining—three thousand points, untouched and waiting.

Peter surged forward, slipping out from the man’s shadow like a phantom. Claws of darkness bloomed mid-stride, slashing toward the exposed back. But the vermin was quick. He dropped into a roll, evading the strike by a hair, then slammed his palm to the ground. Blood surged upward in jagged spikes, aimed to impale.

He expected Peter to vanish again, to melt into the dark as before. Instead, Peter pressed on. Despite having an advantage in a drawn-out battle, he didn’t want to waste any time. The situation could change in seconds.

Light rippled across Peter’s form as Eternal Ward flared to life, the blood spikes glancing off its glow with a hiss. He didn’t slow. In one fluid motion, his Scythe coiled and reshaped, stretching into a whip.

With a sharp crack, it lashed out, struck the bloodspawn square in the chest. The bandit grunted in pain, the force lifting him off his feet. He crashed backwards in a blur of limbs and blood.

Shadowy chains shot toward the scum as he pushed himself off the ground. But blood rose to meet them, shaping midair into a storm of daggers. They sliced through the chains, scattering fragments of darkness in their wake before they could close in.

Just then, Peter closed the distance, carrying a massive hammer in his grip. He swung upward in an arc, aimed straight for the man’s chin. Sparks burst into the air as the axe met the hammer mid-swing, metal clashing with a deafening clang. The weapons locked, pressure mounting between them as both fighters strained, muscles taut, neither willing to give an inch.

Peter kept empowering his body with mana, matching the vampire in strength.

Garron raised his leg and kicked Peter, making his feet slide across the ground. “Not much of a talker, are ya?” he said, reappearing beside him, axe descending upon his opponent from above.

The hammer parted into flowing halves in Peter’s hand, turning into twin daggers. He barely caught the strike in a crossed block before spinning away, and countered with a wall of shadowed spikes, forcing the bandit to retreat outside the cave.

Both of them battled for supremacy, often succeeding in making each other bleed. Garron had a larger health pool, while Peter had better defensive and healing capabilities. Peter was better at manipulation-based magic, but Garron wasn’t worried. He was waiting for him to run out of mana.

Time passed, and yet Peter maintained his edge over him. Garron finally realised that his opponent wasn’t afraid of a drawn-out battle like he envisioned.

Garron frowned and called for the blood. Ribbons of red floated, coiling into armour. Wind surged. His eyes glowed brighter. He transformed—a tall, bat-winged monster.

Before Peter could close the distance, the vampire unfurled his wings and launched into the sky, riding a summoned gust toward the trees.

Peter sprang after him, his form swallowed by swirling shadows. The darkness condensed into a massive sphere, which slammed into the earth and rolled in pursuit, weaving between trunks with unnatural precision. Spikes erupted along its surface, launching upward to pierce the fleeing vampire from below.

In response, blood whirled around the vampire, shaping into floating orbs that hardened just in time. The spikes clanged harmlessly against the shields.

The vampire twisted midair and beat his wings again, sending a flurry of compressed wind blades slicing down toward the oncoming sphere.

The shadow sphere zigzagged through the forest, weaving between trees as the blades slashed past, carving into trunks. Wood cracked and splintered. Several trees toppled, crashing to the ground in clouds of dust.

Seizing the moment, the sphere surged forward, using a fallen log like a ramp. It launched into the air, unravelling mid-flight.

Peter emerged from the dissolving shadows, his arm already outstretched. A whip of darkness snapped forward, coiling tightly around the vampire’s leg. With a sharp pull, he yanked the airborne foe downward, slamming him into the earth with a crash.

Garron cursed, his head spinning. Shadows closed in from every side, every angle, wrapping him in a cocoon of darkness. He thrashed helplessly, teeth bared, arms struggling, but the shadow pressed harder, relentless and too many.

Despite his protests, his mouth was forced open. A choked protest escaped just as shadows poured in, sliding down his throat like ink. Sharp pain followed.

They wreaked havoc inside him, rupturing his internal organs and causing him massive amounts of damage. His lungs burned with each breath. His stomach bloated past its point. His heart spasmed under the assault.

He managed one last, broken curse. Then silence.

The shadows convulsed once, then burst outward, scattering chunks of what had once been Garron across the forest floor.

Peter landed on his side, breath coming in hard gasps. His transformation reversed as he was running low on Mana. His hands fumbled around his belt before raising a crystal vial, filled with blue liquid, to his lips. He drank and allowed his legs to relax, planting his butt on the earth.

He sat there for a couple of minutes, calming down his nerves and allowing the potion to fill his reserves to a small degree. Once the effect dissipated, he made his way back to the cavern to check on his mother and the prisoners. Deathknell followed close behind, remaining silent in his shadow.

…

“We can’t leave right now,” Mariah said, blocking the exit. A frown on her face.

“Stand aside.” The man whispered. “Now’s the time or…they’ll come back,” he shuddered from a phantom pain, his hand resting on the wall for support.

“We should believe her,” the woman murmured, her arms wrapped protectively around Tarin’s frail frame. She tightened her hold slightly before continuing. “You’re only able to think about escaping because she gave us those healing potions.”

“And we’re all grateful toward her for that,” The man said, through clenched teeth as he turned around to face her. “But…do you really think that man—that thing can defeat all the bandits?”

“I do,” Mariah said, her voice unwavering and firm as she looked around, staring into everyone’s eyes. “I believe him, and until he’s back, we’d stay here.”

The prisoners hesitated, their resolve shaken. They failed to find an ounce of fear in her form as she stood in a bandit den. She knew what’d happen to them all if bandits managed to come out on top, yet she stood unafraid.

Just then, footsteps approached from outside. Everyone stilled.

…End of Chapter…

Peter's Stats after Grafting deathknell's 40% stats on him during the transformation:

Stats:

Health: 1450 (Constitution * 10)

Mana: 3990 (Spirit * 10)

Constitution: 145 Spirit: 399

Strength: 77 Agility: 81

Dexterity: 15

Intelligence: 52 Perception: 40

Luck: 35 Charisma: 45