The ancient runes on the dungeon walls pulsed with eerie light, their glow flickering across the cold, damp stone floor. The scent of blood and decay filled the air, a testament to the countless lives lost within these depths. Yet Oliver Von Rich did not flinch. His weary, sunken eyes barely registered the mystical radiance surrounding him.
The only sound that truly reached him was the wet, grotesque sucking noise coming from his arm.
With a sigh of satisfaction, a pale, withered man lifted his lips from Oliver's wrist, his crimson-stained tongue flicking out to taste the last remnants. He licked his fingers, savoring the rich, royal flavor. "Even after all these years, your blood is exquisite," the man said, his voice tinged with twisted delight. "A true delicacy."
Oliver, clad in tattered slave robes, remained silent, his body frail and hunched. His once-strong frame had withered to brittle bones wrapped in leathery skin, his hair now ghostly white despite his youthful age. He looked no different from an old man on his deathbed, yet deep inside, he was barely in his twenties.
A woman, dressed in luxurious silks, stepped forward, her sharp eyes looked and assessed Oliver with cold amusement. "You look dreadful, Slave A666," she murmured, tilting his chin up with a gloved hand. "But that's only natural. After all, we've drained you of everything your bloodline could offer. Strength, vitality, potential…" She let go of his chin with a chuckle. "And yet, you still have your uses."
Oliver lowered his gaze, bowing his head in obedience.
"Enough stalling," she snapped, turning to the withered man. "We're close to Solomon's Staff. The others are keeping the dungeon boss occupied. We should move before they return. I do not want my dreaded sister to reach it before me. I'll be the one to present it to father."
Oliver forced his trembling legs to move, trailing behind them. The deeper they ventured into the dungeon, the more corpses littered their path—remnants of the slaves who had perished during this expedition. Most of them had been sacrificed as cannon fodder to divert monster attention, and some others were drained of what remaining experience points and bloodline advantage that they could offer.
He had seen it happen too many times to count. They had been nothing more than tools, stepping stones for their masters. And yet, he had survived.
Not because of luck. But because this old man found his blood too delicious to let him die, after receiving Oliver as an unwanted gift from that dreaded farm.
His steps faltered, dizziness overtaking him. He had lost too much blood to that man's ever insatiable stomach
"Keep up, slave," the woman ahead hissed.
Oliver straightened, pushing himself forward. His gaze flickered to the center of the chamber ahead. There, nestled on an altar of obsidian, lay the fabled relic—the Staff of Solomon. Its golden surface gleamed, ancient runes writhing along its length like living creatures. The air around it shimmered with power, almost suffocating in its intensity.
It could grant a wish.
But only to one of true Solomonic bloodline.
The woman in front was a perfectionist. Her obsessive compulsiveness for perfection saw that she was distracted trying to wipe the blood off her man's face while she berated him for being messy.
This was not the first time she was chastising him for being too messy when he fed to recover. However, this time around, Oliver had intentionally shook a bit while the man was drinking so that some blood would stain his garment.
This bought Oliver some time as both of them were bickering back and forth. He had long thought this plan out. He had also sacrificed everything and had ensured he was of just enough use, and seen as no more threat than an ant. Ensuring that he was pulled along for the ride.
He had also tested this hypothesis of his again and again. They indeed saw him as nothing but a walking breathing extra blood bank.
Oliver's breathing grew shallow. His body trembled. However, it was not from fear, but from desperation. If he could just touch it… if he could just reach it…
He had to try.
Crawling behind them, he slowly shifted toward the altar, his steps were measured and soft, just below the intensity of the arguing couple. His fingers stretching toward the staff. So close.
Apart from the empire's royal family, he was probably the last one out there that could use this staff.
But then—
A sharp piercing pain tore through his chest.
Oliver gasped, his vision blurring as crimson bloomed across his torso. A blood-red arrow had impaled him from behind. His body collapsed onto the cold floor, his fingers inches away from the staff's golden surface.
A mocking chuckle echoed through the chamber.
"You really thought you could touch it?" The old man approached, his thin lips curling into a sneer. He grabbed Oliver by the hair, yanking his head up. "Trash like you doesn't get to dream."
Oliver's blood dripped onto the floor, pooling beneath him. His vision dimmed, but he still stretched out his hand toward the staff. Just a little more…
The old man scoffed. "I should've drained you dry from the start, but I really wanted to see this with my own eyes." With that, he slammed Oliver's head into the ground—once, twice, three times—until blood painted the stone. "I have an ability that lets me see into the mind and emotions of those I drink from. Usually I use it against incredible foes, but you... Worthless scum, your blood actually caught my attention."
Oliver could barely hear him now. Barely feel anything—even though normally he should have groaned in excruciating pain—that now jolted in minute intervals through his body.
But his heart still screamed.
Memories flashed through his mind—the horrors, the suffering, the chains wrapped around his neck, and through the flesh of his arms. The shame he had to bear, and the faces of those who had been sacrificed and died before him. The endless torment. The helplessness.
No.
Not again.
Never again.
His blood, still flowing from his wounds, crawled toward the staff like a living entity, as if responding to the sheer desperation in his soul. It seeped into the ancient runes on the ground surrounding the staff, lighting them up one by one.
The man had not noticed this. Then again, such was not his forte.
The woman stood behind chuckling sadistically at how the show was playing out. Her man had long informed her of what he had learned from oliver's blood, and the two of them had thought to amuse themselves a little by crushing the dreams of this once royal turned edible slave.
But then her eyes suddenly caught the sight of the crimson glowing runes in the distance and they widened in realization. However, just as she lunched forward...
The world trembled.
A blinding light from the staff consumed the chamber, and Oliver's consciousness was ripped away.
When he next opened his eyes, he was no longer in the dungeon.
The scent of blood and rot was gone.
Instead, the air was thick with the fragrance of incense and roses. A grand banquet hall stretched before him, filled with nobles dressed in the finest silks, laughing and toasting to a joyous occasion.
His eyes widened in disbelief.
He knew this place.
It was the night of his father's wedding.
The night it all began.
And how did he know this? He knew this because...