Chapter 17 - The Bloodline of Nightmares
....very dangerous. The reason was that contracts worked in such a way that their terms of service, further employed by the bloodline of the individuals involved, made fulfilling them all the more easier.
In lay man terms, the more rigid a contract, and powerful the bloodline of the individuals involved, then the higher the luck for that contract to be fulfilled.
Of course, the strength and will of the individual to meet the terms of the contract was also a factor to consider.
In this world, Contracts were the key. The key to everything.
Oliver felt a strange weight lift off his chest as the contract with Accra inked in. His blood sizzled in the air. A sigh of relief escaped him. The deal was done. Bound by the rules of the A-ranked contract, the demon could no longer harm him. To violate the pact was to destroy itself. For now, Oliver was safe.
And more importantly, the seal was his for the taking.
Oliver turned to it. The massive, Alchemist seal on the wall pulsed with violent light—crimson and hungry. Web-like veins traced its edges, snaking from the corpses that littered the floor, some even reaching into the darkness beyond the corridor. The seal had not only drunk the blood of the dead in the castle—it had drunk the dead of the night.
Richie Von Rich was not joking when he said that he borrowed the butcher knife of the Somaran Empire in order to sacrifice the entire kingdom for the activation of this seal.
The seal had taken a lot, but it was still drinking. It was an insatiable hole.
Accra narrowed its eyes, its skeletal wings folding behind it as it stood with arms crossed.
After Oliver had made the contract with it, he could now see its form much clearer.
"As per my contract with Richie Von Rich, I'll WATCH from a very good distance. But I suggest you hurry. I've spread my senses wide, and someone's coming for you. A nobleman. He's breaking down the doors."
Oliver appreciated the warning from the demon. Now that they had a contract together, it pushed for Oliver's success. The contract was already in effect between the two of them.
Even before the demon finished, Oliver heard it.
Crash.
A door splintered down the hall.
Then another.
Then another.
Sir Bolton's voice bellowed through the hallway, furious and booming. "OLIVER! Come out and face me like a real son of the Von Rich Line! Or are you just a rat?... Come out and join your dear loving sister."
Oliver froze, gritting his teeth in anger. He could only imagine the kind of pain his sister was facing right now. Even the noble man's voice pissed him off.
Then again, Bolton's rage was unmistakable. It wasn't just duty anymore—his pride had been wounded by Oliver.
Accra watched Oliver with mild interest. "Do you even know what you're doing, boy?"
Oliver didn't answer at first. His gaze returned to the seal.
"Do you!?...If you understood the nature of this seal," Oliver finally whispered, "you'd have found the loopholes to destroy your contract with Richie and take it for yourself. This Seal..." he looked at it as if he was going to kiss it. "...Has the power I need to begin my revenge on the Somaran Empire."
Accra looked at him with surprise. To say he had not felt power from the Alchemist's seal would have been a lie. But power that one did not understand was best left untouch.
Worse case scenario, he could take it for himself if it had destroyed Richie Von Rich.
Oliver tore a strip from his clothing and dabbed the blood oozing from his thigh where he had stabbed himself. Then, with solemn purpose, he smeared it across the pulsing edge of the seal.
Unlike the others, his blood was that of the living. The effects were different.
The world shimmered.
The moment his blood touched the seal, Oliver's senses vanished.
A voice rang in his head as his vision went blank.
Then, everything around him shifted. The air thickened, the scent of metal saturating every breath. He stood—no, floated—in a world entirely made of blood. Oceans of it. Skies of crimson mist. The ground was a mirror of veins and coagulated streams.
Then came the word.
"Revenge."
It wasn't his voice. But it was… him. Like a part of him that had waited too long to speak.
"Revenge."
The word pounded against his skull, syncing with his heartbeat, flooding his mind. He could feel it merge with his own hatred—the festering disgust for the empire that destroyed everything he loved.
Another voice joined the chorus. Feminine. Cold. Ancient.
"A broken descendant of Solomon's bloodline?" the voice mused, followed by a low, twisted chuckle. "Not my taste. But I've waited too long. My hatred is venom. My thirst, unending. And you… you carry that same venom, child."
Oliver was not surprised that he had been referred to as 'broken.' After all, he was unable to unlock his bloodline until now.
A pulse of red lightning cut through the sky.
"Will you accept my Bloodline of Nightmares?"
Oliver stood there, blood clinging to his skin, his heart racing.
Oliver answered in his mind: "Yes... I will."
As he did, the world seemed to respond violently.
Blood tendrils shot from every angle, rushing toward him like snakes in water. They pierced his ethereal body and forced themselves into every crevice of his being. The pain was beyond comprehension. His entire body felt like it was being torn apart and reconstructed. Within this world, he felt his flesh and soul being reshaped.
He could feel the blood coursing through him, breaking through blockages in his body. He heard the echoes of chains snapping and walls shattering as if some primordial power was being unsealed inside him. His bones cracked and twisted. His veins burned like molten fire. It was as if the bloodline was tearing apart the parts of him that had once been human and replacing them with something darker, something stronger—something monstrous.
But even amidst the searing pain, what burned brighter than anything else was his thirst for vengeance. The bloodline responded to it, almost resonating with it. It had known such hatred, such torment, such burning fury.
Outside, Oliver's physical body was undergoing a terrifying transformation.
The demon Accra, who had been lounging indifferently moments ago, froze. His eyes widened as he took a cautious step back. The aura that now radiated from Oliver was unlike anything he had expected.
Accra muttered, voice tight with awe and fear: "The bloodline of a Demon Deity…?"
He had thought Oliver was bluffing, that his knowledge was impressive but shallow. But this… this was ancient power.
It was then that Sir Bolton kicked down the heavy wooden door.
In his arms was Velma—wounded, battered, and bruised. Her body was limp, dress torn, and blood smeared across her face and legs. One of her eyes was swollen shut. He dragged her across the floor like she was no more than a broken toy.
But the sight before him stopped him cold.
Oliver was hovering slightly above the ground, blood swirling around him in clouds of crimson mist. His eyes were closed, but his presence was overwhelming, choking even.
Bolton's shock lasted only a moment before his rage returned. With a guttural roar, he lunged forward.
But then—
An ancient force erupted.
It blasted across the castle like a tidal wave. Every living creature felt it in their soul. Seraphina dropped to her knee, clutching her chest.
Richie Von Rich, who had just finally drawn his sword to strike her, fell to one knee.
His eyes widened in horror. "No… no… Who awakened it…! The Seal…!"
He had hoped to absorb the seal himself, and had sacrificed the entire kingdom of Tyrell for this moment. But now, someone else had claimed it.
...Meanwhile, Velma barely opened her eyes as she felt herself collapse to the ground.
In her blurry vision, she saw Bolton floating.
His legs had lifted off the ground. Her hazy gaze followed upward… to his throat, clutched tightly by a massive hand made entirely of bloody armor.
Red smoke coiled around the hand and the blood-red armor shimmered. The smoke parted briefly to reveal eyes like rubies glowing in the dark.
She blinked again—
They were still there... not mere illusion. The same red eyes, the same thick blood aura. Bolton struggled violently—but then his own eyes turned red, and his body went limp.
Velma didn't understand. Her body was too weak to piece it together.
When she opened her eyes next, Bolton was on the ground—lifeless.
And on the other side… was her brother.
Oliver.
She whimpered his name. Through the pain, she crawled toward him, dragging herself with her last strength. She reached out, gripping his arm, her tears falling onto his blood-soaked clothes.
"Oliver… wake up… please… wake up…"
But it was of no use...