Slazar turned the page, a faint, bitter smile curling his lips as his eyes settled on the words written in a color that wasn't just red... it was as if blood itself had spilled from an ancient wound to paint the paper:
"Commandments of slaughter.".
The script was crimson, distorted, as if it had been scrawled by something not entirely human something that had tasted enough madness to stain every letter with its insanity.
He began to read in a low voice, almost whispering to his broken soul:
"Power in this world is not given... it is taken. Earned through blood... and slaughter. Every soul you sever, every heart you stop with your hands, is etched into your flesh and spirit as a commandment. These commandments grant power... yes, but they are also a curse. Some shatter the body, others... tear apart the soul."
He felt something stir beneath his skin, as if the words had awakened an old memory sleeping in his bones.
He looked at his right hand...
The skull symbol was carved into his flesh like a demonic brand, pulsing gently with every beat of his dark heart.
"One of the commandments..." he muttered.
Yet he had no idea how to use it. The power was inside him, but it refused to obey.
He kept reading. The next lines felt more dangerous—like they were leading him to a door that couldn't be closed again:
"To awaken the power... you must descend into your deepest self. You must enter your Inner Altar. Every living being in this world has one... but the altar within this body you now inhabit... is of the final tier. An altar forged through centuries of bloodshed. It needs no further development. Only access."
"To enter, follow the ritual:
Draw a hexagram on the ground.
Find a dagger... not just any dagger, but one that has tasted blood.
Wound yourself... let your blood spill into the star.
Sit in the center.
Close your eyes.
Recall the faces of all those you've killed. Their faces, their voices, their final breath before silence.
Then... open your eyes.
And you will find yourself within the altar.
But beware do not linger too long. That place does not welcome visitors."
He didn't flip the page. He couldn't.
Instead, he sat still, lost in the shadows of his thoughts.
"This world..." he whispered to himself,
It felt like it was made for him. Everything in it fed off death.
Every stone, every gust of wind, every shadow whispered to him: kill more... grow stronger.
Slazar laughed—a soft, broken laugh.
He hadn't escaped anything.
He had simply moved from one hell to another... but this hell—it felt like home.
Slowly, he closed the book, the words still screaming in his mind.
He rose from the bone-carved chair and reached for the clothes resting on the wooden seat beside the altar.
A long, black coat—heavy, like it was stitched from the night itself.
A short-sleeved white shirt, stained with old marks... blood, perhaps? It didn't matter.
He dressed like a man preparing for a sacred slaughter.
He sat for a moment, then opened the creaking wooden door its groan sounded like a thousand trapped souls.
One last look at the darkness behind him. Then he whispered:
"It's time... to understand this world. To understand my blood. To understand why it chose me."
He stepped out, seeking the old man.
Answers awaited him...
But they would not come without a price.