Chapter Nine: The Blood Mark
The first thing Andras did when he stepped outside the Le estate was look down at the dirt path, then at the grass that ran along its edges. He stared for a moment. Then, with a strange little smirk, muttered:
"Wow. I actually touched grass."
It was a throwaway joke. Something John would've said back on Earth to break the weight of a long gaming session.
Except now it landed differently.
Because stepping outside wasn't just a joke. It was a shift.
For five days, he'd been confined to a single room. That room had been a crucible, a forge, a coffin—depending on the hour. Now, as the bamboo-scented air filled his lungs, he realized just how far removed he'd become from the world outside.
The Bamboo Sanctuary stretched out before him in all directions. True to its name, the territory was filled with towering stalks of pale green and mist-threaded paths. The architecture blended into the environment—sloping roofs and walkways carved from jade-colored stone. Birds called softly in the distance.
It was, objectively, beautiful.
And yet, beneath that beauty, something rotted.
People moved through the streets below. Farmers. Beggars. Disciples in plain robes. Children. Andras saw them—saw how most kept their heads down, how their backs bowed not just from labor but from a weight deeper than exhaustion.
They were poor.
Starving, in many cases.
Children ran barefoot down the stone paths, not out of joy, but desperation. Carrying buckets of water. Delivering letters. One was no older than eight and already had burn scars on his hands from failed alchemical jobs.
To Andras, these people were shadows. Insignificant.
Insects crawling under a sun too harsh to notice them.
But to John, watching silently from the backseat of this shared mind, it was like a knife between the ribs.
Kids should be in school, he thought. They should be playing in parks… not breaking their backs just to eat.
This world was beautiful.
And this world was cruel.
And John didn't know how to reconcile the two.
An hour later, Andras sat in a closed carriage, watching that same bamboo world blur past.
He said nothing as the driver rattled down the cobbled road. His mind was quiet—but not still. Within it, John churned.
Andras remained silent.
The two weren't fighting.
They weren't even arguing.
They were observing one another—watching how differently they processed the same world, how one saw a system of brutal efficiency and the other saw suffering in every ignored corner.
The Bamboo Sanctuary slowly disappeared behind them.
The world beyond was less curated.
Dry hills. Jagged cliffs. Twisted trees that bent with wind like they were bowing to a distant, unseen threat.
Then, after a day of travel, the road finally ended.
The carriage halted.
Andras stepped down.
And there it was.
The Bloodroot Arena.
It wasn't built into the land—it had been carved out of it.
A pit.
A massive, circular chasm in the ground, easily hundreds of feet across. The inside was a sheer drop. The base, barely visible from the edge, was red. Not metaphorically.
Literally.
Blood had soaked the earth so deeply that the stone floor had turned the color of drying meat. It glistened in the sunlight.
Around the pit rose hundreds of seats carved from black stone—rows upon rows of them, climbing upward in a vast bowl.
Spectator stands.
Above them, suspended in mid-air by talismans and hidden spiritual formations, were grand floating chairs—thrones, really—where VIPs would sit and watch people kill each other.
It took John's breath away.
Not because it was majestic.
Because it was monstrous.
This world is insane, he thought. This is a goddamn stadium for blood.
And Andras?
He just clicked his tongue.
"…I hope they have good seats for the finale," he muttered. "I'd hate for them to miss it."
That was the difference.
Where John felt sick, Andras felt annoyed.
The internal split—once subtle—was widening.
And then, right on cue:
System Notification:System recommends prioritizing Andras's mindset. John's emotional responses may become a liability in upcoming Bloodroot Tournament.Auto-adjusting perspective weighting...
Andras blinked.
Read it again.
Then narrowed his eyes.
"…So even the system thinks I'm unstable?" John muttered quietly.
Andras didn't respond. He just walked forward, expression unreadable.
Near the edge of the arena, a red-robed figure stood at the tournament gate.
An old man—thin, wiry, bones sharp like iron forged too long. His eyes were yellowed, not with age, but with Qi saturation. He was a veteran. Probably a mid-Foundation cultivator tasked with handling gate duties.
When Andras approached, the old man scowled.
"Don't just stand there like an idiot," the man snapped. "Move! You're not the only lamb walking into the slaughter."
Andras didn't flinch.
He simply stepped past him, saying nothing, his silence a sharper insult than words.
He walked through the archway of black stone.
And immediately—
Eyes.
Dozens.
Maybe hundreds.
Every person inside the entry chamber turned to look.
Some were already seated. Others paced. Some meditated, their weapons lying beside them.
All cultivators.
All potential killers.
They stared at Andras for a second or two. Measuring. Calculating. Judging.
Then most looked away.
Dismissed.
That suited Andras just fine.
He didn't need their attention now.
He needed it later—when it was too late to stop him.
A long line stretched ahead.
At the front, a desk. A large book. A basin of thick, syrup-like blood.
And a glowing iron rod dipped into it—so red it shimmered like a coal.
It was time.
The Blood Mark.
Rumor said it was made from the blood of all those who'd died in previous tournaments. Not a myth. Not a poetic flourish.
Literal truth.
The mark was a rite.
A brand.
A curse.
And a prize.
Once the Blood Mark was pressed into you, you couldn't remove it. You couldn't wash it off. You couldn't burn it away. The only way to lose it… was to lose the hand it was placed on.
Why?
Because the Bloodroot Arena didn't believe in second chances.
Once you entered, you were owned by the pit.
Andras stepped forward.
John's heart pounded. This is disgusting, he thought. Insane. Barbaric.
Andras, by contrast, simply held out his hand.
"Let's get this over with."
A clerk—hooded, gaunt, eyes blank—grunted and motioned for him to sign.
Andras scrawled his name in the blood-writ ledger.
Then placed his right hand, palm up, on the stone block.
The red-hot iron rod rose.
Andras didn't blink.
The iron pressed down.
It didn't hurt.
But it sank into his skin like it belonged there.
The heat wasn't fire—it was soul-deep. Like something inside him had been rewritten. Claimed.
John wanted to gag. The smell. The texture. The wrongness of it.
But Andras just watched.
Unmoved.
When it was done, he stepped back and examined the mark:
Roots. Tangled, coiled like veins.
And in the center—an X.
It was hideous.
And perfect.
He clenched his fist once.
Then walked to the corner of the room and leaned against the wall.
Waiting.
Minutes passed.
Others filed through.
Some groaned. Some cried out.
One passed out from the branding.
Andras remained still.
Then the system chimed again.
System Update:Blood Mark Acquired.Passive Buff Unlocked:– Minor Luck Increase– +3% Physical Resistance– +1% Qi Stabilization under stress
John didn't know whether to laugh or scream.
So the legends were true.
The mark wasn't just symbolic—it helped.
He stared at the red wound on their shared hand.
Is this a blessing? he thought. Or a curse that just happens to be useful?
No answer.
But something was shifting.
Within.
Soul Integrity: 67% → 63% → 58% → 52%
Neither Andras nor John noticed.
They were too busy thinking—separately. Too caught in their diverging truths.
Andras folded his arms and closed his eyes.
In a few minutes, the tournament would begin.
Blood would spill.
Lives would end.
He would stand in a pit filled with killers, monsters, and prodigies.
And he would fight.
Not because he wanted glory.
Not because he wanted revenge.
But because this was the path.
The system hadn't saved him out of mercy.
It had given him a choice.
And now it expected him to survive.
No, he thought. Not survive. Win.
He touched the Blood Mark again, let his fingers brush the X at its center.
It was still warm.
"I don't care if I'm the anomaly," he whispered. "I don't care what I have to do, I live thought this it will be my first achievement in this world..."
His black flame curled under his skin, flickering once in the space behind his ribs.
He was ready.
Or at least…
He had to be.