Chapter 39: Drear and the Damned
...Oliver jolted awake, gasping for breath. His hands flew instinctively to his throat, as if searching for the wound that had ended him in that horrifying dream.
But there was nothing; No blood, no gash, no pain.
He blinked rapidly, his eyes adjusting to the dim room.
Seraphina was still asleep on his father’s couch, a soft smile on her lips as she cuddled Richie Von Rich’s handkerchief like a cherished mory.
Oliver’s heart slowed, until he noticed the blood on his hands.
His breath caught. Panic surged again, but this ti, his gaze shifted to the man still hanging lifelessly on the wall. His corpse was pale now, the floor beneath him drenched in red. It was his blood, not Oliver’s.
Sohow, while watching Seraphina sleep, Oliver had passed out on the floor. And now that he stood, careful not to wake her, he realized his wounds were were fully healed. The searing gashes and bruises had all vanished.
He flexed his fingers. No pain. No stiffness.
The blood of the dead man on the wall had further healed him.
But why the nightmare?
Just then, his eyes caught sothing new floating across his vision:
[Bloodline Integration: 8%]
His brows furrowed. Wait… wasn’t it 7% before?
A sudden ache struck his temples. The world shimred faintly in red. As he turned his head, he felt it—the faint trace of a gray kind of Aether… coming from Seraphina.
A chilling thought clawed its way into his mind.
'Don’t tell … that nightmare was her dream.'
He considered reaching out to the Bloodline Will, but of course, it wasn’t present here in the waking world.
Still, it felt too specific to be random. Could she have been dreaming about killing him—and enjoying it?
He shook his head. I thought she’d be dreaming about Richie Von Rich or sothing.
The image of her smiling in her sleep while butchering him in a dream turned his stomach. Twisted didn’t even begin to describe her.
Oliver wasn’t going to wait for a round two.
Tiptoeing carefully, he made his way to the doors, eased it open, and slipped out.
The two guards stationed outside blinked at him, their expressions stunned.
“She’s asleep,” Oliver said flatly, cutting off whatever they were about to ask.
One peeked inside, confirming his words. Still, both guards stared at Oliver like they’d just witnessed a ghost step out of the dragon’s maw.
One guard nodded at the other, and they ordered a soldier to silently escort him back to the lower decks.
As they walked, other soldiers stared too. Oliver didn’t miss the wide eyes and the half-whispered words. They weren’t expecting him to return whole, physically or ntally. So probably assud only his head would erge from that room.
The foul stench of the cages struck him again, but he was used to it by now.
Inside, he spotted Velma in a corner. Her face lit up in relief as she rushed to embrace him.
He didn’t resist. He never could.
As he leaned against her chest in their corner of the cage, his breathing steadied—and then, with intent this ti around, he sank into the realm of blood.
He had questions. And he knew who to ask.
The realm was as crimson and haunting as always.
Above his head, the blood-red skeleton—the Will of the Bloodline—hovered lazily, as if it had been expecting him.
“What was that?” Oliver demanded. “That dream… was it hers?”
The skeleton let out a dry, mocking laugh.
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