The transition from death to existence was not a flash of light, nor a choir of angels. It was the slow, agonizing realization of weight.
Darkness had been Red's only companion for what felt like an eternity. In that void, there was no passage of time—only the echoing memory of the flames that had licked his skin and the laughter of those he had once called comrades. The betrayal was a cold stone sitting in the center of his non-existent chest.
Then, the darkness began to recede.
It didn't fade into the morning sun. Instead, it pulled back like a tide, leaving behind a raw, sharpening awareness. Red felt it first as a vibration—a low, rhythmic thrumming that pulsed through the floor beneath him. He felt cold, but not the cold of a winter breeze. It was the structural cold of stone, an absolute absence of heat that seemed to define his very essence.
There was no breath in his lungs. No heartbeat thumping against his ribs. No warmth of blood flowing through his veins.
His consciousness floated, heavy as lead yet sharp as a razor. Memory and reality collided. The smell of burning flesh—his flesh—lingered in a phantom sense, clashing with the sterile, metallic scent of the abyss.
Then—he opened his eyes.
Crimson flames ignited with a violent hiss inside hollow, dark sockets.
The world rushed in. It wasn't the blurry vision of a waking man, but a hyper-focused, predatory clarity. Red sat upright, the movement accompanied by a sound that made his soul shiver: the dry, rhythmic scraping of bone against stone.
He was not lying in a grave. He was seated upon a throne.
It was a massive thing, carved from a single block of black obsidian that seemed to swallow the dim light of the chamber. Ancient runes, etched by hands that predated humanity, glowed with a faint, sickly violet hue along its armrests. The air was not air at all; it was a pressurized soup of dark mana, thick enough to feel like a physical weight against his spirit.
Red looked down at his lap. His breath—or the habit of it—hitched.
White. Cracked. Lifeless.
His hands were nothing but phalanges and metacarpals, bleached the color of a sun-dried desert. There was no skin to hide the intricate clockwork of the joints. No muscle to provide the strength he felt surging through him.
He was a monster. He was a relic.
"What… is this?"
His voice didn't come from a throat. It vibrated from the very marrow of his skull, echoing unnaturally—hollow, metallic, and stripped of all human softness.
Red slid off the throne, his movements stiff and jerky, like a marionette being pulled by invisible, rusted wires. He stumbled forward, his bare toe-bones clicking against the polished obsidian floor. In the reflection of the dark stone, he saw the truth.
A skeleton stared back.
It wasn't the heroic figure of a fallen knight. It was a macabre puppet of death. The crimson flames in its eyes flickered with a mix of horror and dawning rage. The jaw was set in a permanent, mocking grin.
"No… no… no…"
He staggered backward, his skeletal heels catching on the dais.
"This can't be real!"
The realization shattered the dam of his restraint. He screamed—a sound that wasn't a vocal cord's vibration, but a psychic shockwave that tore through the chamber.
"I DIED! I WAS BURNED ALIVE!"
The memory of the Holy Flames returned with agonizing detail. The smell of his own skin charring. The sight of the 'Hero' smiling as he plunged the blade into Red's chest. The cheers of the kingdom as they watched their protector be executed as a traitor.
"I'LL KILL THEM—!"
His rage erupted, manifesting as a physical storm. The dark mana in the room responded to his fury, swirling into a localized hurricane that cracked the pillars of the hall.
"I'LL KILL THE WHOLE OF HUMANITY!"
The dungeon trembled. Dust fell from the vaulted ceiling, and the very foundations of the Netherworld seemed to groan under the weight of his hatred.
"My lord," a voice cut through the tempest. "Control yourself."
The voice was like a mountain speaking—calm, immovable, and terrifyingly deep.
Red turned sharply. His rage-filled gaze landed on the figures he had failed to notice in his initial panic.
Before him, an army knelt.
Thousands upon thousands of demons stood in perfect, terrifying formation. Their ranks stretched back into the shadows of the colossal hall, lost in the gloom. Their armor was blacker than the void, etched with abyssal sigils that pulsed in time with Red's own flickering eye-flames. Their weapons—massive claymores, wicked halberds, and jagged spears—rested against the ground in a gesture of absolute, terrifying submission.
At the very front of this legion knelt four figures.
The Great Generals of the Netherworld.
One was a towering mass of living shadow; another, a female entity with wings like tattered velvet and skin the color of a bruised moon. The third was a knight in soul-bound plate armor, and the fourth, a creature of shifting, eldritch geometry. Each radiated a power that would have leveled a human city.
And standing before them all, the only one who dared to speak—was Lucifero.
The King of the Netherworld. He stood with a grace that defied his monstrous nature, his six black wings folded neatly behind him, his eyes glowing with an ancient, weary intelligence.
Red froze, his skeletal fingers digging into the arm of the throne.
"Why… are you kneeling?" he asked, his voice trembling with a mix of confusion and lingering malice.
Lucifero bowed his head, a gesture of respect that felt heavy with destiny.
"Because you are alive," Lucifero said. "And because you carry the Crimson Seed."
Red clenched his skeletal fists. The sound of bone grinding on bone was the only noise in the silent hall. "I don't care about seeds or thrones. I don't care about your demon politics. I want revenge. I want to feel their hearts stop beneath my boots."
Lucifero rose to his full height, his presence filling the room. "Revenge alone will not destroy humanity, little spark. Revenge is a fire that consumes the wood until nothing is left but ash. To destroy them, you need more than hate. You need Power."
"What do you mean?" Red growled.
Lucifero spread his wings, the span of them casting a shadow that covered the entire dais. "At present, you are weak. You are a common skeleton—the lowest rung of the undead hierarchy. You are a soul trapped in a cage of calcium. You cannot even command the death that sustains you."
Red's rage sharpened into a point. "Then tell me how. How do I become strong enough to wipe them all out? How do I make them regret the day they were born?"
Lucifero's eyes gleamed with a predatory light. "First, you must reclaim the birthright that was stolen from you by the 'God' of the humans. You must become the Vampire God."
The words felt like a physical blow. "Vampire… God?"
"Yes," Lucifero continued, pacing slowly before the throne. "To command the four Vampire Empires that dwell in the shadows of the surface world. To unite the fractured tribes of demons and the noble houses of the night. To declare an all-out war that will turn their green fields into a charnel house."
Red looked at his boney hands again. "How? I am a pile of sticks."
"You possess the Crimson Seed," Lucifero explained, stepping closer. "It is the distilled authority of the former Sovereign of Blood. The Human God's system attempted to delete you, but in that moment of divine betrayal, the 'Error' created a vacuum. Only a human with crimson eyes, killed by the very system they served, could inherit this. You are the glitch in their perfection."
Red remembered the screen that had appeared as he lay dying in the fire. The cold, mechanical voice of the System announcing his "Deletion."
"But power cannot be claimed instantly," Lucifero cautioned. "Your current vessel cannot hold the full ocean of the Crimson Seed. You must evolve. You must build a body capable of containing a God."
Red tilted his skull, the movement clicking audibly. "Evolve… into what?"
Lucifero raised a single finger. As he did, the air in front of Red began to ripple and tear.
"First—Ghast."
Suddenly, a semi-transparent window ignited in the air. It was familiar, yet fundamentally different from the one Red had used as a Human Hero. The borders were jagged, dripping with what looked like digital blood.
***
[ UNDEAD EVOLUTION PATH ACTIVATED ]
**Host:** Red (The Betrayed)
**Current State:** Skeleton (Tier 0)
**Next Evolution:** Ghast (Tier 1 - Spirit-Type Undead)
**Description:** A Ghast is a vengeful spirit that has begun to manifest a physical shroud of spite. Faster, stronger, and capable of basic shadow manipulation.
**Requirements for Evolution:**
* **Death Mana:** 0/5,000 (Absorb from the environment or fallen foes)
* **Monster Cores:** 0/10 (F-Rank or higher)
* **Kill Count:** 0/100 Living Beings (Or high-level spirits)
***
Red stared at the window. A bitter, dry chuckle escaped his ribs. "A system…? Even in death, I am bound to a system?"
Lucifero nodded. "The world itself has acknowledged your existence as a 'Problem.' This system is the interface of your growth. It is the ladder you will climb to reach the throat of the heavens."
Red clenched his fists, the white bone glowing with a faint crimson aura. "And after Ghast? What lies beyond?"
Lucifero's voice became a litany of power.
"Ghoul—where you reclaim your hunger for flesh."
"Lower Vampire—where you taste the first drop of divinity."
"Middle Vampire—where you command the lesser shadows."
"Arcane Vampire—where the world begins to fear your name."
Each title felt like a rung on a ladder leading out of the abyss.
"Once you reach the stage of Arcane Vampire," Lucifero said, his voice dropping to a whisper, "you will possess enough raw authority to challenge the Kings of the four Vampire Empires. You will no longer be a guest in this world. You will be its owner."
Red's flames flickered, growing larger, casting long, dancing shadows against the obsidian throne. "And then?"
"Then," Lucifero said, a dark smile playing on his lips, "you perform the ritual."
"What ritual?"
"The Rite of Blood Sovereignty," Lucifero declared. The dungeon darkened further, the torches lining the walls flickering out as if suppressed by the mere mention of the name. "It will awaken the Crimson Seed fully. It will stitch your soul to the fabric of reality. And you will ascend as the Vampire God."
Silence fell over the Great Hall. The thousands of kneeling demons remained as still as statues, their breathing—the few that did breathe—synchronized in a terrifying rhythm.
Red stood still for a long moment, processing the weight of the path ahead. He looked at the kneeling army, then at Lucifero, and finally at his own skeletal reflection.
Then—he laughed.
It was a dry, hollow sound that started in his chest and echoed endlessly through the vaulted ceiling. It was the sound of a man who had lost everything and realized that meant he was finally free to do anything.
"So I must walk the path of monsters," he said, his voice regaining a terrifying steadiness. "I must become the very nightmare they used to justify my execution. I must become the thing mothers use to frighten their children into silence."
Lucifero nodded. "The heroes of the light have failed you. Perhaps it is time to see what a King of the Dark can accomplish."
Red's laughter stopped abruptly. His crimson eyes burned with a cold, focused intensity that made even the Great Generals shift slightly.
"Good," Red said. The word was a vow.
"Tell me," he continued, stepping off the dais and toward the dark tunnel that led into the heart of the dungeon. "How do I evolve into a Ghast? Where is the first thing I need to kill?"
Lucifero extended his hand, pointing toward the depths of the abyss. "You must hunt, my Lord. This dungeon—The Pit of Eternal Silence—is filled with the dregs of the world. Monsters, failed experiments, and ancient horrors. It will be your cradle, and it will be the grave of your weakness."
The throne behind Red cracked, a jagged fissure appearing in the obsidian as a surge of dark mana leaked from his frame.
Red didn't look back. He turned toward the depths, his skeletal feet clicking rhythmically against the stone. With every step, the crimson flames in his eyes grew brighter, casting a bloody light on the path ahead.
His skeletal grin widened, looking more predatory than it ever had in life.
"Then let the hunt begin."
Deep within the bowels of the earth, far beneath the kingdoms of men who thought they were safe, the birth of a god had begun. And the world was not ready for the harvest.