The wind whispered like an old prophet carrying tales across the wasteland—stories of a crimson-cloaked figure whose shadow had grown to cast over a thousand kilometers.
Leo trudged forward, boots crunching the gravel of a broken highway swallowed by weeds and skeletal trees.
His figure was leaner now, more honed. The wild, tousled strands of hair had grown longer, falling past his neck like a black mane stained with ash. His tattered cloak fluttered behind him, its edges frayed and crusted with dried blood from beasts both undead and alive.
Fifteen days had passed since Leo left the Blood Camp. What began as a lone step into the unknown had turned into a trial of blood, steel, and hunger. He had crossed countless ruins—decayed remnants of human civilization that now served as breeding grounds for the undead and nesting grounds for mutated beasts. The road was never easy. Each night was a gamble between sleep and survival.
The cities were tombs—silent, towering husks overrun by time and the infected.
At first, Leo tried to find shelter in apartment buildings or bunkers. But the groans in the dark, the scuttling claws on concrete, and the stench of decay always forced him to sleep with one eye open and a dagger in hand.
In the beginning, he lived on canned food—beans, peaches, processed meat. But that quickly ran out. The beasts roaming the wild outskirts soon became his only sustenance.
He hunted them with precision, dissected them with calm efficiency, and roasted their flesh over small, smokeless fires made with old car batteries and scrap metal.
Surprisingly, the mutated animals—while grotesque in form—were still edible. Unlike zombies, their meat didn't carry the rot. Perhaps it was the adaptation of life. Or perhaps, as Leo suspected, the mutation was something not yet fully understood.
Still, the meat felt… different. When consumed, it left a tingling sensation on the tongue and a subtle warmth in the chest.
Occasionally, Leo saw brief flashes of memory while eating—glimpses of the beast's last moments or instincts. It was as if the meat carried their soul, or perhaps, his mutation was evolving further.
His power had surged in these fifteen days. From Dormant to Awakened, and now pushing deeper into Ascended Tier 7.
The progress was not exponential; each tier grew harder to breach. Every zombie, every beast killed granted diminishing returns.
But Leo adapted.
He no longer just fought to kill. He hunted strategically, targeting evolved zombies and level 3 beasts that roamed in lone packs across broken cities and drowned suburbs.
Each kill granted a dark prize—the hidden core pulsating inside the creature's remains, invisible to anyone but him.
This secret power path, born from that fateful encounter with the Sovereign, had become Leo's own.
The blood-red cores he absorbed didn't just fuel his levels—they deepened his blood path, transforming his vampiric abilities into something entirely unique.
His senses grew sharper. His reflexes, inhuman. His blood, when spilled, now writhed and coiled like a living entity.
Yet amid all the growth, something had changed.
The voice—the eerie, cold whisper of the Sovereign—had fallen silent.
It had been weeks since he last heard the rasping commands or maddening murmurs in his mind.
At first, Leo believed the silence to be a trick, a prelude to madness. But as days passed, he realized the truth: the Sovereign hadn't vanished. He had become one with it. Its essence flowed within him now, a permanent presence. No longer a master commanding from within—but a power he had conquered and consumed.
He could feel it when he drew upon the blood path, when his shadow stretched farther than it should, when his wounds sealed faster than logic dictated, or when his eyes glowed faintly crimson in the dark. The Sovereign's power had merged with his own.
And it terrified him.
But Leo didn't stop. He couldn't stop. His name had spread far and wide, whispered in the corners of forgotten outposts and etched in the trembling voices of survivors.
The Blood Camp, under his command, had grown stronger. Even in his absence, his generals were claiming nearby zones. The System Messages had broadcasted his achievements: "Zone Conquered by Lord of Blood Camp: Leo." Each message was a seed of legend sown across the territory.
The result was clear.
As he wandered from one zone to the next, faces turned. Some widened with awe, others with concealed hatred. A few Zone Lords welcomed him with guarded hospitality, offering food, shelter, and half-hearted smiles. Others kept their guards up, their eyes betraying suspicion or envy.
But none dared oppose him.
Leo's very presence had become a statement—a crimson banner raised above all others. He never asked for privilege, but it was given freely. His fame paved the way across ruined landscapes and crumbling towns.
And with every zone he passed, his conviction grew stronger.
This land will be mine.
Not just the Blood Camp, but all of it—the fractured territories, the chaotic zones, the hidden fortresses, and forgotten vaults. He would unify it all, not under peace… but under order. His order.
The eastern lands lay ahead. A place of dense population before the fall. The region once known as China, now a land called simply The Dragon's Veins.
According to rumors, massive underground cities still pulsed with life beneath shattered metropolises. Their Zone Lords were powerful. Their beasts, stronger. The very air in that region was said to hum with strange energy.
Leo's heart raced at the thought. Strong foes. New blood. Different types of zombies—rumors spoke of ice-clad Undead in the north, spectral horrors near the eastern coast, and titanic feral beasts in the mountains.
A fresh hunting ground.
His instincts stirred. He wanted to see how strong the other Lords were. Not just to test them—but to measure how far he still had to go. He was strong now, but strength without challenge was just stagnation.
And so, his journey became a crusade of solitude. From abandoned research bunkers filled with mutated spiders to flooded subway systems guarded by amphibious undead, Leo traversed it all. He encountered ancient relics of the old world—military tanks rusted into skeletons, mechs long dead with vines curling through their cores, and once-great cities drowned in silence.
Sometimes, he found survivors—ragged groups, clinging to life like dying embers. When they recognized him, their reactions varied. Some dropped to their knees. Others begged for guidance. A few even cried.
Leo offered them supplies when he could. Occasionally, advice. But mostly, he listened. Listened to their stories, their sorrows, their hopes. And then he moved on.
He didn't have a place among the weak anymore. Not because he despised them, but because he carried something far darker. The Sovereign's essence within him wasn't a blessing—it was a burden, a silent growl that never ceased. Every time he tapped into its power, something chipped away inside him.
But he accepted it. That was the cost of power.
Seasons shifted subtly as he traveled east. The air grew more humid, heavy with rain. Trees grew larger, some twisted unnaturally into thorn-covered spires. The beasts here were different. Faster. Cunning. Leo had to adapt—learning to hunt again, to move with more precision.
His blood powers evolved too.
He could now manipulate blood outside his body into tendrils that struck like vipers. In one instance, surrounded by ten zombified beasts, Leo had unleashed a flurry of blood lances that impaled them mid-leap, spraying gore across the ruined highway.
But with each victory, his solitude deepened.
No longer was he the Leo who fought for survival at the beginning of the apocalypse. He was something else. Something becoming more than human. More than vampire. Something sovereign.
Time lost meaning. He stopped counting days. The only calendar he followed was the rhythm of his own heartbeat during combat. But when he finally crested a ridge and looked down upon the great valley bathed in crimson fog, dotted with black towers rising like teeth… he knew.
He had reached it.
The Borderlands of the Dragon's Republic.
Leo stood still, breathing deeply. The scent of ash and iron filled his lungs. Lightning flickered in the distance above rusted cities. He could feel it, deep in his bones—this place was old. Alive. Watching him.
He smiled.
Not the cold, calculating smirk of a ruler. But the savage grin of a warrior who had found his battlefield.
He stepped forward.
The Wanderer had arrived.