Alison opens her eyes to the stench of putrefaction and moans. Her bloodstained wedding gown is soaked in mud, and she struggles to her feet, finding herself in a decrepit thatched hut. Outside the window lies a 1347 European village, where the shadow of the Black Death blankets every inch of land—rotten corpses pile in the streets, crows peck at festering wounds, and the air reeks of tar and death.
"Welcome to the age of alchemy." A raspy voice sounds from behind. Alison spins, a rusted dagger pressing to her throat. The wielder is a gaunt man wrapped in a robe stained with herbal concoctions, his right eye a glass prosthetic glowing green.
"Who are you?" she hisses through clenched teeth, the blood on her gown now a dangerous mark. The man chuckles, reciting a string of incantations in Latin. The dagger suddenly glows eerie light, twisting the room's shadows into writhing tentacles.
"I am your guide—and your only bargaining chip." He rips off his hood, revealing a face etched with alchemical symbols. "The pocket watch chose you, but to rewrite history, you must retrieve the 'First Blood' for me—the origin of the plague when the Black Death first struck."
Alison clenches the watch, its incantations burning like hot irons. She realizes she's trapped in a double bind: ancestors of Charles Lancaster are leading a knightly order in pursuit, while the alchemist before her threatens her with curses to complete the task. As hoofbeats grow nearer outside, she swallows her fear and follows the man into the village ruins.
Crawling through piles of corpses, Alison feels the alchemist's glass eye fixed on her back. She spots the Lancaster family crest here—identical to the one embroidered in Charles' suit lining—proving their pillaging of alchemy began as early as the Middle Ages. A thought twines her heart like poison ivy: destroying the family's historical roots might finally end their evil bloodline.
"The plague's origin lies in the church crypt." The alchemist stops, pointing to a collapsed stone building. As Alison steps into the gloomy entrance, she's surrounded by armored knights. Their leader has the same hooked nose as Charles, and the Lancaster crest on his sword blade blazes in the torchlight.
"Traitorous blood can never escape its fate." The knight commander sneers, slicing open her tattered gown with his . Alison's skin trembles under the cold steel, but she suddenly spots a silver dagger at his waist—identical to the one that pierced her abdomen at the wedding.
No time to hesitate. She dodges the sword with modern agility, her gown tearing to reveal her curves. The knights' breaths grow ragged, desire and killing intent mixing in their pupils. Seizing the moment, Alison slams the watch against the stone wall—blue light from the incantations blasts a fissure, and a baby's cry echoes from the crypt's depths.
"That is the cursed 'Blood Infant'," the alchemist's voice rings out. "Take its blood, but you must bear the price of spacetime backlash."
Alison leaps toward the cry. Before the bronze casket sealing the Blood Infant, she wraps her arm in a gown fragment and plunges it inside. The infant's scream splits her eardrums, and simultaneously, Charles appears in her mind—standing on the church ruins, watching her struggle coldly.
"You can't run, Alison," his voice overlaps with the infant's wail. Gritting her teeth against the agony of spacetime tearing, she drips the blood into the watch. New incantations flare on its face as knights charge through the blue fissure.
"The deal is done." The alchemist suddenly laughs, slashing his wrist with the dagger. His blood mingles with the infant's in the air, forming a vortex that swallows Alison. As she loses consciousness, she hears him whisper:
"With each time leap, a piece of your soul stays in the past. When all fragments converge, it will be the end of your revenge—or eternal imprisonment."