My Blood Legacy: Bloodlines

The stone floor of the training yard was already marked by small cracks, not from direct impact, but from the absurd repetition of force being applied to the same point thousands of times.

The air still carried the morning’s freshness, but that made absolutely no difference to Victor, whose body had long since surpassed any common notion of physical fatigue.

His arms visibly trembled, his muscles contracting and relaxing in involuntary spasms as he descended once more, his face just inches from the ground before pushing his own weight upwards with an effort that seemed torn directly from his own will to survive.

"...Nine thousand... nine hundred and ninety-seven..." he murmured, his voice faltering mid-number, more of a drawn-out sound than a proper count.

Sweat dripped down his face, falling onto the ground in small drops that had already formed an irregular stain beneath him. His entire body was on fire, every muscle fiber screaming for rest, begging for a second of relief that simply wouldn’t come.

And, as if that weren’t enough—

There was weight.

Not just any weight.

But a very specific kind of weight.

Serafall sat calmly on his back, as if she were on a comfortable bench in a garden at dusk, completely oblivious to the fact that he was basically on the verge of complete physical collapse.

Her legs were elegantly crossed, her body perfectly balanced, as if she had been born to be in that exact position. The contrast between her tranquility and his deplorable state was almost offensive.

"...What kind of training..." Victor managed to say between repetitions, his arms almost giving way mid-movement, "...leaves someone...completely destroyed...and yet—" he paused, his face contorting in a strange mixture of pain and confusion, "—with...additional distractions happening at the same time...?"

His gaze drifted for a moment, even in that position, clearly betraying the problem.

Serafall raised an eyebrow slightly, looking down with almost curious interest, as if analyzing a strange phenomenon.

"Keep going," she said simply, completely ignoring the implied complaint. "You’re not finished yet."

Victor let out a sound somewhere between a groan and a weak laugh.

"That doesn’t answer my question..." he murmured, lowering himself again, his arms trembling so much they seemed like they would give way at any second. "I’m being... attacked on multiple fronts here..."

Serafall leaned forward slightly, resting her chin on her hand, clearly amused by the situation.

"You’re training," she replied, as if it were the most obvious thing in the world. "If it’s easy, then it’s not working."

He pushed himself up again, letting out a hoarse sound as he completed another repetition.

"This isn’t... even remotely close to ’easy’..." he retorted, his breathing completely erratic now, his chest rising and falling unevenly. "I think I’ve already died... three times in the last five thousand repetitions..."

Serafall shrugged.

"Then stop dying," she said, with an irritating nonchalance.

Victor was silent for a second.

Two.

And then he let out a weak, completely energyless laugh.

"Oh, sure... why didn’t I think of that before..."

One more repetition.

His arms gave way a little more this time.

But he didn’t fall.

Not yet.

"You need strength," Serafall continued, now with a slightly more serious, though still light, tone. "The way you are now... you’re weak."

Victor froze at the top of the movement for a moment, his arms trembling violently as he tried to maintain the position.

"I have muscles..." he retorted, with some effort, clearly offended to some extent. "Look at this..." he tried to tense his arm, which only made the trembling worse, "...this doesn’t just appear out of nowhere."

Serafall looked.

Indeed.

She really did look.

But her expression didn’t change.

"Visually?" she replied, tilting her head slightly. "Even I can turn into a man if I want to."

Victor blinked.

Once.

"...That doesn’t seem fair," he murmured, before lowering himself again, almost collapsing in the process.

She continued, completely indifferent to his suffering.

"Looks mean nothing," she said, now placing one hand lightly on his back, not to help... but to further stabilize her own weight. "You can look strong and still be useless in a real fight."

He rose again.

Slowly.

Very slowly.

"That was... surprisingly offensive..." he commented, his voice coming out almost as a tired whisper.

Serafall ignored it.

"You need real strength," she continued. "Body control. Endurance. The ability to maintain performance even under extreme pressure." She paused briefly, as if emphasizing the point.

"And above all... consistency."

Victor let out a long sigh, which almost turned into a complete collapse in the middle.

"If I have more consistency than that," he murmured, "I’ll flip part of the floor..."

She smiled slightly.

A small smile.

But clearly satisfied.

"Then flip it," she replied. "But only after you’re finished."

Silence.

For a few seconds.

Only the sound of his heavy breathing and the slight, continuous movement.

"...What’s the number again?" he asked, clearly having completely lost count.

Serafall answered without hesitation.

"Nine thousand nine hundred and ninety-seven."

Victor closed his eyes for a second.

"...I hate the fact that you know that..."

"Continue."

He went down again.

He went up.

One more time. And another.

His body screamed.

His body screamed for another repetition, his muscles protesting with almost absurd intensity as he forced his arms to sustain yet another impossible movement, his face contorted and his breathing completely irregular, each ascent seeming slower than the last, as if time itself were being dragged along with him in that continuous effort.

And then—

Footsteps.

Light.

But distinct.

The sound echoed through the stone courtyard with a carefree cadence, almost too casual for that environment of extreme exertion, breaking the heavy rhythm of Victor’s breathing with a new presence that didn’t fit into the scene of controlled pain that had been established there.

Serafall didn’t move.

But her eyes slid slightly in the direction of the sound.

"They took their time," she commented, simply, as if she were merely pointing out a delay in something trivial, without any trace of surprise.

Victor, still in the midst of the movement, turned his face slightly, even though it almost cost him his arms the collapse of his arms.

And then he saw.

Carmilla and Scarlet walked side by side, both with firm posture, but clearly carrying something more than just presence. Each held a briefcase—discreet, dark, but with an implicit weight that wasn’t physical, but rather... significant.

There was something there.

Something important.

Something that was clearly not common.

Carmilla was the first to speak, meeting Serafall’s gaze without any ceremony.

"Breaking into a 100% protected vault isn’t exactly a simple task," she replied, her tone carrying a slight irritation, but also a certain restrained pride.

Scarlet only gave a small sigh beside her, adjusting the briefcase in her hand as if it were more uncomfortable than difficult.

Without another word—

Carmilla threw the briefcase.

Directly.

Without warning.

The object cut through the air in a straight line toward Serafall with enough speed to cause concern in any ordinary observer.

But not there.

Not with her.

Before it even touched her hands—

The blood answered.

Thin, almost invisible threads projected into the air like natural extensions of her own will, enveloping the briefcase with absolute precision and slowing its movement until it hovered for an instant... before being gently deposited beside her.

Scarlet did the same.

And the result repeated itself.

Two briefcases.

Immobile.

Under absolute control.

Victor blinked, still barely supporting his own weight, his arms trembling violently as he tried to process it all.

"...What... is this...?" he asked, his voice coming out broken, more concerned with surviving than with formulating the question correctly.

Serafall didn’t answer immediately.

She just looked at the suitcases.

Then—

She smiled.

And it wasn’t an ordinary smile.

It wasn’t light.

It wasn’t calm.

It was... wrong.

There was something about that smile that didn’t entirely belong to her face, as if the expression itself was being shaped by something deeper than simple intention, something that pulled the surrounding environment closer, compressing the air, making each breath slightly heavier, as if even space recognized that something dangerous was about to happen.

It wasn’t an impulsive or exaggerated smile.

It was slow.

Controlled.

Carefully contained.

And yet... it carried an undeniably demonic quality, one that doesn’t need to impose itself to be understood.

Serafall raised her hand with a minimal, almost lazy, but absolutely precise movement, like someone who doesn’t need effort for the world to respond.

The suitcases reacted.

The dry click of the latches releasing echoed through the courtyard with an unsettling clarity, a simple sound, but one that seemed too loud in that heavy silence, as if announcing something that shouldn’t be opened so easily.

The lids lifted.

Slowly.

Without haste.

Victor couldn’t see the contents completely from that position, his field of vision limited by the very absurd effort that still held him pinned to the ground, his arms trembling under the continuous weight, his entire body on the verge of collapse.

But he didn’t need to see.

Because he felt it.

Something emerged from there.

Not as an object.

Not as something ordinary and physical.

But as a presence.

Dense.

Heavy.

Ancient.

An invisible pressure spread through the environment, crawling across the floor, climbing the walls, enveloping everything around with a sensation that wasn’t exactly hostile... but definitely wasn’t natural.

His breath hitched for a second.

Short.

Unstable.

And his body reacted before any thought could form, his muscles tensing instinctively, as if something inside him recognized it long before consciousness reached the same point.

Pure instinct.

Raw.

Inevitable.

"Your training," Serafall said finally.

Her voice was soft.

Almost gentle.

But completely out of sync with what was happening.

Her gaze returned to him, and that smile... deepened just enough to make it clear that this wasn’t a suggestion.

It was a promise.

Victor paused for a moment.

Even with his arms trembling.

Even with his body begging for rest.

Even completely exhausted.

Because, at that moment—

He understood.

Not in words.

Not in logic.

But in something more direct.

More visceral.

This wasn’t just another step. It wasn’t just "training."

It was a limit being broken.

Forced.

Torn away.

And somehow—

He knew.

He knew with an uncomfortably clear certainty—

This wasn’t just going to get worse.

It was going to transform everything he understood as "worse" into something too small to even be considered.