Mark groaned, a dull ache radiating through his body.

His eyes fluttered open and, instead of Aernor’s campfire, pitch-black darkness greeted him. Immediately, Mark shot up, stirring up a wave of sand. He coughed and squinted, tearing up as he brought up his hands to shield his face from the fine dust assaulting his senses. Eventually, his coughing fit subsided and Mark could hear a steady dripping noise reverberating throughout the space around him. The sound reminded him of flowing water, but the surrounding void made it impossible for him to actually be sure.

Taking another look, he noticed a shred of light a few meters away. With cautious steps, he came closer, only to discover a crack in the wall that was half-hidden by a large boulder. But while the hole did seem large enough, the prospect of getting stuck made Mark shudder.

He glanced back and stared at the lightless space for a second before making up his mind. His heart racing, Mark straightened his back and sidestepped into the gap.

The coarse surface scraped against Mark’s hands and torso as he inched forward, his mind on the lookout for even the slightest hint that he couldn’t make it through. He kept going, fighting his rising panic as the passageway slowly narrowed. A couple of minutes later, however, Mark had reached the end.

He heaved and pushed, the rough stone digging into his skin as he staggered out. Still trying to catch his breath, he craned his neck and spun around.

The enormous chamber was like none Mark had ever seen. Rows of cracked pillars, made of blackened stone, rose up to meet the ceiling. To his right, at the far end of the chamber, stood five statues. “What the hell is this place?” Mark whispered as he made his way across, kicking up the fine, obsidian dust that covered most of the floor.

Arranged in a semicircle, the stern faces of four of the five statues glared at Mark from atop their marbled pedestals. The first portrayed a stoic knight wielding a giant war hammer, while the second showed a female warrior standing behind a monolithic shield, followed by another woman, playfully holding a pair of ornate daggers. The last was that of a robed woman pointing her staff towards the ceiling.

Recalling the four figures that Aernor had shown him, Mark shuddered and turned away. His gaze then fell upon the remnants of the fifth and final statue. Strewn across the floor, the pieces could barely be recognized, but he knew the statue had once depicted the bronze titan.

Whatever strength Mark still had left him. He sat down and leaned against one of the chamber’s pillars, away from the statues’ grim stares. It was only then that he noticed his clothes: a hooded, gray shirt, underneath an emblazoned leather tunic, paired with some old boots and some rough, brown pants.

Mark took another look at the rough embroidery present on the front of his tunic: stitched in silver thread, the trunks of the two trees merged into a single, spiraling trunk that ended in a dense, star-like crown.

‘What now?’

He sighed as his mind raced, trying to make sense of it all. One moment, he was with Aernor, the titan talking about how they would train and the next…

‘He said, “they’re coming.” They…? The other demigods?’

Like a jolt to the system, Mark almost jumped the moment he remembered the searing pain that had raged throughout his body, immediately after Aernor had placed a hand on his chest. Reaching for his shirt, he unbuttoned it only to see… nothing.

But he then picked up on the tiny, almost transparent specs of red that spattered the utmost corner of his vision. The instant he focused on them, the crimson letters solidified and expanded.

Obtained [Aernor’s Blood (Passive)].

He blinked and rubbed his eyes, but even with his lids sealed shut, whenever Mark focused on the floating text, it immediately expanded and shifted into view. He then glanced at the statues again before directing his attention towards the crimson letters. No sooner had he done that, that the text unfurled before him.

Mark Chambers

Level 0 (Human)

Attribute Ranks:

AGL: 1

CON: 1

MAG: 1

STR: 1

Abilities: (0/4)

- None

Divine Blessing:

- [Aernor’s Blood]

“Great,” he sighed. “Now I really am stuck in a game between the five of them.”

Neatly organized into sections, the meager numbers quantifying Mark’s existence glared back at him, almost with contempt. Every section seemed as bare as his surroundings, except for the one passive he had obtained, and the moment Mark zeroed in on it, the bizarre letters morphed again.

Aernor’s Blood (Passive):

As misfortune would have it, the Crazed Titan’s blood now flows within your veins, amplifying your body’s innate traits. You can also draw upon more of this wretched power when fighting enemies of a higher level than you.

- +1 to highest Attribute Rank (Current Bonus: +1 to ALL )

- Doubled vs. higher level enemies

Aernor’s Blood (Active):

Locked (requirements not met).

“Seriously?” he asked out loud. “My attributes don’t even start at one? That’s from the passive’s bonus?”

He sighed, dismissing the thought. At the very least, his passive did increase all his attributes for now. But the more Mark thought about it, the more it seemed like the system itself was taking shots at both his and Aernor’s expense.

One moment, he was alive and well. The next, he had died, leaving his grieving friend behind as he was forced to hold out against the titan’s maddened rage. How long had it been since his death? Was Tony okay? As things stood, he would have even liked to know about that damned new year’s party.

A gust of wind howled as it swept through the ruined chamber, raising blackened dust devils in its wake.

Mark closed his eyes, balling his fists. Did any of that even matter anymore? Everything he had once held dear had been stripped away from him. And now he was alone. Alone and angry. So incredibly… angry.

When so many strolled through life without so much as a single care, why couldn’t he? Why was he always the only one left behind? What had he ever done to deserve… THIS?!

Mark’s eyes shot open as a rush of adrenaline and fear surged through him, smothering the alien fury that had begun gnawing at the back of his mind. And for the briefest of instants, he could have sworn that he saw the veins in his arms light up.

“Shit…” he whispered, heaving himself up. Mark could feel his heart beating wildly as he stopped to take a deep breath. His pulse slowed, clearing his mind. If just a fragment of Aernor’s power could stir up that much rage within him, he didn’t want to imagine what it was like for the demigod himself.

“Alright, take it easy,” he shuddered, setting out as his footsteps echoed across the patches of floor that weren’t covered by the strange, black sand.

The area behind the statues had caved in completely, while the surrounding area held little of interest, save for some old scraps of wood that could have once been anything, and the gap in the wall through which he had entered.

“Hello? Is anybody there?” Mark called out as he walked between the darkened pillars, following the faint current blowing through the chamber. “Aernor? Can you hear me?”

But as he reached an archway several times his height, it became painfully obvious that no one was there to answer him.

Shielding himself from another dry gust, Mark crossed the arch’s threshold. He came to a halt at the top of a row of half-buried stairs, only to find himself face to face with an endless, obsidian expanse.

Dunes of black sand stretched out far beyond the orange-stained horizon, filling Mark with dread as he spun around. But the sight of the vertical cliff, against which the temple’s ruins rested, left Mark reeling. And while he could barely see the top of the natural bulwark, the same couldn’t be said for its sides which seemed to stretch off into infinity.

“Where the hell am I?” Mark mumbled, feeling the panic within him rise as his pulse quickened.

He scanned the area, desperate to find anything that wasn’t just sand or stone. It was then that he noticed something shining between the dunes at the base of the stairs.

Nearly tripping, Mark slid down and got on his knees as he began to dig. He kept going for a while, scooping out handfuls of sand, only for more of it to eventually spill back in. But by the end, he had at least uncovered enough to see what it was: the head of a disturbingly realistic bronze statue.

A frustrated groan left him as he slumped on his back. Mark didn’t know what it was that he was looking for, but if he didn’t do something soon, the obsidian dunes would end up claiming him as well. Resigned, he started to push himself up as he felt the hem of his pants snag on something, followed by the sound of fabric ripping apart.

“That’s just great…”

He then also noticed something else glinting in the dim, orange light, right next to the bronze head. A couple of minutes later, Mark had unearthed a dagger, clutched tightly in one of the statue’s hands. And surprisingly, he could even twist the blade a little. But while the bronze dagger appeared to have been cast separately, its pommel still prevented him from prying the blade out.

Pommel or no pommel, Mark wasn’t about to abandon the only useful thing he had found thus far.

Walking back into the ruins, he leaned down and grabbed a rock from the pieces littered around Aernor’s pedestal. He then hurried back and proceeded to repeatedly bash the dagger’s pommel with it. Relentlessly, Mark hammered the offending piece of metal, sweat dripping down his face. His muscles burned, and a sharp ache raced through his arms each time the rock’s tip slammed against the dagger’s end. But eventually, Mark heard something snap as the small pommel fell on the black sand below.

Hands shaking, he took off his shirt and wrapped it around the blade before using his entire body to twist the dagger out. He braced his legs and pushed, his knees digging into the sand while his hands held onto whatever part they could of the guard and handle. Nothing.

He held his breath and tried again, summoning a strength that he didn’t even know he had as the dagger started to come out. The sand between its surface and the statue screeched each time Mark tried to twist it out some more. Until, finally, the blade came free.

An exhausted sigh left him as he opened his shirt and gently ran a finger across the edge.

“Hah! It’s still sharp!” he yelled, completely ignoring the minuscule bead of blood on his finger. Not only that, but the dagger in its entirety had remained largely free of any sort of rust or corrosion.

The morning sun’s rays finally soared across the distant dunes, causing Mark to squint. Donning his shirt again, he leaned his back against the half-buried steps, allowing himself a moment to catch his breath. But although he was tired, Mark had at least gained an incredibly valuable tool. Now, he just had to find a way out of this place.

A stifling breeze then brushed against Mark’s face, forcing him to pull up his tunic’s hood. He got up, fully aware of the heat radiating from the obsidian sand below, and froze as he peered into the distance.

Beneath the clear, blue sky and far beyond the scorching, obsidian floor, was a massive sandstorm. Reaching far higher than even the cliff face behind the ruined temple, the blackened tidal wave of sand billowed forward, swallowing everything in its wake.

Mark turned around and ran, racing over the steps. Already there, the wind whipped against his back, spurring him forward as he sprinted for the archway leading into the ruins.

And then the sun went out.