"These murals depict the life of my father—Ulysses Bloodstone."
Elsa pointed at the crowned figure holding a massive axe.
Lucas froze.
From the first painting to the last, the timeline spanned tens of thousands of years.
"Wait… that person is your father? Then your father is…"
Elsa nodded.
"Yes. My father lived from the prehistoric age all the way to now—over ten thousand years.
With the Bloodstone, he gained immortality.
That is its power…
and also my curse."
Lucas was stunned.
Ulysses wasn't just old—he was a walking fossil. A prehistoric antique.
A literal relic from the stone age who somehow lived until modern times.
"So why did he choose to die?"
Elsa tightened her grip on her necklace—
the half-Bloodstone glimmered faintly.
"I don't know.
Maybe because I took half the Bloodstone from him.
When he lost it, its immortality stopped working.
That might be what killed him."
Her voice held no guilt.
Not after the childhood he gave her—
not after her mother's death.
Elsa's hair was originally not red.
Ulysses had thrown her into a den of monsters when she was six,
telling her she could only live by killing them.
She fought three days and nights.
Afterward, her mother wanted to bathe her,
but Ulysses refused—calling the monster blood "a ritual."
Her scalp became infected.
Her hair turned red forever.
Elsa absentmindedly touched her crimson hair,
a flicker of old hatred flashing through her eyes.
---
Lucas had already moved on, examining the sword and rifle displayed near the fireplace.
Both radiated a faint magical aura—
their blades and barrels lined with runes he couldn't read,
but could feel.
Elsa stepped beside him.
"These were my father's weapons.
He used an axe first—like in the murals—
but at some point, he switched to a sword and a rifle."
"I think they're meant for you," Lucas said.
"Maybe they were gifts he never got the chance to deliver."
Elsa blinked.
On impulse, she drew the sword.
Hummmm—
It chimed joyfully, glowing as the runes lit up one by one.
With each rune, Elsa's aura surged.
It was like the weapon recognized her.
Like it was part of her.
She strapped it to her back, then lifted the bolt-action rifle.
It, too, felt like an extension of her arm.
A subtle connection, as if the weapon answered her blood.
She chambered the bolt.
Aimed.
Certain that any shot would hit exactly where she wanted—
even without aiming.
Elsa accepted them without hesitation.
Her old rifle she placed aside.
---
"ROAR—!!"
A violent bellow echoed outside.
Elsa and Lucas exchanged a look—
and sprinted out the door.
Someone had found Man-Thing.
---
Meanwhile, Jack was running for his life.
He wasn't here for inheritance.
He came to rescue Man-Thing—
a friend.
But Barrasso—the silent black hunter—
was chasing him, machete dripping blood.
Jack barely dodged blow after blow.
He fled into an above-ground crypt.
The moment he slammed the door—
CLANG!
It locked shut automatically.
"Damn it!"
He pounded the stone door,
but his slight frame couldn't budge it.
---
Elsewhere, Elsa ran straight into Jovin.
The bearded Viking raised Ulysses' massive axe
and brought it down with a thunderous swing.
Elsa dodged—barely.
The blow split the ground open.
She stared.
This was her father's axe.
Jovin didn't care.
He knew Elsa carried the other half of the Bloodstone.
Even if he failed to win the trial,
stealing her half would be a prize beyond measure.
He charged again.
Elsa had no choice but to fight.
The runes on her sword ignited as she drew it—
the blade bursting with crimson light.
The giant axe swept toward her.
She caught it with her sword,
slipped aside,
and delivered a clean upward slash.
SHRRK—
A red line opened across Jovin's torso.
Blood fountained out.
CLANG…
The axe fell.
Then Jovin's body collapsed with it.
Elsa stared at the corpse without emotion.
To a hunter, killing was routine.
Mercy was something they shed long ago.
She didn't pick up the axe.
She didn't even glance at the body again.
She sheathed her sword and walked away.
---
Lucas, wandering the grounds,
had yet to meet anyone—
or anything.
He eventually reached a graveyard.
In the center stood a small above-ground mausoleum.
One look was enough to tell him—
it was a family tomb.
Exactly the sort of place a trapped hunter—or a trapped monster—might be.
He approached.
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