Christopher accepted the system’s prompt. However, nothing happened, even after waiting for more than one minute. No sudden revelations, no magical instructions, or an influx of knowledge directly injected into his mind. Nothing.

What the hell? He frowned, unsure of what to expect.

He checked the runes again: Crimson Proof (Equipped). Unless the system had made a mistake, the Epistle should be equipped.

Confused, he read through the Epsitle’s description once more. Right at the bottom, there were three requirements. The last one caught his attention: 1 Slot.

Christopher scrolled through his stats but couldn’t find any mention of Slot anywhere. The only thing he noticed was a stat called Tome.

Crimson Epistle… And Slot. I wonder.

He removed the notebook from his waist and rapidly leafed through the first page. The previously loose crimson page was now tightly secured to the notebook, sewn to the spine with a brown thread.

It seemed like the system interacted directly with the notebook. If I lose the book, do I lose access to the system? He wondered before putting that thought away. He had gotten lucky with a healing-like skill, but if he waited much longer, he would bleed out before he managed to use it.

Christopher closed his eyes and mentally tried using the epistle. He repeated its name over and over in his mind, but to no avail. Whatever he needed to do wasn’t as simple as he had believed. Or perhaps he lacked the talent for it.

It was, however, too soon to quit. The back of his head ached, a constant throbbing pain tormenting him. And yet, it paled compared to the piercing pain in his arm. And now that he had cut most of the blood circulation off, his arm was turning unbearably cold.

It shouldn’t be this hard. He thought.

Christopher focused his attention inward, delving into the depths of his own body. He felt his beating heart, still startled from the monstrous encounter he had moments before. It pumped his blood tirelessly, pushing the fresh blood through his arteries, arterioles, and tiny capillaries.

Once his thirsty muscles and organs absorbed the nutrients and oxygen it carried, the blood continued flowing through his veins until it reached his heart again—an endless, perfect circle.

Suddenly, Christopher's consciousness wanned as a torrent of sensations assaulted his senses. As if he had broken through the surface of a muddy lake, a world of color exploded inside him.

His arteries and veins lit up with color, weaving a golden labyrinth of highways, roads, and pathways. Within them, his blood flowed anew. No longer dull and dormant, but pulsating with strong, mysterious power.

And in the center of it all was his heart. A radiant beacon of light, each one of its beats resonating through his entire body.

Instinctively, he pressed on his wound with his left hand and uttered the epistle’s name once more.

Crimson Proof.

His blood ignited and exploded with power, rapidly circulating inside his body. Christopher didn’t hesitate and channeled the energy into his left hand.

A surprised sound escaped his lips as he felt the energy rushing from his hand into his arm.

Christopher’s wounded flesh itched and squirmed, rapidly regenerating. He watched with disbelief as the torn muscle and severed blood vessels fused back together. Magic! He had just done real magic!

As the wound healed to half of its original size, the influx of energy ended abruptly, and Christopher fell to the ground, exhausted. He felt drained and empty, like a dried husk.

Assaulted by vertigo, his head spun in dizzying circles, making it hard to focus or think clearly. Unable to resist any longer, Christopher fell unconscious.

─ ⴵ ─

Christopher straightened the steering wheel and turned off the blinker. Now that he had entered the highway, there were only two more hours ahead before they arrived home.

He watched the snow-covered landscape while whistling a happy little tune that played on the radio. Two voices soon joined him, forming a fun choir of out-of-tune voices that spared no effort to remain faithful to the song's lyrics.

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As it finished, they laughed with joy, no embarrassment on their faces. Like his dad, neither he nor his daughter had a talent for singing. Not that it ever stopped them. Their excitement slowly died once the famous eighties song finished.

The last five days were exhausting. Christopher loved camping – after all, he’d done it a lot as a child. However, since Christine was born, this was the first camping trip he had gone to.

His father had encouraged the trip, wanting to plant a love for the outdoors in his granddaughter. It had been a fun time, but Christopher was no longer used to sleeping in a tent.

He massaged his sore neck. Now that it ended, he was physically and mentally tired.

Christopher watched them through the rearview mirror. His father gently caressed Christine’s cheek. She was already asleep, having done so almost as soon as they finished the song. It felt weird to be alone in the front seat, but Christine, stubborn as always, had insisted on having her grandfather beside her.

He should consider moving back to live with his parents. It had been cruel of him to move away after they helped raise Christine during the first four years of her life. Living so far apart meant they could only see their grandkid once or twice a year. Now that he had a stable career, he could try to get a remote job and go back to live with them.

Christine would love the idea, too.

Christopher pressed down on the accelerator. The sooner they arrived, the better. Only a couple more hours until he could rest. His mother was probably waiting for them with a steaming hot medlar pie—Christopher could feel his mouth-watering.

In the back seat, his father was also growing tired. Christopher could see him yawning lazily, gradually closing his eyes.

Christopher rubbed his eyes. The warm air conditioning didn’t help either. If he were driving alone, he would’ve turned it to as cold as possible to keep him awake, but since he wasn't alone, he didn’t dare. The last thing he wanted was for Christine to get a cold.

Slowly, Christopher allowed himself to relax. Eventually, he too, closed his eyes, lulled to sleep by the car’s rhythm.

He cozily rested his chin against his chest until a huge impact threw him around and abruptly woke him up.

─ ⴵ ─

Christopher woke up from the nightmare disturbed. His feverish body shaking, completely drenched in sweat.

Darkness covered the swamp, and only a couple of feeble moonlight rays made their way into the alcove. Barely able to see ahead of him, he remained quiet, afraid of alerting the swamp to his presence.

Now that the night had fallen, the swamp brimmed with life. Outside played a cacophony of crickets chirping, mixed with the low croak of dozens of frogs, occasionally interrupted by animalistic, blood-chilling calls – unlike anything he had ever heard before.

Around him, he could hear faint sloshing sounds and twigs snapping under the feet of whatever creatures roamed the swamp. Christopher pressed his body harder against the back of the alcove and reached for the Dead Man’s Stake.

He was afraid. Afraid as he had never been before. Christopher took a couple of deep breaths, trying to calm himself down.

What happened? One moment, he was healing his arm. The next, he passed out, unconscious. He remembered feeling his head lighten and his vision spinning around. Did he pass out due to exhaustion?

Christopher touched his burning hot forehead. He was thirsty and nauseated. He needed water. He glanced at the alcove’s entrance, thinking about the fetid puddles outside, before shaking his head. He was not that desperate. Not yet.

He coughed violently and almost puked. His mouth filled with the metallic tang of blood. Blood. The Crimson Proof mentioned something about it. He summoned the runes and checked the Crimson Proof’s description once again.

“this sacred gift draws upon their very lifeblood…”

Maybe that was why he had passed out. If using Crimson Proof exhausted his blood, using it right after bleeding so much must’ve put him in a dangerous condition. No wonder he was feeling so sick.

He rapidly dismissed the idea of using Crimson Proof again. Even if the wound on his arm was not fully healed, the pain had subsided. Given his condition, it would be best to wait until tomorrow before he tried again.

The alcove illuminated fully for a brief second as a bolt of lightning flashed across the sky, followed closely by a crackling thunder above the swamp. A moment later, intense rain started falling from the storm clouds.

Christopher looked around, worried. The alcove was slightly above the ground, but if the rain persisted for too long, there was a chance it would get flooded. He hoped he didn’t have to search for another shelter in the middle of the night.

He leaned forward as another coughing attack seized him. He used his hand to cover his mouth, muffling the sound. If he attracted the attention of another monstrous creature, he would be in deep trouble.

Once the cough subsided, Christopher moved his hand and examined it under the feeble moonlight. Small droplets of blood were scattered across his hand, painting it red.

Under the dim light, it was hard to tell, but the blood appeared to have an unusual hue, almost orange.

Christopher shook his head. Maybe he had suffered an internal injury during his fight with the wolf without realizing it.

Now that I think about it, wasn’t there a Blood stat?

He rapidly scrolled through his state. Indeed, there was a Blood stat there, and it was set to thirteen. He pondered on the matter for a minute. In other games, there were usually resources like mana and qi, which one could expend to cast their skills.

If the Blood Stat worked like mana, he could increase the number of times he could use Crimson Proof by distributing more points into it.

Wait. If the Blood Stat represents exactly that, my blood, does it mean that each time I increase it, the amount of blood in my body increases, too?

If so, wouldn’t it cause him various health conditions? He didn’t know how to increase his stats yet, but even if he did, it might not be such a good idea after all.