CHAPTER 457: HOLLOW VEIN XXI

The first seal burst apart, its fragments dissolving into drifting embers of black fire. The abyss howled in outrage, the sound echoing like a thousand gates slamming shut. But already, the second seal was folding in—denser, more intricate, its latticework of chains woven with symbols that writhed like living script.

It struck not as a wall, but as a sphere, snapping closed around him like the snapping of a jaw.

Asher didn’t retreat. He twisted his scythe into a reverse grip and drove forward. Bloodlit arcs slashed in cross-patterns, carving red light into the encroaching sphere. Each strike carved deep, yet the cage healed itself instantly, new chains knitting across the wounds.

The seal whispered with every stitch, voices layering over each other, insidious and countless:

"Bind. Still. Silence. Lock."

For a moment, the pressure crushed down on him. His cloak dragged against the currents, his blade slowed, and even his heartbeat felt bound by the encroaching law.

But Asher’s eyes burned brighter. His blood surged against the weight, roaring like a tide breaking dams. His voice cut sharp, a vow spat into the storm:

"Blood doesn’t still. It floods."

He drove his knee upward into the sphere’s inner wall, the impact sending bloodlight pulsing out through his veins into the barrier. Crimson rivers erupted from every pore, seeping into the black chains like veins overtaking flesh. The seal twitched, faltered, then screamed as the bloodlight spread through it like a plague, corroding every link it touched.

With a final upward slash, the scythe split the sphere in two, rivers of red light spilling through the fissure like dawn tearing apart night. The halves crumbled, chains falling away into the abyss as ash and dust.

But before relief could come, the third seal slammed into existence.

It wasn’t chains this time. It wasn’t even structure. It was absence. The air around him folded silent and black, space itself locking into stillness. His cloak froze mid-flare. His rivers of blood hung frozen like glass. Even the scythe in his hand felt weightless, suspended in denial.

For the first time, Asher’s body refused to move.

The figure’s countless mouths opened, and from them came a laughter that wasn’t sound but inevitability:

"THE FINAL LOCK IS NOT METAL NOR LAW. IT IS THE DENIAL OF MOTION. THE DENIAL OF BLOOD. THE DENIAL OF YOU."

The void sealed tighter. His heartbeat slowed, as though the world itself were squeezing the rhythm from his chest.

And then—his lips twisted into a snarl.

The blood within him rebelled.

It thrashed, surged, refusing to accept stillness. His veins glowed like rivers of fire under skin, each pulse of crimson Dominion defying the void’s denial. Inch by inch, finger by finger, his grip returned to the scythe’s hilt. His voice came raw, torn from his throat yet filled with absolute command:

"My blood doesn’t freeze. It only moves forward."

The scythe ignited, not with flame, but with a living river of bloodlight, its edge dripping red into the unmoving void. And with that single pulse of rebellion, the stasis cracked.

Hairline fractures split across the stillness, glowing red from within. They spiderwebbed outward faster and faster until the entire lock trembled like glass under a hammer.

Asher roared, muscles straining, blood blazing from every pore. He swung.

The scythe’s arc shattered the prison of denial in an explosion of blood and void, the fragments scattering into the abyss like shards of broken mirrors.

The abyss reeled. The figure shifted, countless eyes narrowing, countless mouths hissing in dissonant fury.

"...YOU CUT EVEN STILLNESS..."

And as the echoes faded, a fourth seal began to stir—its shape still unseen, its pressure heavier than all before, like the abyss preparing its true lock.

The abyss quaked as the fourth seal began to rise. The air thickened until it clung like tar, each breath dragging razorblades through Asher’s lungs. The ribs of black stone around the pit groaned louder than before, bowing inward as though the entire abyss were folding into the seal’s birth.

This one wasn’t forming from chains, nor absence, nor law-script. It was forming from him.

The bloodlight wreathing his body dimmed, siphoned away thread by thread, pulled into a coiling sphere of black-red above him. His veins burned empty, his strength tugged against his will, as though the abyss itself had decided to forge his essence into a lock.

The figure’s voice thundered through marrow and soul alike, shaking the pit with every syllable:

"THE ROOT IS CUTTER AND CUT. BLOOD ITSELF IS THE SEAL. AND YOU, VESSEL... YOU WILL CLOSE WHAT YOU OPENED."

The sphere thickened, pulsing with his blood’s rhythm, every beat of his heart making it stronger. It was no prison woven from outside force—this was himself turned against him.

For a heartbeat, his knees bent under the pressure. The scythe in his hand flickered as though unsure it still belonged to him. The thought stabbed at the back of his mind: Every stroke, every rebellion, all feeding this cage. You’ve already bound yourself.

But then his jaw clenched. His voice came sharp, guttural, defiant:

"No. My blood doesn’t bind me. It answers me."

He tore his left palm open on the edge of his scythe, blood spraying into the void. Instead of feeding the seal, it ignited, turning into a crimson wave that forced its way back toward him. The siphoned rivers in the sphere bucked and twisted, their rhythm faltering as Dominion called them home.

The figure leaned forward, hundreds of eyes flashing, mouths screaming in overlapping tones:

"YOU CANNOT CUT WHAT IS YOUR OWN—"

Asher’s roar drowned it out.

"Then I won’t cut it. I’ll claim it!"

He raised his bleeding hand high. The stolen blood answered, ripping free of the forming lock, crashing back into him in violent streams. Each return slammed into his body like molten iron, burning deeper, pushing his Dominion higher. His veins glowed like red lightning across his skin.

The fourth seal spasmed, its half-formed cage writhing as though in agony. It twisted to close faster, desperate, collapsing inward like a black heart—but Asher was already moving.

He poured every drop of reclaimed blood into his scythe. The blade swelled, its edge lengthening, wrapped in spirals of crimson flame. It wasn’t just a weapon anymore—it was a vein given shape, an artery that roared with his heartbeat.

With a single downward strike, he drove it through the heart of the forming seal.

The impact detonated like a star imploding. The sphere of stolen blood shattered, rivers bursting outward in a flood that painted the abyss in red. Chains screamed and recoiled. The ribs of stone split wider, fractures racing up their length. The pit itself convulsed, struggling to contain the force unleashed.

And through it all, Asher stood unbroken, his cloak a living tide, his scythe burning brighter than ever.

The figure reeled back, for the first time its thousand voices slipping into silence. Its eyes narrowed, its countless hands curling into fists. The abyss itself shook with the weight of its next words:

"ENOUGH. IF BLOOD WILL NOT BIND YOU... THEN BLOOD WILL BREAK YOU."

And the figure finally stepped forward, chains uncoiling not as bindings—but as weapons held in its colossal hands.