Semua Bab Bloodscript: Survival Game of the Reborn: Bab 1 - Bab 6

I didn’t wake to the sirens.I woke to silence.Cold bit into my back. Damp seeped through my shirt. For a second I lay there, eyes closed, sure I was still on the street and that the next thing I’d feel would be hands on my chest, paramedics shouting numbers, bright hospital lights burning my retinas.Instead, there was… nothing.No traffic. No city hum. No voices.Just my own ragged breathing and a faint, distant hiss, like a radio between stations.I opened my eyes.I was lying on cracked concrete under a flickering streetlamp. Not the one by my apartment. This was an old, leaning thing, paint flaking off the metal pole, the light encased in a cage of rusted wire.Behind it, a sign tilted at an angle: **BUS STOP** in chipped white letters.Fog hugged the ground in every direction—thick, white, impenetrable. It rolled over the curb and swallowed the street, blanketing everything beyond a few meters like someone had erased the world with a soft brush.I pushed myself up on my elbows.

The bus lurched like a living thing picking up speed.I gripped the edge of the seat until my fingers hurt. The world outside the fogged windows smeared into white, then… changed.Through the grime, I caught flashes.Not city streets. Not anything I recognized.A burned-out forest, trees like black spears against a gray sky.The twisted skeleton of a skyscraper, half-collapsed, lights dead.A stretch of highway choked with rusted cars, all of them frozen mid‑crash.Each image flickered past too fast to really register, like flipping through channels on some apocalyptic TV.Then just fog again. Endless, white, swallowing, whatever lay beyond the glass.I pressed my palm to the cold window. It pushed back with the faintest give, like the fog outside wasn’t air, but something thicker.“Don’t bother,” a voice said behind me. “There’s nowhere to jump to.”I turned.The gruff man from before—thick shoulders, faded flannel shirt, stubble shadowing his jaw—had moved to the seat across the ais

The doors swallowed us whole.The grand hall beyond was the kind of place you only saw in movies or in the worst parts of my imagination. It was huge—cathedral‑tall, echoing, the kind of space built to make people feel small.Black stone tiles covered the floor, polished to a dull, warped shine that caught the torchlight in smeared reflections. A long strip of dark red carpet ran down the center like a dried river of blood.Portraits lined the walls from floor to vaulting ceiling. Pale men and women in high‑collared coats and gowns stared down with heavy‑lidded eyes. Their clothes looked centuries out of date, lace, and velvet and buttons that had never seen a washing machine.As we shuffled in, they tracked our progress.Their eyes moved**.I watched one woman’s gaze follow a trembling teenager all the way across the room, pupils sliding in oil paint like they’d been painted yesterday. Another portrait’s subject turned his head just enough to look directly at me.I swallowed and look