Semua Bab Bloodscript: Survival Game of the Reborn: Bab 11 - Bab 20

The woman on the balcony stepped fully into the light.She was… wrong.Not in the grotesque way Puffer Vest had been. In the opposite way—too right, like someone had taken every “dangerous beauty” cliché and dialed it until it snapped.Her dress clung to her like liquid **crimson**, the fabric catching the torchlight and swallowing it. It hugged her curves, bared her pale shoulders, and spilled down in a dramatic sweep that made her look like a spill of blood poured down the stairs.Her hair was dark and glossy, falling in waves down her back. Her skin had that same unnerving pallor as the other vampires, but smoother, like polished bone. Her lips were painted the exact color of her dress.Her eyes—Her eyes were old.They glittered with something cold and amused as they swept over the hall, over the carnage, over us. Like she’d seen this exact scene a hundred times and was only mildly entertained.She descended the staircase with unhurried grace, each step precise. The other vampires

We didn’t make it ten steps before the castle changed.Words burned themselves into the nearest stretch of wall in the same blood‑red script as before, fast, and ugly:> NIGHT HUNT INITIATED. > SURVIVE THE PACK UNTIL DAWN.Below that, in smaller letters, almost playful:> DO NOT LET THEM TAKE YOUR THROAT. > DO NOT LET THEM TAKE YOUR HEART.“That seems… specific,” I said, voice a shade too high.As if on cue, something **hit** one of the doors down the hall from the other side—hard enough to rattle the hinges. The wood bowed inward with a cracking sound. Claws scraped, long and deep.A low, wet growl seeped through the cracks.Someone screamed.Panic broke like a wave.Players bolted in all directions—some back toward the grand hall, others deeper into the corridors. No one wanted to be the slowest, the last, the easiest.A door three arches down splintered.The thing that came through was… wrong.It was roughly wolf‑shaped at first glance—four legs, a long snout, fur black as void

Selene’s words hung in the air like a blade.“Still protecting the weak, Corvin? You never learn.”Corvin didn’t rise to the bait. He just straightened slowly from the bench, testing the bandage I’d tied around his ribs, eyes never leaving her.Around us, the others stayed very, very still. No one wanted to draw her attention.She hopped down from the windowsill with inhuman grace, heels barely making a whisper on the stone. Shards of glass crunched and powdered under her shoes, then… disappeared, absorbed back into the castle like they’d never been there.She drifted across the gallery floor, careful not to step in the blood, gaze taking in the dead alpha, the fleeing pack’s tracks, the torn stone.“Impressive,” she said. “You still remember how to tear the House’s toys apart. Our Master will be… conflicted.”“Your Master,” Corvin corrected. “Not mine.”She smiled without humor. “Careful. He doesn’t like being demoted.”Her gaze slid to where I stood a few feet away, hands still stic

By the time the throne stopped pulsing and the blood sank fully back into the floor, my legs felt like wet paper.The butler dismissed us with a bland smile and a few pointed words about “rest before the next course.” People drifted away in clumps, some sobbing quietly, some numb, some laughing too loudly.I didn’t remember how we got from the grand hall to the smaller room.One minute I was staring at the cracked throne, the next I was sitting on a low stone ledge beneath a narrow, barred window in some side chamber—a storage room or an antechamber, walls bare except for a few old sconces and a thick layer of dust.My hands wouldn’t stop shaking.I pressed them between my knees, trying to still them. The stone under me was cold enough to seep through my jeans. The air smelled like old damp and iron.Corvin stood near the door at first, back to the wall, arms folded across his chest. He looked like he was guarding the threshold again, but his eyes were on me.“You’re white,” he said f

Falling stopped.Not with a crash. Not with impact.Just… absence.One second, there was air tearing past my ears, my stomach trying to climb into my throat, Corvin’s roar echoing after me. The next, there was nothing. No sense of motion. No sound.Then pain.Not sharp, not like a broken bone. A dull, full-body ache, like I’d been thrown, rolled, and left in a pile of rocks.I groaned.Stone pressed into my spine. Damp seeped through my shirt. The air was cold and wet, smelling of mold, rust, and something older—stale water and time.For a heartbeat, I thought I was back in the bus stop.Then, the whispering started.Not words. Not at first.A susurrus of sound all around me, like dry leaves or fabric dragged over stone. Soft. Constant. Too close.My eyes flew open.Darkness.Not absolute. After a few blinks, I made out faint shapes: low arches, thick support pillars, the suggestion of walls oozing with moisture. A flickering light far off, barely stronger than a dying candle, cast lo