All Chapters of Bloodscript: Survival Game of the Reborn: Chapter 61 - Chapter 70

The door didn’t open so much as… tears.One heartbeat I was stepping through a flickering frame of bad light and static.The next, my knees slammed into something hard and familiar.Bus aisle.My palms hit the gritty floor, skidding. Someone’s elbow jabbed my ribs. Jax landed half on top of me with an “oof,” then rolled off, laughing a little too high.“Ten out of ten,” he wheezed. “Would not ride again.”Around us, bodies thudded into seats, into each other, against the metal pole by the doors. A chorus of groans and curses tangled with the low, steady hum of the engine.I dragged in a breath.The air tasted like recycled oxygen, old vinyl, and the faint, burned‑ozone aftertaste of whatever I’d just forced the Labyrinth to do.Outside the windows, the Mirror World broke.It's not like a clean pop back to bus‑terminal fog. It's more like a pane dropped from a height.The white expanse we’d stepped into shattered in slow motion, fragments of glass and light peeling away from a vanishin

For a long moment, I just stared at the stone.W.R. ROANEHERE LIES—The half‑carved words itched at the edge of my vision, like a cursor waiting for input.My knees gave before my brain decided to move.I sank down into the drift of paper until I was kneeling in front of the marker, pages sighing under my shins.Up close, the carving was worse.Because it didn’t stop at my name.Beneath the unfinished HERE LIES line, smaller text glowed into being, as if responding to the brush of my breath on the stone.Titles.In a neat column, each one is separated by a tiny, blood‑red dot.“Salt & Silence.” “Ghosts in the Vents.” “Grin Wiring.” “The Bone City.” “Housekeeping for the Damned.” “Untitled Train Thing.” “Dead Girls Don’t Trend.” “Threadcount.”Some had skull icons next to them, jagged and final.Some had hourglasses, half‑full, sand frozen mid‑fall.One or two just… flickered, as if the system didn’t know whether to mark them as alive or dead.I’d written maybe two chapt

The ink kept rising.It wasn’t fast, not in a cinematic way. There was no dramatic geyser, no instant engulfing. It was worse than that—slow, deliberate, relentless. It had all the time in the world and knew we didn’t.It climbed over the lip of the coffin‑book, thick and glossy, oozing between manuscript pages and pooling under the cracked laptop. Drafts curled as it touched them, ink lines dissolving into formless black paragraphs I’d sweat over turning into sludge.Every sentence it ate, it owned.I felt that in my gut.“The longer you hesitate,” Selene said lightly from somewhere above me, “the deeper it takes them.”I looked up.She stood balanced on a high, crooked bookshelf that hadn’t been there a second ago—one of those impossible additions the Game liked to make when it wanted theatrics. The shelves were jammed with books of every size and color, their spines unlabelled, pages fluttering in a wind I couldn’t feel.She was perfectly poised on a narrow ledge halfway up, one ha

Up.The staircase wound out of the ink in a rough spiral, each step a line I half‑remembered writing and then abandoning. My boots hit:“—she knew this wasn’t how heroes were supposed to feel, but she was tired of pretending she didn’t hurt—”I’d typed that in a half‑finished essay about “final girls” and never posted it.The recognition snapped through me like a jolt.Mine.Then:“—if no one else would listen, the ghosts would—”Then:“—sometimes the monster was just the part of you that refused to stay quiet—”Each sentence trembled under my weight, letters squirming like they wanted to slide apart again, to slink back into the ink and forget they’d ever been asked to hold anything.I didn’t let them.I kept climbing.Corvin climbed with me, one step behind and to the side, his hand still wrapped around mine. The void dragged at us, heavy and resentful, the ink below seething and snapping at the base of the word‑stair as if it resented being forced into shape.“Keep going,” he said,

The chains came for my hand.The whole graveyard seemed to lurch with them.The first whip was the one Corvin caught.He didn’t think he had just moved—slamming his forearm up between me and the incoming chain. Metal and bookmark teeth smashed into his skin with a sickening crunch.He grunted, arm snapping sideways under the impact, but he kept his feet. The links bit deep, ink splattering across his skin in oily streaks.He twisted with the blow instead of against it, teeth bared, using the chain’s momentum to haul it off‑line. The whip hissed over my shoulder and slammed into a headstone, cracking it in half and sending shards of carved regrets spinning into the air.“Nice intercept,” Jax panted. “Zero out of ten on workplace safety.”He was already moving.He darted in at an angle, pipe raised. A smaller chain lashed toward his midsection; he swung.Metal met metal.Sparks flew.The chain ricocheted off the pipe’s length, deflected just enough that it missed wrapping his ribs and i