Chapter 3

Three days had passed, and for Nero, each one blended into a continuous monotony, interrupted only by the brutal and unpredictable moments in the orc tribe. The cage, which had initially seemed to him a symbol of hopelessness, had become a place of meditation. He spent most of his days training his body with a series of strength exercises, and at night, he devoted time to honing his magic. Despite the harsh conditions—the cold ground, the stiffness of the wooden bars, and the scornful gazes of the orcs—Nero was growing stronger.

He noticed something extraordinary. His body, once skinny and lacking much muscle, was beginning to change. Muscles were developing at a pace that even surprised him. His arms, chest, and even his legs were taking shape, revealing muscles that had previously been barely noticeable. Every morning, as he looked at his body, he could see the progress. It was unnatural—such rapid muscle growth should take months, if not years, not just a few days.

What initially seemed like a miracle soon began to make sense. Nero concluded that the intense use of magic, especially completely draining his internal mana pool, could be accelerating this process. "Magic doesn't just flow through me," he thought, "it transforms me from the inside out. Every training session, every magical ritual that depletes my power, causes me to regenerate stronger. It's as if my body is growing in strength, trying to keep up with the capacity of my magical potential."

A theory started to form in his mind. If magical energy indeed flowed through his body so naturally, it might be influencing his tissues, causing faster regeneration and growth. After all, the blood he manipulated was the key to life. Perhaps the combination of blood and magic was making his body adapt so quickly.

Daily life in the orc village began to take on a routine for him. The orcs were brutal, and their culture was based on strict rules of strength. Mornings started with loud shouts, calls to work or hunt. Some orcs trained in groups, fighting by the fire, while others attended to everyday tasks—repairing weapons or preparing food. Over time, Nero stopped paying much attention to them, focusing on his own training. Although he was still a prisoner, he felt his abilities growing with each passing day.

The routine in the village was unchanging—morning training, evening bonfires, where the orcs gathered to celebrate their brutal victories. And Nero, though locked in a cage, felt that soon he would be able to break the invisible barrier that separated him from true freedom.

However, during those three days, something happened that intrigued Nero. Early one morning, while he was in the middle of his daily workout, he noticed a group of orcs gathering near the cages holding the humans. Usually, they would cast scornful glances at the prisoners or laugh at their misfortune, but this time the atmosphere was different. There was tension in the air, as if something was about to happen.

Nero paused his exercises, wiping the sweat from his forehead, and moved closer to the bars of the cage, watching carefully. Something was changing in the tribe's behavior, and he needed to understand what it meant—for him and for the other prisoners.

From the cage, Nero observed the crowd and noticed something that caught his attention more than the usual daily rituals of the tribe. At the center of the gathering stood her—the orc shaman. Her appearance immediately stood out, not just because of her attire but also the aura she projected.

Her body, like that of any orcish woman, was powerfully built, with muscular arms and legs that contrasted with her full curves. She wore an outfit that seemed almost deliberately designed to emphasize these features. A long, dark cloak made from the fur of animals unknown to him draped over her broad shoulders, leaving part of her torso exposed. Across her chest, she wore jewelry made of bones and stones, which hung loosely, but what truly captured Nero's attention was her provocative neckline, adorned with tattoos and runes. Around her hips, she wore a scanty belt of leather straps, from which her bare, muscular thighs were visible, while the rest of her legs were covered in leather bands. Her dark green skin gleamed in the morning sun, and her long, black hair was braided into thick strands, interwoven with beads and feathers.

Her face, though hardened, had something intriguing about it. Her eyes—deep-set, with an unnaturally intense shade of green—were filled with wild charm and dark wisdom. Her lips, full and painted in dark purple, seemed always ready to utter a spell. She was a figure who inspired both respect and fascination, and the erotic accents in her attire seemed to add even more mystery and dread to her presence.

Nero couldn't tear his eyes away from the shaman. Though her appearance provoked both fascination and fear, she now seemed to radiate not only magic but also a mysterious, almost predatory power that overwhelmed him more with each passing second. When her eyes briefly flashed with purple light, Nero felt as if she had fixed her magical gaze on him, as if she could see not only his body but also his soul, piercing through every smallest part of his being. The sensation was unbearable, stirring a rage within him that he could no longer suppress.

"What do you want, witch?!" he spat, his voice aggressive and menacing. But the shaman, instead of responding, seemed to ignore him entirely, focusing solely on her task. Instead of answering, she gave a brief command to two guards. Obediently, they gripped his arms with hands like iron, their hold so strong that he felt his muscles and tendons strain under his skin, pain shooting through his body.

Nero strained with all his might not to make a sound, refusing to give them the satisfaction, but the orcs' grip twisted his arms in a painful way. "Bastards..." he cursed in his thoughts, knowing there was no point in struggling. This was a situation he had to submit to, even if only for a moment.

The shaman, standing in front of him, began to speak. Her voice was quiet, full of authority and confidence.

"I am Shakara," she introduced herself, her words hissing through the air as if it were a spell that would resonate in his mind long after she had spoken. Nero tried to ignore her for a moment, but he couldn't take his eyes off what was happening next.

The shaman began chanting a spell, softly and rhythmically, and from her mouth emerged a purple smoke. Nero watched as the smoke enveloped her face, creating a halo of mystical energy around her. In an instant, just in front of her lips, a magical circle began to form. Though small—no more than fifty centimeters in diameter—it emanated ancient power. Complex patterns and symbols appeared on its surface, with a raven at the center, which seemed to be a living, breathing element of the dark composition.

"What the hell..." Nero's thoughts tore between fascination and terror. The magic he had sensed since his arrival in this world now manifested before his eyes in a way he couldn't comprehend. The energy from the magical circle slowly began to form into a thin beam, directed toward her outstretched hand.

At that moment, Nero felt a strange sensation in his stomach. He couldn't look away from Shakara's hand, as if whatever was about to happen was inevitable. When the beam reached her hand, the air around them seemed to thicken. Moments later, without warning, Shakara pressed her hand against his bare chest.

The pain that engulfed his body was instantaneous and indescribable. A burning, searing, tearing pain. His body jolted as if electrocuted, and his muscles involuntarily tensed in a desperate attempt to repel what was happening to his skin. The shamaness continued to recite the incantation, her hand growing warm as if it were a piece of hot metal. Nero felt as if a red-hot iron hand was being driven into his chest, searing through layers of skin, down to his very heart.

"Fuck… you bitch…" Nero's thoughts were chaotic, driven by the pain radiating through his body. Each beat of his heart made him pulse in agony. He gritted his teeth, trying not to make a sound, but he felt he couldn't endure it any longer. His heart was pounding like crazy, and the pain was so intense that he felt like his body was about to explode.

As the shamaness pressed her hand down harder, Nero felt something inside him break. The magic that Shakara poured into his body was like poison spreading through him, burning him from within. He cursed in his mind, trying to understand what was happening. Incantations, rituals, magic—it all felt like a nightmare. And yet something within him was beginning to comprehend. Something he didn't yet grasp was breaking through the layers of pain, as if this torment was not only a test of endurance but also a trial for his own powers.

Nero was brutally thrown back into the cage, his body rebounding off the hard wooden beams. He couldn't suppress the groan of pain that escaped his throat when he hit the ground. The guards turned away without a word, and the shamaness Shakara walked off, leaving him in a state of agony.

He lay on his back, writhing in pain, his body still burning from the shamaness's touch. He felt as if his chest was being seared by living fire, but something even more unsettling was happening inside him. He closed his eyes, trying to focus on what was going on within. He sensed the magical energy circulating through his body. Foreign, invasive, purple. It was Shakara's power trying to impose its will on him. Her energy traveled through his body like a parasite, searching for something he couldn't yet grasp. Was she trying to destroy him or perhaps gain control over him? He didn't know.

His own power, though initially dormant, was now awakening. He felt his magical core, that inner reservoir of energy, vibrating and reacting to the purple magic. "I won't let you," he thought fiercely, clenching his fists. His magic—a red, pulsing stream—was beginning to manifest within him, initially slowly, then with increasing strength.

In his mind, this image became clearer—the red energy, reminiscent of superheated plasma, slowly coalescing into a sphere. This sphere began to pulse, spreading energetic, plasma-like tendrils that reached toward the purple streams of the shamaness's magic. They were like predator and prey. The red attacked, devouring everything in its path.

Shakara's purple magic struggled to fight back, sending pulses attempting to reach Nero's core, but each attempt was gradually smothered by the red. Nero felt his own power beginning to prevail, how the red extended its tendrils further into his body, devouring the purple streams one by one. He felt his magic gradually absorbing the shamaness's strength, pulling it in, growing stronger.

Every inch of purple energy he managed to destroy brought relief. "I am the predator, not you," he thought triumphantly. His body stopped shaking, and the pain slowly receded. With each passing moment, he felt he was regaining control. His red magic acted like a beast hungry for power, and the purple energy was its nourishment. Nero consumed everything that remained of Shakara's spell until finally, nothing was left. The last remnants of the purple energy were absorbed.

He breathed heavily but more calmly. His body was exhausted, but he felt triumphant. He had defeated that magic. He had absorbed it. With every breath, he felt the power returning to him. The pain still lingered somewhere deep in his muscles, but it was just a remnant of what he had endured.

Tired and spent, he collapsed onto the wooden floor of the cage, feeling his body slowly sinking into sleep. The last thought before he lost consciousness was a sense of triumph and the feeling that his magic was becoming stronger.

When Nero woke up, darkness had already fallen over the campsite. He slowly lifted his head, feeling every fiber of pain radiating from his body. Beside him lay four steaks, almost as large as the ones the orcs ate, and a water skin. He grimaced as he pushed himself up on his elbows, each movement reminding him of his encounter with the shamaness and her touch, which still burned on his chest.

He reached for one of the pieces of meat, taking a large bite despite the pain spreading through his body. As he chewed, his thoughts drifted back to what had happened earlier. What the hell was that? He thought of the strange, magical confrontation inside him. It was a fight he had never experienced before. They want me to fight. He understood that better now than ever. The shamaness and her spell were meant to weaken him, but the orcs hadn't succeeded.

Nero slowly smiled, though his face was twisted in pain. They think that by blocking my magic, they'll make it more fair. Surely, in their eyes, magic is something "unworthy," because in their brutal world, only pure physical strength matters. An arrogance crept into his mind, a mocking thought that the orcs probably felt better about themselves this way. As if muscle power was the only way to earn freedom. However, he knew that his greatest weapon was not physical strength, but the magic he was starting to understand more deeply.

After a few moments, finishing his meal, he began to reflect on the results of his magical training. The results were not remarkable—he had to admit that to himself. The needles he managed to create from blood were barely strong enough to pierce the wooden bars of the cage. They penetrated the wood, but not enough to bring him satisfaction. On the other hand, when the needles pierced the body of one of the neighboring prisoners, their depth was significantly greater. But what about the orcs' bodies? Their skin might be much tougher than he had assumed.

He bowed his head, looking at his own hands as if seeking answers within them. I need something subtler. He realized that the blood magic he had dreamed of could have much greater potential than just brutal, visible attacks. If he could slow the flow of blood in their bodies, they might lose strength without even noticing. He imagined the enemy weakening slowly, their muscles becoming sluggish, and their movements slower. They could lose consciousness before they even realized something was wrong.

Various ideas began to swirl in his head, potential applications for this magic—from silent, subtle assassinations to more tactical weakening of the opponent. The possibilities are endless, he thought with excitement. He knew that blood magic required much more practice, but he sensed that its subtle use could be the key to his victory.

As the last thought crossed his mind, he looked up at the sky. Blood magic… I need to learn to control it even better. He felt that the climax was approaching, and developing more inconspicuous techniques of blood magic could be crucial to his survival.