Transcendent Odyssey [Coffeepen]-Chapter 45: BLOOD FOR TIME

A note from Coffeepen3

The Chapter has a little gore.

Though I doubt many will have a problem, since I only recently started writing like this.

But it's always good to be careful, isn't it?

HAPPY READING!!

PREVIOUSLY-

His fingers curled around the hilt—firm and practiced. His shadow stretched long across the cobbles.

He stepped forward.

His voice, when it came, was almost... academic.

"Woman with burn scars. Amputated left leg. No evident combat utility."

His dagger flashed.

A blur of motion.

Too quick for the woman to scream.

Too swift for anyone to stop.

SLICE!

x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x-x

The dagger flashed.

A spray of red arced into the air, catching sunlight in a mist of crimson.

The old woman didn't scream.

She collapsed sideways, slumping over the bench like a discarded rag doll. Her body twitched once, then stilled. Blood gushed from her hanging throat, pooling beneath her like a spreading shadow, soaking into the grain of the wood and dripping to the flagstones.

DING!

[3:45]

The timer reset. The glowing blue digits blinked in silent approval.

The square fell into a stunned hush.

Not the silence of peace, but of disbelief.

One of the girls, Caerina dropped to her knees and vomited. Another, Elira, turned away, pressing both hands to her mouth, trying not to vomit.

Miriel stood frozen, her breath coming in short, uneven gasps. Her eyes flicked between the corpse and Raphael—then back again.

"W-why...?" she whispered. Her voice barely reached her own ears.

She took a step forward, then stopped, as though her body refused to move any closer to him.

Raphael was already wiping his blade clean on the woman's shawl.

"Her death bought us time," he said matter-of-factly, not even looking up. "Two more minutes. That's the cost."

Miriel stared at him.

"Cost?" Her voice rose. "Cost?! She was just—"

"A wolf," he interrupted softly, tucking the dagger away. "Not a player. A danger. Merely... a test."

He finally turned to face her.

His expression was calm. Composed. As if he'd just made a difficult but rational decision about supplies on a battlefield.

"That timer does not care about sentiment. Only blood of those hidden people. Every delay invites another casualty from our own. I chose to save us."

Miriel's legs gave out, and she sank to her knees. Her hand trembled as she clutched her wand, not for casting—but like a child gripping a comfort object.

"How..."

Her voice broke.

Raphael tilted his head. The words didn't seem to land. Or perhaps they did, and he simply found them irrelevant.

"I only did what was necessary."

The quiet in the square deepened—heavy, suffocating. The other girls wouldn't meet his eyes. One stepped backward. Another clutched her wrist like she expected a blade at any moment.

Miriel looked up at him—eyes wide, glassy.

"You're not a person," she whispered. "You're a knife pretending to be one."

For the first time, something flickered in Raphael's eyes. Not guilt. Not remorse.

Just a subtle, curious twitch—like a scientist observing a reaction he hadn't predicted.

The wind stirred the blood on the cobbles.

Kiri's body lay still.

The timer ticked down from [3:37], bright and unblinking.

And now, for the first time since this trial began, they were no longer afraid of the labyrinth.

They were afraid of him.

STEP!

STEP!

He stopped before an old man silently feeding grains to a cluster of pigeons.

"Hidden piece two: elderly man, unarmed, late-stage respiratory illness."

STAB!

THWIK.

The sound was wet, blunt, final.

Raphael's dagger sank straight into the centre of the old man's forehead, just above the brow. The blade buried itself with a sickening resistance—a mix of gristle, bone, and brain matter giving way as steel punched through skull.

The man didn't cry out. He blinked once, as if confused by the intrusion—then his body seized violently.

Veins in his neck bulged. His jaw spasmed open, trying to scream, but the signal never made it. Blood spurted from his nose, his mouth, and the corners of his eyes, pulsing in time with his dying heartbeat.

He pitched backward off the crate he'd been sitting on, the dagger still embedded, handle jutting up like a cruel flag.

His skull cracked audibly on the stone pavement.

A smear of brain and blood painted the ground beneath his head.

His legs twitched once. Then again.

Then went still.

No magic.

No system delay.

Just cold-blooded, anatomical death.

DING.

[5:30]

Another two minutes. The system approved.

Raphael reached down and pulled the dagger free with a grunt, twisting as he did. The exit wound tore open, splitting the already fractured forehead wider. A slop of thick red and grey followed the blade out, clinging to the steel like wet clay.

He wiped it off on the man's tunic.

Not hurried.

Not ashamed.

Just efficient.

Behind him, someone retched violently.

Miriel stumbled back, hand over her mouth, her face pale as bone.

"Stop—just stop—"

Her voice cracked. "He was—he was just sitting there!"

Raphael, now a little irritated narrowed his brows.

"Can't you just see the situation?"

Miriel hiccupped at the change in his tone.

Raphael clicked his tongue,

"There are five people we have to kill. If not, your friends will die."

Miriel looked at the stone pavement.

Though she had undergone brutal training from young age and worked harder than her peers. Outside world was something she had no experience in.

"Did you see me strike down an innocent?"

Raphael's voice was level, unhurried. "Both of them bought us time. That's the only currency this test respects."

Elira—Miriel's friend, dark-haired and normally quiet—stepped forward, face tight with restrained fury.

"How can you be sure?" she snapped. "How do you know they were the wolves the trial message warned us about? You never even hesitated!"

Raphael exhaled sharply, dragging a gloved hand across his brow as if she'd asked him whether the sun rose in the east. There was no anger in his face. Only fatigue—as though her ignorance exhausted him.

"Bloodlust," he said simply.

The girls exchanged confused glances. Even Miriel blinked, uncertain.

"Bloodlust?" one of them echoed cautiously.

Raphael turned away from them, his gaze locking onto the angelic statue he'd attacked earlier.

"When my spear struck that statue," he said, voice lower now, colder,

"I felt it. A ripple—like pressure behind the eyes, a tightening in the ribs. Five points. Five directions. It wasn't ambient fear or panic. It was intent."

He tapped two fingers against his temple.

"Killing intent directed outward. Subtle, restrained... but real. Predators trying to wear sheep's wool."

He looked back at them then—just briefly—and there was no apology in his eyes.

"That's how I knew."

Elira opened her mouth, but no words came out.

And Raphael—Raphael had already dismissed the conversation, turning his attention towards a shop ahead, where the timer still pulsed its silent, ruthless countdown.

It was a humble sweetshop. The scent of caramelized sugar and sun-dried fruit clung thick in the air, cloying and nostalgic.

Inside, a crooked wooden counter displayed rows of candied skewers—each one threaded with jewel-toned morsels: slivers of sugared plum, crystallized orange peel, honey-glazed apple chunks, and bright cubes of hardened syrup dusted with powdered roseleaf.

The skewers themselves were simple, carved from birchwood, each tipped with a little red ribbon—faintly faded, as if tied there long ago. A soft breeze stirred them gently, making them tremble like offerings left at a shrine.

Children had gathered earlier to point and choose with sticky fingers. Now, the stall stood quiet.

Raphael observed the middle-aged man behind the counter. A burly beard, a small cap on his head. A shirt with stains of caramel.

"Subject three: A middle-aged man. Exhausted. No experience in combat."

The man turned—middle-aged, burly, broad in the shoulders. His beard was thick and matted, laced with strands of grey and sticky streaks of caramel. A smear of melted sugar clung to his collar, crusted and amber. His apron was stained, not with blood, but with the soft mess of a life spent behind a sweetshop counter—berry juice, syrup spills, powdered sugar.

He didn't even get a word out.

SHHK.

Raphael's blade pierced beneath the sternum in a clean, upward motion. Not a wild stab—a precise, practiced thrust aimed just beneath the ribcage, angled to puncture the diaphragm and heart in a single motion.

The man's breath caught.

A high-pitched wheeze escaped his throat.

He dropped the candy skewer he was holding.

It clattered against the ground, sticky and gleaming, as blood bubbled past his lips. Not a scream—just a choking cough, red froth splattering against his beard.

Raphael twisted the blade.

Something gave way with a dull snap.

The man sagged forward, heavy and boneless, his arms flopping uselessly at his sides as his heart spasmed and failed. Blood seeped quickly from the wound, soaking his apron in a spreading, arterial blossom.

He dropped like a felled boar.

His face hit the wooden stall on the way down—CRACK—breaking his nose flat against the counter edge before he collapsed fully, the candy display toppling in a rain of sugar and skewers.

A skewered slice of plum landed near his eye, sticking to the skin with syrup like some mocking benediction.

Raphael glanced at the timer.

[3:43]

"Why hasn't the time increased?"

Raphael's voice was low, nearly a murmur—but it cut through the thick silence that had followed the last kill. His eyes moved, slow and calculating, scanning the cobbled square with a detached clarity. His fingers twitched slightly.

Nothing had changed.

The town square bustled with unnatural calm. Children weaved through the alleys in fits of laughter, chasing each other between fruit carts and shaded benches. Women leaned into one another, whispering with animated expressions, their fingers brushing over thread-baskets and hairpins. Men chuckled, shoulders shaking, a few of them raising copper mugs in idle toasts to jokes that didn't matter.

The blood on the ground had already faded. Kiri's head no longer rolled at the edge of the apple stand. The sweetshop owner's body had disappeared, like mist retreating at dawn.

Raphael's eyes narrowed, the corners twitching almost imperceptibly.

'It resets. The environment is forged to feign normalcy. All visual traces of death removed... yet the penalty remains. The predators must still be hidden among the flock. They've changed positions.'

His hand slid to his spear. The metallic shaft felt warm in his grip, still faintly sticky from blood and sugar. A thin vein in his temple throbbed—not with panic, but with the precise rhythm of a man processing a puzzle under pressure.

GRAB.

His fingers curled with quiet force around the grip.

The angel statue loomed at the centre of the square. Its wings were outstretched in mock benediction, eyes downturned in pious mercy. Its marble smile was too soft. Too gentle. The kind of softness that Raphael had long since learned to distrust.

Without a word, he reared back and let the spear fly.

THROW.

CLANG.

The spear sliced clean through the air and struck the back of the statue's skull—not with full force, but enough to echo through the plaza with a hard metallic crack. The spear bounced off the marble and clattered to the cobblestones, spinning once before settling at an awkward angle.

The world held its breath.

And Raphael smiled—just faintly. A sharp, knowing curl at the edge of his lips.

'There...'

He had felt it again.

A flicker. A tremor in the air, like tension pulled too tight across unseen string. The scent of bloodlust, veiled in mundane disguise. A disturbance in the stillness, invisible to most—but not to him.

He reached for his spear.

The wolves were still here.

And the hunt wasn't over.

Raphael's head snapped to his right.

STEP! STEP!

Raphael's feet stopped before a small girl. Her eyes closed. A sweet smile brightened her face. Her clothes torn and dirty.

"Hidden piece three: blind girl singing to herself."

His fingers went to the dagger strapped to his waist.

GRAB!

A hand clamped around his wrist, sharp and trembling.

Raphael stopped mid-motion, his spear paused just inches from being reclaimed.

He turned, slowly.

Miriel stood there—face pale, jaw tight, eyes brimming with heat. Her fingers gripped him like someone trying to anchor themselves from drowning.

"What—What if she's innocent?" she asked, voice cracking. "What if she's just like that sweetshop owner you butchered?"

Her words struck the air like a slap. The plaza around them still wore its mask of peace, but between the two of them, the world had gone still.

Raphael blinked once. Then, like someone genuinely perplexed by the question, he tilted his head.

"So what?"

Miriel flinched.

He pulled his wrist free—not with force, but with a calmness that was worse than violence. The kind of cold detachment reserved for someone brushing away dust from their coat.

"It's not like any of these are real people," he said, tone quiet but sharp as glass. "They're simulations. A mechanism crafted by the labyrinth. Programmed. Constructed. Designed to break us."

His hand dropped back to his side, empty.

"Under the academy, no less."

Miriel staggered back a step, her arms falling limply to her sides. Her lips parted as if to speak, but no words came out—just a small, stuttering breath. Tears lined the lower rims of her eyes, threatening to fall but refusing to surrender just yet.

"Lady Miriel, you acting like this is only holding us back."

Raphael's words pinned the final nail in the coffin.

"What... What?" she whispered, voice no louder than a prayer.

Raphael's fingers pinched the bridge of his nose, and he closed his eyes for a brief moment. The skin of his brow twitched.

'Was I too harsh?'

He opened his eyes. Miriel still stood there, staring at him like she no longer recognized the person in front of her.

Then a voice slithered into his ear like a wind through hollow stone.

"You were too harsh. The girl's the normal one here."

Drelgor.

The insectile warrior had leaned in close, arms crossed like a disappointed father watching a boy ruin a fragile thing he couldn't fix.

Raphael exhaled through his nose.

"It's for her own good," he muttered under his breath. "A heart that trembles at illusions... is unfit for someone who dreams of being an Archmagi."

But Drelgor merely shook his head, the helm creaking.

"It's not her heart you should be worried about, boy," he replied. "It's yours. And it's your relationship that's bleeding out right now."

Raphael didn't respond. He only stared at Miriel, who was still watching him with an expression that was slowly collapsing in on itself—anger wilting into betrayal, fear hardening into distance.

The timer ticked behind them. The hunt continued.

But something between them had begun to die.

DING!

[0:00]

THUD!

Caerina's head hit the cobblestones with a wet thud, rolling once before settling face-up, eyes still blinking in stunned confusion.

A red fountain surged from her neck stump, spraying the nearby fruit cart with arterial mist. Her body staggered two steps forward on instinct alone, hands twitching—then collapsed in a heap of spasming limbs. Veins fluttered beneath skin already paling.

The metallic scent of fresh blood overtook the air.

Elira screamed.

Miriel choked back bile. Her legs locked.

Raphael didn't flinch. His eyes stayed on the falling blood, measuring the arc.

"Two more minutes," he muttered.

SWISH!

SHLK!

Raphael's spear punched through the blind girl's throat with a wet, crunching shluk.

The point burst from the back of her neck in a spray of blood and gristle, dragging with it threads of torn muscle and sinew.

Her cane clattered to the ground as both hands instinctively grasped at the shaft impaling her, fingers scrabbling uselessly against polished steel slick with her own warmth.

A choked, gurgling rasp escaped her lips—half a breath, half a scream. Crimson frothed from her mouth, spilling down her chin in pulsing gushes. Her legs kicked once. Then stilled.

DING!

The timer blinked.

[3:50]

Raphael walked up to the dead body.

SPLAT!

Blood splat from her neck as Raphael twisted the weapon free without a word. Her body folded like a broken doll, collapsing into the spreading pool below.

He turned to Miriel and Elira, wiping his spear.

"See?"

He held the blind girl's cane.

'It seems the items we touch don't disappear.'

SCRATCH!

With a dagger, Raphael scraped the wooden cane's end to a sharp point. He pointed the pointy end to Miriel.

"Will you listen to me now? Even your other friend died."

Miriel bit her lip, her fingers curled into wrists.

'Why? Why am I so weak?'

'Am I really dragging us back?'

A hand patted her shoulder.

Elira.

"Miriel, I think we should listen to him. We need to survive."

Miriel held her hand, freeweɓnovēl.coɱ

"I am sorry for being like this,"

She turned to Raphael,

"I am sorry for my actions. Let us help you."

A faint smile curved on Raphael's lips. His hands gripped the spike cane, which was now a short spear.

SWISH!

The wooden cane left his hands.

SHLK!