The last of the enemy warriors fell, and with him did the hope of their people. At the top of the mountain of corpses stood one single man, drenched in blood.
This man inhaled deeply and then his voice exploded in an inhumane roar. It was then that the blood of the fallen warriors started to flow upwards towards the peak of the mountain and gathered at the food of the man. It crawled around the man’s legs, like tentacles catching their prey, but as soon as they stuck, they were absorbed by the man’s skin, which was turning first to a crimson tone and then purple and finally black, when all the blood was gone from the mountain and into his body. His skin began to gain a glow, and the air around it waved and steamed.
A few minutes later, his clothes caught on fire, and the flames quickly spread all over his body. The ashes from the clothes flew away with the breeze, but the man stood, and he breathed deeply and calmly. Eventually the flames receded and his skin soon regained its previous light brown tone, or maybe a slightly less pale one. The man then chose a suitable corpse from amongst the ones near the peak of the mountain, and stripped it of its pants and shirt, which were stained from the mud and sweat of the battle, but all traces of blood were now gone.
The man, born of blood by the will of a dark god, had only one very strong instinct: to become stronger by absorbing the blood of warriors, and by such an act gain their skills and experience. And so, dressed in the looted clothes, the man descended towards the setting sun. Towards another region where the pride and jealousy was still strong and the clans or countries still wanted what others had, for themselves. Where, hopefully, he could find one such man who posed a challenge, and maybe, just maybe, one that could best him.