The Fallen System: Gaining Bloodlines of the Fallen-Chapter 52: Prisoners (3)

A vision invaded his mind. It was not a vision from the system, but living fragments, as if he were living another person’s life.

He saw himself in a different body, calloused hands gripping a rusted dagger. Before him, a wooden log marked by deep cuts.

He practiced, hour after hour, the fluid motion of the blade. Quick thrusts, lateral cuts, instinctive defenses. Each strike was accompanied by controlled breathing and absolute focus. He felt the balance of the weapon, the weight in his palm, and the twist of the wrist to maximize impact.

Cairen blinked, returning to the present. His accelerated breathing echoed in the empty cell. He immediately knew where those memories came from.

The passive ability of the Nhamara bloodline. Soul of Nhamara. At last, he had found the trigger to activate it.

This was absorbing the soul through the shackles. By turning the prisoner into a false fallen, he had not only absorbed the entirety of his remaining being, but also, Cairen had stolen fragments of his memory, strengthening his own soul in the process.

The memories were vivid, as if he himself had spent years training with the dagger.

Cairen caused a small blade to emerge in his hand, the blade from the tip of the chains. And then he tested it.

The movement came naturally, the twist of the wrist, the balance. He was not a master, but he now possessed experience with a dagger that he had not had before. A stolen skill, integrated into his mind as if it had always been there.

Cairen felt a shiver of excitement mixed with a calculated coldness. This changed everything. Not just fallen energy, but knowledge, techniques, and memories.

Each victim was now a source of double growth. He looked down the dark corridor of cells. There were dozens there, on the first floor, alone. And below, on the deeper levels, even stronger prisoners, with denser souls and more valuable memories.

He had never held a dagger with lethal intent before arriving in this world.

On the streets of his previous life, he survived with stealth and luck, never with technique. Here, in the world of cultivation, where only the strong survived, he had been born without the knowledge that natives accumulated since childhood.

But now... now he had a path.

The soul of Nhamara was not merely a theft of energy. It was a theft of an entire life. Experiences, instincts, and movements are engraved into another’s soul.

He felt the potential explode within him. If each condemned prisoner could give him fragments of knowledge, he would not need to spend decades training like the others. He could absorb decades in minutes.

Cairen opened his eyes. The cell was empty now, only loose chains and a dark stain on the ground where the skeletal man had existed.

He left without looking back, walking through the damp corridor of the first floor. The torches flickered on the walls, casting shadows that danced like ghosts. His spiritual sense mapped each cell, each weak and broken presence.

He did not feel pity. He felt necessity.

The second cell contained a middle-aged man with a sparse beard and sunken eyes. He was sitting on the ground, back against the wall, muttering something incoherent.

When Cairen stopped before the bars, the man raised his empty gaze.

"Judgment."

The chains passed through the iron. They wrapped around the man’s neck. The mark appeared. The body withered, dissolving into fallen energy that rose through the chains to Cairen.

And then the memory came.

He saw himself in a different body, younger, in an open field.

The sun beat down hard. Before him, an older man shouted orders.

"Faster! Faster!"

He felt the weight of a dagger in his hand, sweat running down his forehead. Strikes against straw dummies, thrusts, defenses, and spinning attacks. Hours and hours of repetition until the muscles screamed.

Cairen blinked, returning to the present. More experience with the dagger. It was not advanced, but it was solid. He felt the movements integrate with those he had stolen from the first prisoner. More fluidity. More precision.

He continued.

The third prisoner was a thin young man, perhaps twenty years old, eyes wide with fear. He tried to retreat when the chains appeared, but there was nowhere to go. The judgment was swift. The body dissolved.

Memory.

Cairen saw himself in a dark forest, bow in hand. The smell of pine and wet earth. The sound of leaves being stepped on in the distance. He felt the weight of the string, the tension in his arm, and the controlled breathing before releasing the arrow.

The target was a deer. The arrow flew straight, piercing the animal’s heart with surgical precision. He felt the hunter’s satisfaction.

Cairen opened his eyes. Bow and arrow. It was not something he planned to use, but knowledge was knowledge. He stored the memory.

The fourth prisoner was a woman. Gray hair, face marked by old scars. She looked at him without fear, only with deep exhaustion. When the chains wrapped around her, she did not resist. She simply closed her eyes.

Memories emerged.

Cairen saw himself on a battlefield. Longsword in one hand, shield in the other. The clangor of metal, the cries of the dying.

He felt the balance of the sword, the turn of the body to deflect a blow, the counterattack that pierced the enemy’s guard. Years of war, of survival. Each movement carried the weight of someone who had killed and nearly been killed countless times.

Cairen felt the knowledge settle. Longsword. Useful. Very useful.

The fifth prisoner was an old man, almost blind, murmuring prayers. The judgment was silent. The energy rose.

Memory emerged.

Cairen saw himself in a noisy tavern. The same man, younger, telling exaggerated stories to earn coins.

He felt the sharp tongue, the way of manipulating words, of reading expressions, of lying with conviction.

It was useless for combat, but Cairen realized it was a memory of social manipulation. Something that could be useful in a place like the War Academy. 𝗳𝚛𝗲𝕖𝚠𝚎𝚋𝗻𝗼𝕧𝗲𝐥.𝚌𝚘𝐦

He snorted. Useless memory for fighting. But he stored it in his mind nonetheless.

The sixth was a burly man, still with defined muscles despite the prison, he had probably arrived there only a few days ago.

He snarled when the chains appeared, trying to fight. It was useless. The judgment fell. The body dissolved.

Cairen saw himself again with the dagger. But this time in real fights. Dark streets, alleys, ambushes. Quick, dirty strikes, without honor.

He felt the instinct of one who killed to survive, not to win. Each movement was lethal, without waste. It was the dagger of the street assassin, not the trained duelist.

Cairen opened his eyes. More experience with the dagger. Combined with the previous ones, he felt that he already mastered the weapon at an intermediate level. He was not a master, but he was dangerous. Very dangerous.