Chapter 15 : Blade Work
The blood shaped itself into a blade before I finished the mental command.
I stood in the Lockwood ruins, dawn light filtering through the trees, and watched my power respond with a precision that would have been impossible two weeks ago. The construct was solid—short sword length, balanced weight, edges sharp enough to cut.
I held it for a full minute without strain. Then two. Then five.
Consistent formation achieved.
Three weeks of daily practice had carved new pathways in my brain. What had once required intense concentration now felt almost automatic. The blood responded to my will like an extension of my body, shaping and hardening without conscious effort.
Progress.
I approached the training dummy I'd built from scrap wood and old clothes. It wasn't pretty—more scarecrow than human—but it provided a target for practice. The first strike was textbook: lunge, thrust, pierce. The blood blade sank into the dummy's chest and held.
The second strike was sloppier. I tried to step left while maintaining the blade's form, and the construct wavered. The edge softened. By the time I recovered my stance, the sword had lost half its hardness.
I reset and tried again.
Lunge, strike, pivot—
The blade collapsed.
Blood splashed across the dummy and the ground, losing cohesion the moment my footwork became complex. I stared at the mess, frustration building behind my eyes.
Movement disrupts concentration.
The realization wasn't surprising, exactly. I'd noticed the issue during smaller tests, but I'd hoped that practice would solve it. Apparently not. The mental bandwidth required to maintain a solid construct competed with the bandwidth required for combat movement.
I couldn't fight elegantly. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
Adapt.
I collected the spilled blood—it still responded to my will, even when scattered—and poured it back into the metal bowl. Then I tried something different.
Instead of a sword, I formed a stake. Simple shape. No edge to maintain. Just a pointed cylinder of hardened blood.
The stake held through a lunge. Through a pivot. Through a complex combination of footwork that would have shattered a blade.
Simpler is better.
I practiced stake formations for the next hour. Quick draws from the blood supply, instant hardening, the kind of weapons that could pierce a vampire's heart without requiring sustained concentration. The technique became smoother with repetition: draw blood, shape, harden, strike.
Then I tried projectiles.
The first spike formed in my palm and launched toward a tree fifteen feet away. It wobbled in flight and splattered against the bark without penetrating.
The second spike was better—faster formation, harder density. It stuck in the wood about half an inch.
The third spike punched clean through.
Blood projectiles: viable.
The applications crystallized in my mind. Stakes for close combat—form them, stab, release, repeat. Projectiles for ranged attacks—faster than drawing a bow, harder to dodge than a thrown knife. Not elegant, but effective.
Vampires died from stakes through the heart. I didn't need to fence with them. I just needed to kill them.
A deer emerged from the tree line, watching me with liquid brown eyes. It didn't run, didn't startle at my presence. I'd been training here every morning for weeks; the forest had accepted me as part of its rhythm.
I took a break, sitting on a fallen log while my heartrate settled. The morning was quiet except for birdsong and the distant rumble of traffic from the highway.
Seventy-eight days until Stefan arrives.
The countdown lived in my head like a second heartbeat. Every day that passed was another day closer to the moment when everything changed. Another day closer to vampires, werewolves, witches, and all the chaos that followed.
I was stronger than I'd been three weeks ago. My blood control was consistent. My physical conditioning had improved dramatically—Tyler's training sessions had added muscle and endurance to Matt's athletic frame. The vervain network was expanding, protecting more people with every burger the Grill served.
But was it enough?
I looked at my hands. The same hands that could shape blood into weapons, could heal wounds in seconds, could do things no human should be able to do.
What am I?
The question haunted my quiet moments. Blood manipulation wasn't natural. The healing property of my blood echoed vampire biology. The power had come from somewhere—brought with me from whatever cosmic mechanism had stuffed a twenty-eight-year-old soul into a seventeen-year-old body.
I didn't have answers. Just abilities and a deadline.
Make them count.
I finished the training session with a new exercise: rapid stake formation. Draw blood from the supply, shape into stake, harden, release, repeat. The goal was speed—getting the stake ready before a vampire could close the distance.
First attempt: four seconds. Second attempt: three seconds. Third attempt: two and a half.
Not fast enough. Vampires moved faster than human perception. But it was a starting point.
The sun climbed higher, burning off the morning coolness. I checked my phone—6:47 AM. Time to head home, shower, and prepare for the day. Festival setup at three, Grill shift at six, power training again tomorrow morning.
The schedule was exhausting. But exhaustion meant progress, and progress meant survival.
I packed up my supplies—blood bags now numbered three, 1350 milliliters total after this morning's top-up from my cooler—and erased the evidence of my training. The dummy went back under its tarp. The blood traces got washed away with water from a bottle.
The drive home was quiet. Vicki's car was in the driveway, which meant she'd come home last night. Another small victory in the ongoing battle for her life.
I parked and sat for a moment, processing.
Stakes, not swords. Projectiles, not finesse. Simple forms that didn't require sustained concentration.
Combat against vampires wouldn't be pretty. It would be brutal and efficient and desperate.
But it would work.
I climbed out of the truck and headed for the trailer. The shower waited, then breakfast, then the long day ahead.
Seventy-eight days.
The countdown continued, relentless and unforgiving.
But so did I.
The kitchen smelled like coffee when I walked in. Vicki was at the table, nursing a mug and scrolling through her phone. She looked tired but present—actually present, not the hollow-eyed absence of her darker days.
"Morning," I said.
"You're up early."
"Running." The lie came easily now. "Trying to get in shape for football."
She made a noncommittal sound. "Tyler's rubbing off on you."
"Maybe."
I poured myself coffee—black, the way I'd learned to drink it in my previous life—and leaned against the counter. The silence between us was comfortable for once. Not charged with resentment or worry. Just... quiet.
"I might be late tonight," Vicki said eventually. "Hanging out with some friends."
The old fear spiked, but I kept it off my face. "Jeremy?"
"No." She didn't look up from her phone. "Just... friends."
Progress. Maybe.
"Text me if you need a ride home."
She looked up at that, something flickering in her expression. Surprise, maybe. Or gratitude.
"Yeah. Okay."
It wasn't a promise to stay safe. It wasn't an admission of the dangers she was courting. But it was contact. Communication. The beginning of trust rebuilt after years of neglect.
I finished my coffee, showered, and dressed for the day ahead. The festival setup would be hot and exhausting. The Grill shift would be long and tedious. The training tomorrow would push my body to its limits.
But Caroline would be at the festival. Elena would probably stop by the Grill. Vicki had said she might text me.
The connections were building. The defenses were strengthening. The countdown was brutal, but I wasn't facing it alone.
Seventy-eight days until Stefan arrives.
I grabbed my keys and headed for the door.
Time to work.
Note:
Please give good reviews and power stones itrings more people and more people means more chapters?
My Patreon is all about exploring 'What If' timelines, and you can get instant access to chapters far ahead of the public release.
Choose your journey:
Timeline Viewer ($6): Get 10 chapters of early access + 5 new chapters weekly.
Timeline Explorer ($9): Jump 15-20 chapters ahead of everyone.
Timeline Keeper ($15): Get Instant Access to chapters the moment I finish writing them. No more waiting.
Read the raw, unfiltered story as it unfolds. Your support makes this possible!
👉 Find it all at patreon.com/Whatif0