Origins of Blood[Has been republished]

Elliot sat in a pre-paid carriage alongside William. Without a word exchanged, they both took in the sights of the city. The morning sun had risen, casting a sharp turquoise hue across the sky, though a dense mist clung to the streets. "Next stop, the Crossroad at the Statue of the Deity of Knowledge!" the driver shouted as he whipped the reins, urging his horses forward.

Once they'd alighted, Elliot turned to William. "What was your relationship with Bill, if I may ask?" he ventured, instantly regretting the question. Of course, they had been close—why even ask?

Elliot cursed his own foolishness, but William simply sighed and replied, "He was my colleague, my mentor, and…more than that, he was my friend." William's gaze dropped, his hair falling slightly over his face. "Bill didn't have it easy—none of us do, really. I'm a half-blood. Red and blue. Untrusted. Yet Bill took me in. He was a good man. And Simon…"

William paused, gathering his thoughts, but then he continued, "You were bound to learn about this eventually. Before you joined us, we had another full-blooded red like you. Back then, I was still new. Simon was…well, he was like any other man. He could be sad, angry, joyful. But he always showed a happy face. We all assumed he was doing well. He fit in so naturally that we soon forgot he was a red-blood. I forgot from the very start. But that's beside the point. The important thing is what we all gained from being around him. We learned compassion, understanding, the truth that no matter one's blood, we're all living beings. We're human. And then one day…Simon, the red-blood before you, was gone. He was killed, murdered by his master. A brutal display, just to show everyone who held power. To say it was a show of strength doesn't even come close. Afterward, Bill was never the same. He never admitted it, but he blamed himself. He aged before our eyes. His hair began to thin, his face lined with shadows. He must have thought himself weak, believing that if only he were stronger, he could've protected those around him. And what can I say? In the end, he did…even if it cost him his life."

William's gaze remained distant, his mind adrift in memory. "But don't let this weigh you down. Think of it as a lesson—strength is important, yes, but life itself matters even more. What good is strength if it can't be wielded when it's needed most?"

The air between them grew heavy, in tune with the cold, mist-laden atmosphere. Fog hugged the bases of towering, pointed buildings, and the sky, now obscured by dark, slate-blue clouds, seemed ominous. When they reached their destination, William knocked on the door, holding up his detective badge flecked with blue blood marks. "We're with the Blue Sharks. We heard that a man named Joe Hillinger was visiting here recently. Did he seem troubled? Was he in a hurry, or perhaps frightened?"

William's words hung in the air as the door opened to reveal a man with cold, piercing blue eyes and rolled-up sleeves. "Joe? Yes, he was here yesterday," the man replied. "We're colleagues, after all. He dropped by for a short visit, and we invited him to have some cake since it was my little girl's birthday."

William smiled faintly, trying to peer into the house. "I see. Then, please give her my belated congratulations. But you wouldn't happen to know where he went afterward, would you?"

The man nodded, returning William's smile with a softer one of his own. "Actually, yes. He mentioned he was heading to a salon to get his hair cut. Took his time with it, too, but…why are you asking about him?"

Elliot's expression turned serious. "He's gone missing. We don't yet know why or where. Our best guess is that he either ran off with someone or he's been taken. Do you know if he was distant from his wife recently, or perhaps…seeking comfort elsewhere?"

The man's brow furrowed. "Never. Joe wouldn't hurt a soul. Even in his wildest dreams, he'd never betray Lisa. I'd stake my life on that. He's too kind-hearted for such a thing, even toward red-bloods, I'll have you know."

A woman's voice called for him from within the house, and he excused himself with a nod. "Try the salon just down the street," he offered as he stepped back inside. "It's along Tilgen Street, right around the corner."

Nodding, William and Elliot exchanged a glance with the man's icy blue eyes one last time before turning away. "Seems we're onto something," William murmured, running a hand through his blond hair. With his confident stride and upright bearing, he hardly resembled the child of a red-blood at all. It piqued my curiosity—what was William's story? But perhaps that question could wait for another time.

…

Fringe Street 95, Blue Sharks.

The bell above the office door rang, and a young woman entered. "Another case? Already?" Elton muttered under his breath, but Elisia was quick to step forward and greet the visitor. "How can we help you?"

The young woman, dressed in a modest beige skirt and short blouse, spoke with a trembling voice, her lips barely holding their shape. "M–my husband has gone missing. Since last night at work. I waited for him, went to his workplace, but no one's seen him since."

Her voice quivered as Elton stifled a sigh, while Elisia gently put an arm around her shoulders. "Please, tell us more," she encouraged softly. "We'll do all we can."

The woman's eyes were beginning to turn red as tears welled up. She looked away, visibly shaken. "My husband…he works at a manufacturing company for household goods, but he never came home. I'll give you four Elis to start the search, and another six if you find him."

Elton exhaled sharply, glancing up to find Chris and Elisia both looking at him expectantly. "Why are you staring at me like that?" he muttered, only to find himself, moments later, standing in the street, armed with his equipment and wrapped in his coat. Alone and cursing under his breath, he set off to gather information about the disappearance of Oliver Blue.

…

In the grand estate of the Rosenmahl family, Aston lay on a lush chaise, lost in contemplation over a book of intricate ritual magic. Sunlight poured into the study, casting a sharp glare over the pages, but the orange-inked symbols lifted off the paper, distinct and alive. Aston squinted, running his hand across the ornate, hand-written script. "What are these bizarre symbols—hieroglyphs or what? Sign after sign, dots and strokes, shapes within shapes. What kind of language could even begin to make sense of this?"

He turned another page with a huff. "I thought this book would shed some light on this lost language. But instead? I've wasted another 50 Elis on obscure symbols." He groaned, leaning back, the book resting on his lap as he stared at the ceiling. "At that price, I should have known," he muttered, frustration bubbling over.

Aston's mind wandered to recent events, to the many unanswered questions that seemed to shadow him wherever he went. With a sudden start, he sat up straight, a new thought pulling his attention from the ceiling to the ground. "I'll never look up again, not if the god of creation could be watching me—watching all of us… even in the most… private moments. No, that's absurd. Not even a god would stoop to that level. But…" His voice fell to a low murmur as a new thought chilled him. "Could the god of creation read my thoughts?"

Aston scanned the room, chewing his nails absently as his nerves mounted. He knew what he needed: a controlled infusion of blood. But he had learned by now that moderation was key. Too much, and he'd be risking his sanity. He reached for a syringe tucked away in a drawer, inspecting it as he pulled up his sleeve and tightened his grip, sinking his teeth into his sleeve to brace himself. He pressed the needle into his arm, slowly injecting a measured dose of orange blood. A wave of warmth spread through him, unfamiliar yet exhilarating, a surge of energy coursing into every fiber of his being.

Born with blue blood, Aston was one of the rare members of his family to inherit this trait from his mother. Mostly everyone else had orange blood, but none had ever needed to resort to injections; they wielded influence and resources that provided all the power they required. Aston, however, was different—driven, ambitious, and determined to tap into every possible source of strength he could find. Even his father had seemed impressed, surprising Aston with an approving nod when he'd risked the dangers of black blood. But Aston knew that black blood came with a different price—a transformation he was not yet ready to face.

Aston's veins pulsed with heat and fury, feeding his resolve. His body brimmed with newfound strength, an intoxicating sensation of power rising within him. "First, I'll start with orange, then on to violet. Three-blooded," he mused with a twisted grin. "Then, in time, white and gold—four-blooded, five-blooded…" His gaze sharpened, his fingers tightening into a fist as he paced the study, mentally tracing his path to ultimate power. But for now, he needed patience. "All in good time," he reminded himself, his eyes scanning the shelves for the rare ingredients he would need for his next ritual.

…

Meanwhile, at a Hair Salon.

It was midday, and Elliot and William stood inside a crowded hair salon where clients received their weekly grooming—hair trims, mustaches freshly shaped, sides neatly faded. Elliot stood in his dark coat, expression unreadable, while William wore a beige coat, his detective badge marked with droplets of blue blood lifted visibly to the barber. Both wore serious expressions as they observed the barber with a grand mustache and slicked-back hair.

"Was Joe Hillinger here last night?" William asked, voice firm. "He's unassuming, friendly. Brown hair, somewhat plain."

The barber nodded immediately. "Yes, Joe was here just yesterday. Wanted his hair trimmed to the side, in a rush though. Why do you ask?"

William sighed, glancing briefly at Elliot before turning back. "He's gone missing, and we're looking for him on behalf of his wife."

The barber stroked his mustache thoughtfully. "Ah, is that so? Poor Lisa. Joe did seem distracted. In fact, he paid me a Cont too much and didn't even notice when he dashed out in a hurry."

"Would you mind showing us where he went?" William asked, clearing his throat. "The exact street, even the alley if you could."

The barber shrugged, nodding obligingly. "It's no bother. Business is slow until the afternoon rush anyway. Follow me."

The two detectives exchanged a brief smile, grateful for the help, and followed the barber through the winding streets. The barber moved with the ease of someone accustomed to the twists and turns of the neighborhood. "It was dark that night," he said, gesturing animatedly as he described the scene. "And the moon was full and golden, hanging low like a mist as Joe rushed out. When I saw he'd given me a Cont too much, I tried calling after him, but he didn't turn back. I followed a few steps behind, hoping to catch up and return the money, but he disappeared into an alley."

They arrived at the entrance of the alley, a narrow passageway shadowed by towering, steep-sided buildings. The barber pointed. "He was there, just at the end, but it was strange. There's no way out, no side paths to take, yet… he was gone."

William gave a respectful nod to the barber, waving him off. Turning to the alley, he muttered, "Unless he scaled that five-meter wall in mere seconds…"

…

Elton strolled down a long street lined with workshops and factories, each humming with the activity of the midday shift. He approached the building of interest—a small, slightly worn factory where the missing Oliver Blue was last seen. Polishing his badge, he knocked politely, then stepped inside the open door.

"Good day," he announced, his voice carrying through the factory's empty halls. "I'm with the Blue Sharks Detective Agency. Some of you may know of us." He held his detective badge up with a polite, professional smile. "Has anyone seen Oliver Blue? Or perhaps heard from him since last night?"

Silence met his question. Elton looked around, noting the absence of any workers on the floor. Production was stalled; the machinery stood silent, neglected, as if the entire workforce had vanished.

"What on earth…" he muttered, a frown creasing his face. Searching the floor, Elton's gaze swept the entire layout, noting every machine, every darkened corner, every nook where someone could be hiding. But the factory was void of life.

Letting out a frustrated sigh, Elton turned to make his way back to the agency, a creeping sense of unease settling in his mind.