Origins of Blood[Has been republished]

My vision flickers as I open my eyes, only to find them closed again—or perhaps it is simply the unrelenting darkness pressing down on me. The red glow from before is gone, replaced by an abyss so dense it feels alive. My legs tremble uncontrollably, and the coppery taste of blood lingers on my tongue where I have bitten down harder than I should.

Pain radiates from my thigh, sharp and wet. My hands instinctively clutch at the wound, cold stone beneath me pressing against my back and hips. My fingers tremble as I accidentally press into the torn flesh, sending a sharp cry tearing from my throat.

A sheen of cold sweat clings to my forehead, dripping down as I gasp for breath. Every attempt to move my injured leg sends fresh waves of agony through my body, forcing me to clench my teeth. My veins pulse with a maddening rhythm, as though my blood itself is raging against me. The wound feels impossibly damp now, and the sensation chills me to the bone.

A thought echoes through the confines of my mind: It hurts. I cannot do this. But even as the words take shape, my trembling hand rises, striking my own face with all the strength I can muster. My breath comes shallow, my body cold, yet somewhere in the haze, my eyes flicker with a faint glimmer of defiance.

Gritting my teeth, I press my weight onto my good leg, struggling to stand. The motion makes my thigh burn hotter, wetter, and the taste of bile rises in my throat. The darkness around me is suffocating, pressing into every corner of my thoughts.

Isolation is a heavy shroud, the kind that drags you deeper into the void with each passing moment. My left leg trembles as if it no longer belongs to me. The pallor of my skin—though unseen—is undeniable, felt in the icy numbness creeping over me.

My fist strikes the ground, over and over, with dwindling strength. I curse under my breath, hot tears stinging as they spill down my face. Each curse feels hollow, an echo swallowed by the vast emptiness around me.

My chest heaves as my thoughts spiral further. Memories surface unbidden, their edges razor-sharp. Once, I had power—control. I could command blood, even that of others. Even his. Fynn's blood. But now? It's all gone. Replaced. Stripped from me and replaced with something alien. Something divine. The crimson blood of a god now courses through my veins, yet it feels like a curse rather than a gift.

The image of his face rises before me unbidden. Ren. For a moment, I wonder whether my eyes are closed or if the darkness is simply that absolute. Weeks in the void have left me questioning what is real.

The faint warmth of memories fills the void: Ren at the dinner table, his faint smile as we ate together. The way he'd always been there to pick me up after school. I'd looked up to him. Admired him. Loved him. But it was all a lie.

The weight of the realization presses down, as suffocating as the dark itself. My vision blurs further, and I hear the first faint echoes of sound. Footsteps. Distant but deliberate. There is a metallic clink to them, a sound that sets every nerve in my body on edge.

Chains.

The clatter grows louder, scraping against the ground in a drawn-out, grating rhythm. My body tenses, cold fear coursing through me. My hands and legs tremble. The darkness, once static, seems to shift, alive with foreboding.

My breath quickens, shallow and ragged, as my heart pounds a frantic rhythm in my ears. The chains fall silent, replaced by the sound of my own heartbeat and the low rasp of my breath. My arms brace against the cold stone beneath me, muscles taut as I struggle to make no sound.

A pair of eyes pierce the darkness.

Two luminous orbs glow faintly, amber brown like smoldering embers. The air shifts, a foul stench filling my nostrils—rot and decay. The eyes draw closer, accompanied by the scrape of metal and the faintest whisper of breath.

"Delicious morsel," a guttural voice rasps, the words thick with a strange, grating accent.

My body jolts at the sound, instinct taking over. I try to rise, but my left leg refuses to obey, dragging me down like a weight. My blood surges, heart hammering wildly, but cold steel wraps around my neck before I can react.

The chains tighten, their frigid bite digging into my skin. My throat burns as I gasp, pulling uselessly against the restraint.

"Delicious morsel," the voice croons again, closer now. I can feel its presence just behind me, the heat of its breath like a putrid wind against my skin.

I thrash, my hands clawing at the chain while my heels kick against the ground in vain. The creature moves faster than I can comprehend, dragging me backward with a force that sends sharp jolts of pain up my spine. My arms strain against the pressure around my neck, but the more I struggle, the tighter the chain pulls.

My lungs burn, screaming for air that won't come.

The voice persists, a sickening chant, each word clawing deeper into my fraying composure. My head spins as I wrench my elbows backward, aiming for its legs, but it remains just out of reach. My vision darkens further, the edges of consciousness fraying as the pressure around my throat becomes unbearable.

And then, like a spark in the void, a crimson light erupts within me.

The darkness is swept away in an instant, replaced by images so vivid they seem to tear through reality itself. The red moon hangs high, ominous, and unwavering. I see myself beneath it, sprawled on the ground, powerless. A man in golden armor kneels before me, his head bowed in supplication. His voice is distant yet clear, begging for forgiveness, confessing sins I cannot comprehend.

Blood pools around me, warm and endless, before it is swallowed by the void.

Voices call out from somewhere far away, unfamiliar, and dissonant. A single name rises above the din: Damian.

Darkness weighs heavily on my mind, as though the abyss itself seeks to crush me. Yet, in the oppressive void, images ignite, searing into my consciousness like burning brands.

A name. I know this name—I had forgotten it. 'Viena.' It echoes within me, a whisper of something lost in time. And then I see her—a woman with flowing black hair, her wings soft and as dark as midnight. She calls that name.

The vision shifts, and other images flash before me, too quick to grasp fully. A man with black hair and burning red eyes—a sword piercing through his chest. His gaze, bitter and unwavering, fixes on me, and I feel tears stream down my face.

I see a desolate landscape shrouded in shadow. I am standing before an army, the weight of their collective presence pressing against my soul.

Beside me stands a man, his face marred by burns. Yet, his presence feels steadying, a strange comfort amidst chaos. For a fleeting moment, I feel secure. I feel... happy.

Another shift. I see myself in an endless red room, gathered with others, my voice offering silent counsel.

The scene blurs again. I am in a grand, opulent kingdom—one gilded in gold, shimmering with unattainable splendor.

I see myself before a child. No, two children—both with faces resembling mine. Tears well in my eyes, an unbearable ache flooding my chest.

The visions distort, shifting faster now. A cascade of red hair. A severed head rolling across a golden floor.

Too fast. It's all happening too fast.

And then, the final image—myself pushing Ren away, his eyes opening as mine shut. And all I see is red.

The visions end abruptly, and I find myself trembling, tears pooling in my eyes. My blood surges, a scorching river coursing through my veins. My muscles strain, the chains binding me trembling as I push against the weight of the frenzied being trying to devour me.

For a moment, the crimson world around me flickers, a pale, almost white light cutting through the haze. It burns, radiant and vivid, carving a line through the air before me.

It's hard to describe what I see—or what my body is doing. It feels instinctual, like a movement drilled into me over countless lifetimes. Millions, no, billions of repetitions culminate in this single moment.

I press forward, my focus locked on the glowing line. A circle forms ahead of me, moving toward me like a singular, unbroken thread. The blood-drenched world fades, leaving only me and the line. I follow it.

One moment, I am standing, chained and trembling, and the next, I am free, standing face-to-face with the other figure.

A muted red aura shrouds him as my own glowing red eyes meet his. At first, his gaze widens in surprise, but then he smirks.

"Food that fights back?" His voice is coarse, his eyes locking onto mine.

The imprint of the iron chains fades from my skin, their violet bruises dissipating. Even the gaping wound in my leg seems to mend itself. My body burns, my blood heating to unbearable levels as if magma were being poured into my veins.

Tears stream endlessly down my face, but my gaze hardens, cold and resolute. My glowing red eyes bore into his murky brown ones.

A brilliant light flare before me—a dazzling red, growing larger, brighter. An eight, formed by two interlocking circles.

I see it, and my body moves without thought, as if carried by an unseen rhythm. A dance perfected over countless years.

I weave forward, a predator stalking its prey, as the brown-blooded figure swings his chain toward me. The sound it makes is deafening, sharper than a whip's crack. One strike could decapitate me.

But I evade, barely—a hair's breadth away from death.

I move fluidly, elegantly, following the glowing lines. Time feels suspended, each second stretching into eternity.

The luminous red threads guide me to the chain. My hand snaps out, seizing it. I spin, dodging his counterstrike. His movements are swift, but I see them clearly now.

Wrapping the chain around his arms, I twist, my legs following the threads. A sweep of my foot sends him sprawling to the ground.

All the lights converge, narrowing into a single point—one destined for my hands.

The brown-blooded man lies beneath me, his arms bound and pinned under my knee. He struggles, his laughter ringing out despite the pain.

'Crack.'

In one swift motion, I twist his head, the snap of his neck echoing in the silence.

He is dead.

I killed him.

My third. No, my fourth, if I count 'Samantha's…'

But I remain calm, my gaze fixed on the brown blood pooling around him. My breath steadies, my focus sharpens.

It's time to drink.