Origins of Blood[Has been republished]

It was dark, and Eriksson, along with Markus, traversed the labyrinthine underground mountain range, trailing behind a group of Browns. Among the Browns, only three—like Eriksson and Markus—wore proper attire. The rest were shackled, dressed in filthy rags, or both. The Browns had long, unkempt hair and pale, sallow skin. They looked as if their flesh had turned brown from exposure to the harsh environment. The only light in this dismal district of the miners came not from the surface above, but from the faint glow of crystals embedded in the walls, crystals that the Browns tirelessly mined. Some were fortunate enough to use tools, while others had to rely on their bare hands. The unlucky ones were often beaten, and during their brief breaks, they consumed the red food scraps left behind a grim reminder of their meager existence.

"This place is huge, isn't it?" one of the three Browns in decent clothing, the leader of the group, spoke, his voice rough as he glanced over the scene of laborers to Eriksson. Markus stumbled slightly behind, swallowing nervously.

"Indeed. It's larger than I imagined," Markus replied, his voice a little strained. "I always assumed the mines were just narrow tunnels, but this... this seems endless."

One of the other Browns interrupted with a sharp glance, spitting onto the ground as he did so. "You weren't being spoken to."

The third of the three Browns added, his eyes cold, "You're too weak, but your friend... he carries our blood on his hands."

They fixed Eriksson with a cold stare, but then smiled, their expressions twisted. "Thanks for the favor. They think that by running away, they deserve a better life," one of them said, their voice laced with dark amusement.

Eriksson remained silent; his face unchanging as he stared into the depths of the mine. In the distance, other Browns were being struck by their own kin. Some ate the lowly red foods, while others continued their relentless labor, digging for crystals or ores. The air was thick with a cold, oppressive tension, broken only by the faint flickering of flames in the dim corridors.

As Eriksson and Markus stood still, the three Browns halted their shadows, and the oppressive darkness seemed to deepen. Yet even in the near-total darkness, the crystals provided a faint, eerie light, illuminating the twisted paths ahead. The tunnels were wide—dozens of meters across—and the height of the ceilings stretched upwards, giving a sense of immense scale. Ahead of them, the vast cavern seemed to swallow up everything, a vast expanse that could have been mistaken for an entire city. The beginning of this space was slightly clearer, but as the distance grew, the darkness obscured the details, merging with the distant outline of the sprawling city. It felt as though the place stretched on infinitely.

The city was a slum of sorts, houses built from rough stone, stacked one on top of the other, with narrow passageways barely wide enough for a person to pass through. Browns moved through these narrow streets, their postures hunched. Some had only a few limbs left and sat on the ground, begging for scraps. Children, their clothes stained with filth, ran through the streets, stealing from old, fragile men. In the distance, a woman was being forced into a cramped alley by a group of men, but it all seemed like a distant, fleeting moment, barely noticeable amid the chaos, like the wind in the eye of a storm.

Above them, a hole in the ceiling allowed a faint sliver of moonlight to pour through, but the light was so dim that the red hue was almost impossible to distinguish.

"The deeper you go, the better the conditions become," one of the three Browns said, his gaze lingering on the children who were swarming over a frail old man. He paused, his hand reaching for the whip hanging from his belt, a threatening gesture. But before he could grab it, he felt a firm hand grip his own.

Eriksson's hand.

"We're here for business," Eriksson said, his voice low, yet his eyes cold as they locked with the Brown's, who had glanced down at him.

The Brown recoiled, jerking his hand away. His expression darkened, but there was something in his eyes—a flicker of realization. 'This world… the Browns oppress each other. The weak remain weak, and the strong only grow stronger…' Eriksson thought, his gaze shifting briefly to the back of the Brown's head, before turning his attention back to the children.

The moment passed, and the group continued onward, the echoes of their footsteps mingling with the distant sounds of strife and struggle. Their path led deeper into the labyrinth, into the heart of a fragile, crumbling city that seemed to stretch endlessly in every direction.

…

Far above them, on the imperial battlefield amidst the violet seas beyond any known stronghold, Fynn and the other young men followed closely behind a towering figure. Algar, a massive warrior, strode ahead, the blue sun hanging high in the cyan sky casting an eerie light over the desolate landscape. Behind him, dozens—almost a hundred—of soldiers from the Great Astor family, along with a few from the lower Leninger and Heston families, followed in formation.

They moved through the violet desert, the grains of sand striking their yellow clothes with every step. Their uniforms, tight and form-fitting, were composed of a yellow-golden material out of Asphanium, which pulsed faintly through tubes in their suits, pumping the life-sustaining fluid through their uniform. Thin swords were strapped to their hips, and their heads were protected by thick helmets, more akin to masks, designed not just for protection but also to shield them from the harsh winds that whipped across the barren landscape.

Among them, Fynn stood out. While the others were clad in the same yellow attire, Fynn's hair was tinged with a brownish hue, and one of his eyes gleamed red—a mark that set him apart from the rest.