Origins of Blood

Chapter 3: The End of an Era


Aston von Rosendahl's POV

"Not all men are created equal. The social order dictates our fate, and we, the blue-blooded, stand on the second tier of the Ten. Yet we remain at the bottom of the pyramid. So why should we look down on others when we ourselves are crushed beneath the weight of this order? We are not equal in strength. But in humanity, if only rarely."

—Aston von Rosenmahl

I stand alone at a grand banquet. The orchestra plays Beethoven's Waltz for the Pianoforte, and I merely sigh, listening to the murmurs of conversation while holding a glass of champagne in my hand.

"I must say, the reds have quite the refined taste. A pity we didn't drag them out of their holes sooner."

Viscount Roderick speaks, his pointed mustache twitching as he lifts his chin with haughty satisfaction.

"What a pity indeed, but better late than never."

Baroness Marquess replies, her laughter ringing out like chimes in the lavish hall. She presses her gloved hands—long and blue—against the folds of her opulent navy-blue evening gown, the corset tightening her already slender waist, while the weight of a crinoline under her skirts gives her silhouette the grandeur expected of nobility.

The orchestra swells, reaching a crescendo as I survey the ballroom, where hundreds twirl and glide beneath the dazzling chandeliers of my father's estate. No woman here lacks adornment; ruffles, pearls, and elaborate hairstyles are the standard, their hair twisted into intricate patterns that rival the finest tapestries. The men, simpler in their vanity, keep their hair short, often slicked neatly to the side, their beards and goatees carefully groomed, gold-chained pocket watches peeking from embroidered waistcoats. They dance clumsily to the waltz, though none seem to care—their movements are fueled by the triumph of the day.

They celebrate with the certainty that each and every one of these so-called nobles has made at least a year's fortune from this enterprise. Of course, they are proud.

I bite down on my blue tongue and set the champagne flute aside atop a nearby gilded table. Running my hand through my golden-blond hair, I watch the way my fingers catch the light of the massive chandelier overhead, appearing almost translucent, tinged with a cool blue sheen.

I am Aston von Rosenmahl, the youngest son of Duke Rosenmahl—a lineage of blue blood, intertwined with the power of orange and violet.

I drift through the crowd, my azure formal suit fitting snugly against my frame, brushing past those who share my blood. What a joke. They will never be like me. They are blind, consumed by their greed, their hunger for wealth. I glance at them from the corner of my eye, lips curling in disdain, until a voice—low and firm—calls my name.

I ignore it.

It calls again, louder this time.

Then, a firm hand grips my shoulder.

"Aston."

The voice is deep, weathered. I turn, meeting the eyes of a man who towers over me by nearly two heads. His features mirror my own—only aged, lined with years of power and calculation. His hair, once golden, now carries streaks of silver, nearly white. His grip, though firm, trembles slightly as he exhales heavily.

"Yes, Your Grace?" I school my expression into perfect poise, dipping into a shallow bow with a hand resting against my chest.

"Princess Elisia has arrived."

My father's hand presses against my shoulder again, firmer this time.

"Do not greet her. Go to your chambers."

His gaze bears down on me, and I feel a chill creep down my spine. How fitting, that the orchestra's tempo quickens at this very moment.

"Yes, Your Grace." I echo my own words as an answer, softer now, before my gaze flickers to the crest embroidered on his chest—a trio of roses. One blue, one orange, one violet. The same crest sits over my heart. Our hearts, cold and blue.

A wire coils around my throat. As if I have swallowed the very thorns of our family's legacy.

My father's heavy steps fade as he moves away, carving his own path through the crowd, towards my elder brothers who sit laughing at their own table. They are my mirror images—noble, refined, their features symmetrical, their hair the same pale gold. I despise them. I despise them for never loving me.

Even though I do not want their love.

I do not need it.

And yet, my noble blue heart splinters in two.

I lower my gaze to my polished royal-blue leather shoes before shifting my eyes once more to the dance floor. Some have arrived in burgundy suits and dresses—how fitting, in this new era where reds are fully enslaved.

"Farewell to the Age of the Red-Blooded Pact, which outlived a black-blood's lifetime, and welcome the oh-so-holy Golden Age—Year Zero, after the Breaking of Apollo."

I murmur under my breath, exhaling through my nose as my gaze drifts across the opulent dark wood furnishings and plush carpets—luxuries undoubtedly woven by red hands, forced into labor.

Enjoying the story? Show your support by reading it on the official site.

For 6000 years, the reds lived in their self-fashioned utopia, their savior crafting a world for them. They claim to have deceived us all, and for that, we must punish them. The lowest of all species, no better than livestock. And now, we strip them of everything, plundering them in an age where they have long since forgotten their past.

It took only one golden—

A god.

A single immortal who endured these 6000 years.

And the reds are slaves once more.

When this revelation surfaced, long before I was born, the world was thrown into uproar. How could an entire species—one so inferior—be forgotten? How could they have hidden among us, worthless as they are, contributing nothing?

I listen to the violins, mulling over the speculations printed in the Elisian Times. I never read the full report, my sources are unclear. Some details, I must admit, I have simply forgotten. But those at the top know they are lying to themselves.

Apollo.

A god.

I let out a quiet, derisive laugh as I step out of the grand, murky hall, finding myself alone in the corridor.

Yes, gods exist. But they rarely show themselves. And they are not like the stories told to red children—the fairy tales promising salvation after death, a punishment or reward. I doubt such things exist.

Or perhaps they do.

The probability, however, is slim.

Gods should be just.

Yet the gold-blooded allow an entire species—greater in number than our own—to suffer, simply because the ruling class refuses to abandon their noble lie.

More weaklings mean more wealth for the elite.

Why do I know this? It is obvious. One does not need to be of high birth to see it. I am certain even the lower and middle classes understand it.

But the poor are powerless.

The middle class is content with their scraps.

And the wealthy—

We are insatiable.

A noble lie, indeed.

I click my blue tongue against my teeth before wetting my bluish lips. If I could, I would strike Apollo across the face, free the reds, and dismantle this wretched social order—crush the pyramid until all stand equal.

A beautiful dream.

And yet, utterly foolish.

There must always be an order, a higher power, ensuring that some prosper while others suffer. Communism is a utopia. Not a reality, merely a wish—one held by far too few in this world. I do not even know if there are others like me. If not one's own family, then who?

I halt before a grand door, my gaze trailing upward toward the ceiling, nearly ten meters high. The door itself stands half that height. Two guards, clad in gleaming blue armor, stand like knights, their lances held firmly. Through the narrow slits of their helmets, they watch me before sinking to one knee.

"Lord Rosenmahl."

Their voices ring out in unison—monotone yet carrying a certain weight, as if they were Oranges. I nod slightly but spare them no further attention, stepping past them with the poised grace expected of a nobleman.

Tonight, they will be at the ball, basking in the grandeur of the event. I, however, will be alone.

With my chin lifted high, I stride forward, embodying the superiority ingrained in my blood. Yet, even as I do, I bite the inside of my cheek. The blue-lit knights reflect the azure heart of our galaxy. From the corner of my eye, I see them rise, their heavy breaths muffled beneath their helmets as the door thuds shut behind me.

Thud.

My fingers, once loose and relaxed, curl into trembling fists. The pale skin of my face, kissed by the blue-tinted sun, creases with grimaces. My dark blond brows furrow, pressing against my forehead as I stomp toward my bed—larger than the homes of many impoverished souls.

I clutch at the insignia on my chest, desperate to tear it away. Yet I hesitate. The consequences of such an act would be severe. Instead, my steps quicken, and before I reach my bed, I strike out at it.

A sharp pain blossoms across my knuckles.

Blue blood beads on my skin.

The pain is exquisite. I laugh—softly, but it is laughter nonetheless.

With a twisted grin, I continue, my fists hammering against the underside of the towering bed. I must look pathetic, kneeling just to land my blows. Yet I cannot stop. I punch again and again, losing myself in the sensation, the motion, the moment.

I forget the white doves outside, their feathers glowing blue in the relentless sun.

I forget the sharp spires of the city, stretching toward the heavens like accusing fingers.

I forget the desk, where unopened letters lie in wait.

All that remains is the act, the rhythm of impact, the sting in my knuckles.

Drops of blue splatter onto the polished floor. My fists tremble. Strands of blond hair fall before my eyes, brushing against my lips. I slump to my knees, my vision swimming, and I am not even certain why I feel this way. Why this hatred burns within me.

Tears hit the ground, mixing with my blood.

I should not pity the Reds.

I am Blue.

I could live my life without guilt. I could accept my exile from my father's presence, endure my absence from public gatherings. I could still feast, drink, indulge in all the luxuries of nobility.

I could marry into another family. A beautiful wife. Children. A new home.

A life untouched by suffering.

My shoulders sag as the sunlight spills across my cheek. I turn toward it. The window is open, and a breeze drifts in, scattering the doves. Their absence leaves only the sight of the Galleons.

Monstrous creations.

And suddenly, I remember why I feel this way.

It would be easy to lie in warmth, in comfort. It is easy. To love. To build a family. To exist without burden.

But my azure eyes lock onto the shoreline below. Small silhouettes move in chaotic unison—a tide of bodies flowing from ship to land, then across the narrow beach, funneled into storage houses.

Reds.

Hundreds. No—thousands.

They have spent weeks, perhaps a month, trapped in suffocating quarters. Beaten, starved—tortured, perhaps. Amusement for the Greens and Blues during their expeditions.

I want to roll my eyes, but the weight of the moment does not permit it.

Elisia is closest to Earth. The Reds suffer here, but at least they are made workers, no matter how cruel their treatment.

If they were sent to the Black Continent instead…

My stomach clenches. My hands tremble, curling into fists as I stare blankly at the floor.

Then, upward.

Into the horizon.

"They would be tortured for years, only to be devoured alive by the Browns."

My voice is but a whisper, shaking with the weight of it. The thorns in my throat sink deeper.

More than half a billion will share this fate.

Another expansion looms. The lords of the sea trade grow restless.

My father earns, alongside the puppeteers of maritime commerce, the annual wealth of an entire nation.

And more will follow.

I glance downward. Somehow, I have crawled to the window, my bloody fingers gripping the frame.

The sunlight touches my skin, warm, undeserved.

In the distance, Blues of the middle-class strike Reds without cause. They are desperate. Desperate to maintain their homes. Their bread.

And so, they lash out.

Blind.

How can I live in comfort, knowing an entire race suffers? How can I accept this blindness?

I cannot.

My fingers drift from the window to the desk. An unopened letter awaits. The wax seal bears the emblem of the Löwenherz family.

A lion's maw clenches a throbbing heart.

My gaze lingers on the symbol, and my eyes ache—aching for the Reds in their chains, aching for the lion on this crest.

"Löwenherz… this cannot mean anything good."

I murmur, my voice hushed, as I reach for a cloth to wipe the blood from my hands.

If you find any errors ( broken links, non-standard content, etc.. ), Please let us know < report chapter > so we can fix it as soon as possible.


Use arrow keys (or A / D) to PREV/NEXT chapter