Origins of Blood

Chapter 10: Half-Blood


Eriksson's POV

"The hardship isn't in belonging to one side and being shunned by the other, but in belonging to both and being accepted by neither."

—Eriksson Lennard

Why are my hands slick with hues of green and orange? I stare at my fingers, puzzled, as I lie on the ground, boredom seeping into my bones. The sky above is a deep navy, and my eyes catch the iron raindrops descending. I don't blink. I merely sigh when a scream pierces the air.

"Two o'clock!" Merry, a fellow Green, veers left, dodging a right hook from a Blue striker. A rare sight, Blues at the frontlines. I smirk, watching her wet, dark-blonde hair trail behind her as she evades the thrown blades. The Blue, clad in a black and blue coat, slices his palm, letting the rain mingle with the wound. Water coalesces, forming a stream as thick as a carriage wheel, shooting towards Merry, missing her hair by a breath. I whistle at the dent it leaves in the stone wall of a ruin, yet I remain lying down, my cap cushioning the back of my head, watching the theater unfold before me.

"Duck!" Tiger shouts again, but this time, Merry is struck on the arm. I yawn as her wound, deep to the bone, heals within moments. I push myself up with my right hand, feeling each drop of the gods' piss on me. But my eyes widen, a grin spreading across my broad jaw. I lick my green tongue over my teeth.

"An Orange!" one of my kin shouts, standing opposite Tiger. His spine twists like a wrung cloth, his body flung swiftly against a crumbling wall of the ruin—a city we're reclaiming as our territory. For a heartbeat, my smile fades; his head bursts like an egg. He's dead.

I rise, my legs stiff from watching. Merry stands a bit ahead, Ben retreats, and my other comrades have long fled. Blues. Inferior. Only we Greens fight in significant situations. I yawn at the thought of how easily a Blue could be crushed. Just slightly sturdier than Reds. I chuckle, my green gums bared towards the Orange.

My 110-kilogram frame strides effortlessly through the mud amidst the battle. Blues and Reds lie on the ground. Reds, armed; Blues, supporting from behind; and we Greens, fighting openly. Kingdom of Zentria. I was born in Nigil, yet I fight for Zentria. What irony. I smirk again, not out of amusement, but sorrow.

I twist my neck, letting my vertebrae crack loudly, glancing at Merry and the other Green. They're decent folks. They shouldn't perish here.

"I'll handle it," I say, my voice drowned by the rain. They barely hear me, but I don't repeat myself. My gaze fixes on the bearded Orange, his eyes gleaming despite the lack of sunlight. He grins—broadly, like me. Though mine is gentler, not from the joy of killing, but the thrill of combat. I love it. I couldn't live without war. Without the exhilarating feeling of facing death at any moment. I dislike killing—a flaw—but I love feeling alive.

My right eye shifts from green to orange. I see in green and orange tones, my pupils shrinking, like the Orange's, though both his eyes are orange. I process every attack pattern in breaths. First, my foot stomps into the mud, my calves propelling me forward, and I clench my fist. The world around me distorts. Raindrops descend slowly, mud splashes from my sturdy boots into the air, the Orange grins at me, clenching his fists together. I bite my cheeks, spitting the mixture in my mouth—green and orange blood—forming needle-like projectiles before me. I whistle, each step covering meters. Colored blood, like tiny daggers, accompanies me as time warps.

The Orange, twice as broad as me, leaps towards me, but I sidestep, balancing on my heels, dodging his knuckle dusters, likely made of Elitran steel.

"Half-blood!" he roars like an ogre, his voice both mocking and laughing. My brows furrow, and I sidestep again as the Orange, agile despite his massive stature, advances and strikes. Three, then five blows in a rapid breath. I exhale, letting the gods' descending piss evaporate with my hot breath. My blood circles the Orange until I lower my index finger to the ground. Three large knives of my blood graze the Orange ogre, who, while dodging, charges at me. My hat falls off, exposing my shoulder-length hair to the damp rain. I move like a gazelle, narrowly evading fists as large as my head.

"Filthy half-blood!" the Orange shouts, sounding dumber than he looks. Hairless and shirtless, his orange-tinted body contrasts sharply against the blue battlefield. He advances faster than I can react, striking my abdomen. I'm hurled away—not as far as Tiger—but enough to roll backward twice. My mouth curves upward as I roll, landing on both feet. Merry and the other are gone. Good.

I look around, spotting a few Blues in the distance, using rituals.

I should end this quickly.

I tear off my shirt, revealing my slightly hairy chest beneath my blue blood-stained shirt, absorbing the rain. I whistle faintly, the blood daggers at shoulder height obeying me. I step right, then left. Slowly. My shoes glide through the increasingly dense mud. The sky darkens, thunder rumbling in the distance, illuminating the horizon. I prowl through the mud like a predator, my green-orange eyes fixed on the ogre. I spread my fingers like a tiger's paw. Veins bulge, thick as noodles. Blood boils within me. I feel warm. Warm in the cold of this dark day of war.

The battlefield is young. Only three days since the march began, yet already an Orange to contend with. I grin crookedly as the Orange charges at me. My vision is painted in shades of green, orange, and brown. My heart pounds wildly. His fist is before my front teeth, and at the last moment, I duck. The raindrops freeze, and I whistle, the blood daggers piercing through the Orange's knees. He screams and kneels, as do I, but I prepare to strike. My veins follow my movement, and I channel my orange blood into my right fist.

Pow!

I hit, the blow louder than a revolver.

Pow!

My left follows.

Pow!

Orange blood splashes into my mouth as I laugh, pummeling the ogre.

Pow!

He dodges. Stops my fist with sheer strength. I look at him, surprised. He pushes me away, and I slide several meters over

This time, he hits me.

If I hadn't moved into the strike, my neck would be twisted backwards by now. I laugh, even as a spray of green blood bursts from my mouth in mid-air. Whistling sharply, I call another dagger to spin through the downpour around me before it buries itself into the orange brute's shoulder. Three decades of fighting with my flying blood, and I still don't strike quite where I intend.

My body is slow today. My left hand—a stiff, unfeeling prosthetic—braces against the soaked earth. I reach into the writhing mass of maggots spilling from a blueblood's torso. Perhaps false blood. Perhaps too much blood. Greed. The root of all this madness.

This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

I twist, flipping with a fluid motion born from muscle memory alone, and once again dodge the orange ogre's wild blow. His mouth is foaming orange blood now as he bellows war cries—primitive, guttural sounds that suit his kind's brutal form of combat. A wall of power. That's what he is. Every strike from him bends my bones. Every fifth to eighth blow, and something cracks.

Sweat runs down my face, mixing with the golden piss of the gods that rains from the sky. I've used too much blood. I can't heal much longer. I won't last when Nigil's next wave arrives.

Retreating, I glance past the ogre's broad, scarred shoulder. The silhouettes of cowardly blues bloom in the thunder ahead. They gather. Channeling power. Sacrificing reds to fuel their distant rituals. Cowards, I think bitterly. No one remains at my side. They've all fled. Lucky for me, it's only one orange left. One... half of me.

His glowing amber like eyes meet mine. They burn like molten rock beneath the earth. My breath grows heavy. I run my fingers across the rough stubble of my jaw. No more backing away. The rain stops. My legs tense—and I charge.

Faster than he expects. His eyes widen. I summon the orange blood in my left arm, let it surge and swell inside me. My veins scream. My muscles ignite. It feels like fire licking up from the inside—as if the golden piss fuels the blaze instead of quenching it.

His massive fist comes at me, a hook aimed at my temple. I duck low, leap beneath it, drive my fist upward into his gut—faster than he can blink.

I feel it. The wet pop of something vital tearing. His blood rains into my hair. He reels back, clutches his stomach—but remains standing. Impressive. His intestines should be spilling out. And yet, he stands.

I look past him. The blues again. A few greens too, far behind them. They're running, but not fast enough. I still have time. His body is damaged—his belly a crater—but he lurches forward like a mad dog, swinging at me with wild strength. Stronger than any green. Faster than most of us.

But not faster than me.

I plant my feet and drive my fist into him one final time. His body crumples into the thick, wet earth.

"Good for you," I mutter, staring down at him, "that I don't like killing."

My lips still curve upward, mocking the gods above who piss on us in their apathy—Apollo, Augustus, all those gleaming fools. I walk away, letting the ogre's people stitch him back together.

My body trembles from the cold, my orange-soaked fist hanging limp. But I relish this feeling—the rawness, the freedom, the high. Standing at death's edge. Grinning at the Reaper, only to send him away again.

"Mongrel."

His voice rasps from the mud behind me.

"Bastard of disloyal blood."

And my smile vanishes.

I turn, whistling once more. I stab my prosthetic hand with a short blade, letting my blood mix and reform—a longer weapon now, forged from orange and the remnants of the blades still within his flesh. I step toward him. Wait.

"I hope your parents were hanged."

No smile now. Only a cold, flat expression that blues are known for. I stand over him, blade held high above his skull. He laughs—some inhuman, grotesque sound that curdles the air.

I drive the blade down.

His orange blood explodes across my dark trousers.

I am soaked in every primary hue of this damned continent—red, blue, green, and orange.

"I don't like killing. And yet—I do."

My voice drowns beneath the growing roar of the rain. I rub my blood-slick hands beneath the downpour, willing them to heal, forcing the green blood through my limbs—but nothing mends. Not today.

I groan beneath the divine piss, staring into the horizon that now begins to brighten. The blues are coming. Cowards, outlined in the storm, their attacks fully charged. They're weak. Physically. But with their rituals, their chants to the gods, only the whites rival them in power.

I stare at them. At the blues in the distance. The greens who once rushed to my side now approach with caution. My dark brown hair clings to my skin, falling over eyes that grow paler by the minute.

"Time to go," I murmur.

But first—my reward.

I walk back to the motionless orange. Reach into the gaping wound at the back of his skull. Lift his head. Cut out his tongue. His eyes. In Zentria, they demand both. Always both.

​My pulse quickens as the mud-laden earth beneath my feet gives way to the imposing silhouette of Zentria's walls. They stretch endlessly, a testament to the kingdom's might, reaching out to the borders of Avelor and Elitra, and beyond, to the obsidian waters of the Black Sea. A realm where demons and angels dance in eternal conflict. The mere thought sends a shiver down my spine. In comparison, our wars seem but childish squabbles.​

My pace slows, each step heavier than the last. This war, though, is a gentle one. Typically, legions of orange warriors would clash, with fleeting yellows and even the rare violet joining the fray. Occasionally, a brown would emerge. But now, only greens march. My once-drenched brown hair clings to my forehead, partially obscuring my green eyes. I ponder the current political climate. It's only the third day, yet our forces are sparse. But who can resist the allure of storming the continent of Earth? To indulge in one's desires? Too many oranges and greens wreak havoc there.​

I sigh, shaking my left hand, now numb. No longer orange, it's mottled with pink and brown patches. What joy do they find in tormenting the frail humans? They can't even corner a lion, let alone lift a stone their size. Even the weakest blue can manage that. Well, perhaps every third one, discounting children and the physically inept.​

The stone wall looms closer, its surface mirroring the mud that covers me. The rain has ceased, likely the work of the cowardly blues. Or perhaps I'm overthinking. The sky is clear, a cyan hue with neon undertones, and the sun hides within, a glaring white point emitting a bluish glow. Why must the sun shine in the color of the second tier? The blues consider themselves superior. Behind our backs, they believe they're above us. Because of their numbers, because we bow our heads, because we rely on them. But we do. The world would be chaos without them. Yet they think this makes them more important. But one wrong look, a glimpse of our green or orange lips, our tongues, our eyes, and they fall silent.​

I cradle my heavy left arm, the prosthetic crafted by the yellows. Too expensive for someone like me to wear.​

"First reconnaissance! Last survivor!" I shout up to the towering walls, so high that only yellows can ascend with difficulty. Oranges and greens stand no chance, and blues and reds? Not even worth mentioning. I look up, spotting two silhouettes in blue armor. The sun blinds me. Now I remember why our numbers were so few, aside from the red's breach by Apollo and the subsequent flood of greens and oranges to Earth. It was merely a reconnaissance.​

I hear massive chains clinking, the gate between the stone walls rising. No matter, I savor the scent of rain, the raw aroma of mud, the sweet blood of the orange ogre splattered across my uniform. It's tight, dark brown for camouflage, consisting of a shirt and pants, though the shirt is gone. Only my white undershirt with a wide neckline remains. In my small pockets, where others keep weapons, I have nothing but the spoils of victory: the tongue and eyes in orange splendor.​

The gate stands tall, and as I stride through, it falls. "Last," says a female voice, not Merry's as I had hoped, but another. She stands upright, clad in gleaming blue armor, untouched by blood. A blue. I click my tongue, running my robotic hand through my coarse beard. Through the yellow technology's sensors, I feel every hair, the prickling reminiscent of my father's touch a century ago.​

"I'm tired," I say, sluggishly sidestepping the advocate woman. She stares at my back, and I turn slightly. She doesn't retreat as I expected; instead, she steps closer. I roll my eyes, letting my heavy shoulders droop.​

"Very well. What is it?" I ask, annoyed.​

"You know it yourself," she replies coldly, her voice as icy as her blood's hue.

"An orange, dozens of greens, and hundreds of your kind as backup. They might have controlled the weather, possibly manipulating the mud, making it so moist, so flooded, to use the environment to their advantage."​

I continue forward, clutching my aching shoulder.​

"Understood. The orange?" she asks monotonously.​

I point with my metallic fingers to the hanging pouch at my hip.​

"Tongue and eyes," I say, exhaling.​

"Understood," she repeats, and I hear her heavy armor turning.​

"Today is the day to celebrate the ventilation of the false gods, the yellows. Go to the guild; the bureaucracy for state campaigns is temporarily closed." She speaks again, her voice fading with each word.​

I nod, though she doesn't see it. My eyes wander to the open street. A crossroads, ten times wider than the streets in the Mellingen district's city center.

I see people. Fewer than expected. I continue moving forward, my new destination: a guild. Yet in the same moment, I halt. Once again, my metallic hand braces my shoulder. I stare, puzzled, at the pointed rooftops in the distance. I know what guilds are—I've worked for them myself—but this is my first time here. Where exactly is one supposed to be?

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