Origins of Blood

Chapter 13: Praying Blood


Elliot's POV

"I'm not a monster. Not by will, I'm their creation."

—Elliot Starfall

I walk through the bluish mist of the city, a world that belongs to the blue and green monsters. The chill in the air is deceiving; this world is not mine, but theirs. I don't belong here. Everything feels so alien, as though the very ground beneath my feet is artificial, a trap, as if I'm stuck inside a nightmare, in a game that I never chose to play. But I'm lying through my teeth. This isn't a dream. This is real, harsh reality. No, harsh doesn't even begin to cover it. Earth is a memory, a distant past. And this—this place—exists in the present, but its technology feels like it belongs to some other era, decades behind my own world.

I sigh, my gaze drifting down to the asphalt beneath my feet, where my leather boots tread. The same boots I stole from the monster—along with my pants, socks, shirt, and vest. Everything beige, except the socks and shirt, which are snow-white like the skin of the faceless creature whose head now lies in its chamber, shattered beyond recognition. Smashed—like the body of my brother, my blood. Ren.

The memory is still so fresh, as if it happened mere moments ago. His lifeless eyes, empty sockets staring back at me. His tongue hanging from his nose, the bloodied mess that was once his stomach torn apart. I still smell the stench of it. The blood. The carnage. It lingers, like a curse I can't escape. I want to cry. I want to scream, to break down and fall apart. But I can't afford that. Not now. If I shed a tear, I'll ruin the disguise I've worked so hard to maintain. The makeup that covers my face—that is my mask. The one I found in the bathroom, after I pissed on the monster who tore my world apart.

The only thing I did before I left that place, the decrepit house that resembled my grandparents' home, was brush my teeth. And then, I hid myself behind the mask of the people who enslaved my kind. I studied them through the windows, watching their every move. They have a strange, bluish tint to their skin, some even whiter than some of the Asian people from Earth, but there's something more—a visible pulse of blue blood beneath their flesh. And so, I painted my nails, my knuckles, fingers, cheeks, ears, and lips. I turned myself into one of them, or at least, as close as I could manage. But it makes me feel sick. Uncomfortable. Like I'm wearing a suit of lies.

I walk past the people on the street, past the horse-drawn carriages, where the masters slap the horses to move faster. The way they treat these creatures—it's the same as how they treat my kind. We are nothing but animals, beasts for their amusement. Less than that, even.

My knees tremble, barely able to keep me standing, under the weight of being discovered. But I push forward. I don't stop. I keep walking, following the blue family ahead of me as I clutch my hands in tight fists.

Are they watching me? Can they smell the difference? Are they suspicious?

My breath hitches. I can feel the weight of my heartbeat pounding in my chest, too loud, too fast, like I'm suffocating under the pressure of being caught. I'm not ready to be exposed. Not yet.

Am I walking too fast? Too slow? Is there something off about the way I breathe? They can't know. They can't know I'm not one of them. I'm not supposed to be here, and yet, I keep moving, like some puppet on a string, lost in a world that doesn't recognize me.

I squint as my eyes flicker across the streets, the houses rising sharply towards the turquoise sky. It's a sight I once would have imagined in books, reading to Ren on stormy nights to calm his fears.

But now, it only deepens the hollow ache inside of me. I look from the gothic-like architecture of the buildings to the blue-skinned people dressed in the same clothes as me. Only some of them try harder—wearing cylinders and monocles, things I've only read about in history books. The mist, though not as thick as the day I was taken, still lingers, a strange fog that wraps around everything, a veil of mystery. It feels as though danger could come from any direction, and my nerves are raw, every sense tingling with the need to stay alert.

I'm not sure why I'm walking, but I keep moving, following the family ahead of me, careful not to pass them. I don't dare step out of line. Not here. Not now. Can they tell?

The mist is thicker now, more oppressive, as if it has become part of me. I feel it in my skin, in my lungs, and it's starting to drown me. I'm suffocating under it, but I push on.

The heat is unbearable. Despite the cold looking blue sun, it feels like I'm burning alive. I sweat beneath my long sleeves, my skin prickling, the air thick with the sharp smell of blood that never seems to fade. It's as if I can feel my veins beneath my skin, boiling with heat, each drop of blood in my body seething in response to the blue monsters that surround me.

"Come on, six Cont for that man?" A croaking voice calls from an alley to my right. The words are distant, but I hear them clear as day.

My feet falter. For a moment, I want to keep walking, to ignore the voice and pretend I didn't hear anything. But something within me—some force I can't explain—compels me to stop. I can't just walk away. It's like a wave crashing through me, an urge I don't understand.

My finger twitches.

My blood boils.

I feel the heat of it—hotter than the sun itself, hotter than my skin can stand. It burns through my veins, coursing in my blood. I feel it in my brows, in my eyes. Every inch of me itches, as though my very body is rebelling against the stillness, against the calm I've been trying to maintain.

I feel the change.

It's like something snaps inside of me. The world around me warps, and everything turns red. Crimson. The same color as my blood. The asphalt beneath my boots becomes a purplish hue, and the two people I see ahead of me—they glow. Their bodies, their insides, everything. I see their offal, their organs, glowing in blue. I can see their vessels, their bloodlines pulsing beneath their skin, glowing blue in the mist. It's an odd sensation, a terrifying one. But not the most terrifying.

No. There's something else.

The third person in the alley—a man who doesn't look like the others. He doesn't glow blue. Instead, his blood, his very body, glows red.

He is one of mine.

One of my kind.

I can feel the heat inside of me continue to boil, to pulse with an urgency I can't control. He's mine. My blood calls to him, a part of me I thought was lost, a part of me that is still alive.

I shouldn't care.

But I do.

The feeling is... cool. A strange sense of possession. But the anger toward the blues, the monsters who made me this way—that is what makes my blood burn even more.

"Man, I can't go any further down." The other voice echoes, tinged with annoyance. Their words are weak, fragile, like the statues they are. "Look, I paid Five Cont and eight Celi. If I went even one Celi lower, hell, why would I even bother with these deals?"

I crouch, concealed in the thick mist, my presence veiled from their eyes. They continue bickering about the human—my kind—tied up before them, branded with the same mark that I bear. My knees are wet, soaked through by the mist. It feels as though the cold wind cuts at my skin, refreshing against my burning cheeks.

"Alright, I'll go one Celi dow—"

I silence him, my fist crashing into the skull of the blue who dared to sell my kind. The sound of bone meeting flesh fills the alleyway. I watch in a moment of disbelief as his body slams to the ground. His partner stares at me, confused at first, but I don't hesitate. My next step is instinctive, a surge of power that drives me forward. I charge. Fists raised, I land blow after blow, sending my punches into their faces.

It feels... good.

The satisfaction of delivering punishment to those who've wronged my kind fills me, though a part of me can't quite understand it. Why do I feel this way? Why does it feel so right to break their skulls, to watch their blood spill and feel the weight of their lives slipping away under my hands?

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I don't have the answers. I don't need them.

The world outside this alley may as well be an illusion. These blues—these creatures who enslave my people, kill without a second thought—have no place in this world. No right to exist in this space, beneath the same sky I walk under.

I kneel over the one I just struck down, straddling his limp body. He's gasping, barely able to breathe. But it's too late for him. There's nothing left for him but a quick death. His final moments will be spent choking on the air I've stolen from him.

I twist his throat.

The life drains from his eyes as he lets out one final gasp, clutching at his throat in vain. But I'm already moving on, charging toward the next. He recoils, trying to pull back, but I dodge his fist with a simple flick of my wrist. The strike is swift, my elbow crashing into his temple with a sickening crack. He stumbles backward, his knees buckling as he gasps for air. But there's no time left for him.

I don't stop.

The words of the world around me blur, turning to noise, to meaningless babble. All that matters is this—the beating, the death. The satisfaction of their last memories being the sight of me, the Red who has come to reclaim what was taken from us.

I don't know why I'm this strong. I don't know why I have this overwhelming urge to destroy them. But I do it because they deserve it.

They were the ones who turned my world upside down, who killed my brother Ren and sought to destroy us all. It's because of them that I'm forced to live in this hellish world, that I must wear this mask of a disguise to survive.

But no more.

I grip his head, pressing my thumbs into his eyes. He doesn't scream. He's already dead. His live is gone, mixing with the crimson river that courses through my veins. The red that is mine.

I sit back for a moment, savoring the power. The feeling that I can end someone's life. That, for once, I'm in control.

The Red, the ones who have been oppressed, the ones who've been subjugated for so long—we can rule. I can feel it. I'll change this world. One step at a time, one death at a time. I'll be the one to turn the tables. We'll take back what's ours.

But it's not enough.

I need to see them suffer more.

I look to the second blue, still gasping for air, his hands clutching at his throat, but his gaze locked on me—his eyes wide with terror. I step forward, placing my hands over his eyes.

"Rest."

The words come out flat, void of any real meaning, but I say them anyway. I can feel the warmth of his blood against my skin as his eyes slowly roll back. I don't know why I do it.

Maybe because it feels... right.

Maybe because it feels good.

With one final twist, I feel his neck give way. He dies in a single moment, the last thing he sees my face. The last thing he knows is that I—I—ended his life.

I glance down at the third one, the human they tried to sell. His skin is pale, almost translucent, and his body is thin, gaunt. He might be bigger than me, but his body is nothing but bones and fragile flesh. The smell of starvation clings to him.

He's been through hell.

His eyes, though, are different. They shine, despite his hollow cheeks. They glimmer with the remnants of hope. I know, though, that there's no room for hope in this world anymore. My brother is gone.

But when I look at him, I don't see a slave. I don't see someone meant to be cast aside, used as a tool, or tortured like the others before him.

I see a kin.

I see someone who belongs to me. To us.

I reach out, my hands still coated in the blood of his captors. He stares at me, trembling, but his eyes don't look at me with fear. Instead, there's understanding. Something ancient, something instinctive. He knows what I am.

He knows what I've done.

And he knows what I'll do.

I hold out my hand to him, the blood still dripping from my fingers. The warmth seeps into the air, mingling with the cold mist.

He hesitates for only a moment before he kneels before me, hands shaking as he places his lips to the blood on my palm.

"Drink." The words come out cold, as though they're not mine. They're automatic.

His lips brush against the blood, his first sip cautious, then greedy. The moment he tastes it, he drinks deeper, as if he's been starved for it. His eyes, once clouded with desperation, now gleam with a newfound hunger.

I let him drink.

I don't know why.

But when I see the way his body fills with life, with strength—something deep inside me stirs.

I drink, too. Not because I need it, but because I want to. I want to feel the power surge through me. To taste the sweetness of vengeance, of change. To let them know that the monster they have created shall accomplish them into hell but never back.

Mist drapes the alleyways like gauze wrapped around a corpse, and I run—lungs burning, heart hammering, with footsteps behind me that echo my desperation. The silhouette beside me matches my pace, breath ragged. My so-called friend—though his name still escapes me—bleeds more than I do. His arms are bruised, his skin torn. The red glow of his blood pulses faster, brighter. But within the crimson, blue threads flicker—a corruption, a sickness, or perhaps something divine. I don't know anymore.

I glance sideways. His eyes sparkle with something unreadable—madness, maybe resolve. My own lips curl into a smirk. A grotesque, involuntary expression. We're running from the blues, those self-righteous bastards. The ones who think their glowing blood elevates them to holiness.

They didn't see us at first, those passing by. They ignored us like the filth they expected in alleys like these. But they won't forget us now.

We fed.

We drank from the arteries of their enforcers.

We sucked the blood straight from their still-beating hearts.

Once, the thought would have made me wretch—until nothing was left but bile and the shaking of my body. Now? I smirk, dark blue blood dripping from my lips like blue juice. It's sweet.

Too sweet.

Even now, the taste lingers.

I shiver, not from fear—but from want. I need more. Time wasn't enough. My belly isn't full. My blood pulses like a second heartbeat, interrupted by an ache, a longing, a hunger.

I am not whole.

My palms sweat. My body trembles. It's not fatigue. It's addiction. I feel rabid.

I stumble through the mist like a dying man in a desert, searching for water, only to find mirages. My lips tremble. My vision blurs. Behind us, in the distance, the police hunt. The so-called guardians of this world. They wear the blue. The glow of their blood makes them easy to track, even through fog. I can see them.

Even through the walls.

The glow is faint, almost ethereal—but it's there. Some are more distant, transparent, ghosts in the haze. But the ones nearest, they hold formation. I recognize it.

I once wanted to be one of them.

A cop.

Ha.

My jaw clenches. A bitter laugh grows in my throat but doesn't escape. I watch them live the dream they stole from me.

Bastards.

Fuel beasts.

I hate them.

My mind spins, whirls like a carousel collapsing in on itself. My steps falter. I'm faster than my companion, but I'm behind him. Not running at full speed. My legs ignore me. They turn.

No—they answer something else.

As if some deeper part of me insists: You must finish what you started.

My stomach growls. Saliva fills my mouth. I gulp it down, hot and thick, and some drips down my chin.

I'm not in control.

I move like a marionette, strings invisible but unyielding. The world glows in red hues. I see threads of light before me—lines in the air, pulsing, warm. I follow them.

My eyes don't blink. I can't close them. I only stare.

And I smile.

The smile of someone I would've once hated. The smile of someone they fear.

I walk through the fog. The blues open fire. My red-blooded friend ducks behind a wall. He's free now—we opened his chains with keys taken from the dead. I drop low, following the thread of red light, spine twisting, body rotating as if the strings command it.

Peng.

The sound is muffled, like through water. But I keep moving, skin tingling with heat. I feel the fabric of my shirt, the skin underneath, the tension in my muscles.

I weave through their fire. Two of them. Two guns. Two barrels that could end me. But I zigzag, make myself small, run the path laid by the thread of light—my brother's light.

Ren.

I trust him.

Peng. Peng!

Shots crack the air, louder now. Their aim is off—either I'm lightning, or they're fools. Probably later. Bullets shatter bricks. One shouts:

"Don't shoot the walls! There are civilians inside!"

The second tries again. Aiming for my skull. I duck forward. My teeth glint, still stained in blue. I close the distance. He meets my gaze—red eyes, mine—an omen he wasn't prepared for.

His partner tightens his grip, aims directly at my head. My feet slide. I twist—not out of skill, but instinct. Or fate. Or light. I follow it.

I believe in it.

I believe in him.

I drop to all fours, sprint like an animal, stumble, leap.

Pow!

This one rings in my ears. Water hisses out of a ruptured pipe. A mistake.

"You idiot!" the other shouts.

But I'm there.

I arrive.

My hands wrap around the revolvers. I don't remember how. One of the blues trembles. His eyes quake. I see the whites flash as he processes death standing over him.

He whimpers. He wants mercy.

I give none.

Pow!

My shoulder jolts. Smoke swirls into the mist. The barrel still hot as his face caves in. Blue blood spurts from his forehead. His eyes roll back.

Pow!

Another shot—not mine.

Pain slices into my shoulder. The world tilts. I fall. My cheek presses into the dead man's face—half-crushed, unrecognizable. The other side of my face breathes mist. I turn my gaze.

The second blue approaches.

He wears formal clothes. A hat shadows his bald spot. His face contorts—grief, rage, fear. My grin returns, feral. The sweet taste hasn't left my mouth.

He raises the gun.

I don't flinch.

"Look over," I whisper.

And behind him—my red friend appears, a stone clutched in his hand. He smashes it against the blue's skull. The officer collapses like a marionette whose strings have snapped.

I rise, breath still ragged.

"Fast," I command, grabbing the revolver once more. I turn. Aim at their stomachs.

Pow.

Then I drink.

Their blood flows like nectar. I drink as if it were juice from the fridge, as if I'm a child tasting sweetness for the first time. My friend watches. His hazel eyes are wide.

He points at my shoulder.

Yes.

It doesn't hurt.

I pull my shirt aside. The wound closes before my eyes. Skin stitching itself back. The bullet rolls from the wound and hits the ground with a soft clink. The bleeding slows. Then stops.

Only a scar remains.

"Are you god?" he asks.

I say nothing.

I only smirk.

My hand reaches toward him.

"Drink."

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