Chapitre 34: The Mummy’s Hand
Elliot stared blankly ahead, his eyes flickering and rolling back as if they sought to burrow into his brain. But with a sudden shake, he snapped out of it. The sweet taste of the divine blue blood of Y and A lingered in his mouth, far more pleasant than the metallic tang of ordinary blood. More. He thought dully, sharpening his senses. A fiery strength surged within him, each drop of the blood burning its way down his throat, filling him with warmth that spread throughout his body—but not in an uncomfortable way.
His red eyes fixated on the dismembered limbs of the two corpses before him, staring at the entrails that spilled from their torn bodies. A smile twisted across his face, the sweet taste of blood still dancing on his tongue. But in the next moment, he emptied his stomach, retching violently as if the contents of his innards had been sucked out through a vacuum. Red and black spewed from his mouth, yet he couldn't tear his gaze away from the mutilated corpses. His nostrils flared, and his face contorted in disgust.
But his body moved without hesitation, his face dipping into the open wound on V's leg, the blue blood still warm and flowing freely. He knelt, first soaking his pants, then his hands, and finally, his mouth, now tinged blue. He sucked greedily, drawing the blood like a thirsty man at a well, even as the straw proved too small for the task. After only a few moments, he recoiled, his face instinctively pressing against his hand. His nails had grown longer, scratching at his cheeks, nearly gouging out his eye. He spat out a portion of the blue blood, but his thirst remained unquenched. Without thinking, he leaned in again, only to slap himself across the face in an attempt to break free from the madness.
"Stop! Damn it, stop!" Elliot screamed, clutching at his messy, greasy hair, his locks turning blue with the blood that dripped from his fingers. "Stop!" His voice became increasingly desperate. He yanked strands of his hair free from his scalp, the pain unheeded. Then, in a fit of frustration, he slammed his head into the wall, again and again. His blood mingled with the blue stains, dripping down his face in a macabre tapestry.
Finally, his actions ceased, his body going limp. His expression remained cold, lifeless, devoid of emotion. But then, suddenly, he laughed—low and harsh—scraping his nails across his forearms. The laughter echoed through the room, unhinged, until his arms bled, the red blood seeping from his skin.
His chuckles quieted, but his eyes were still distant, unseeing, as though the turmoil within him had settled into the depths of some abyss. He turned and walked out of the room, leaving behind the other prisoners, none of whom would ever know their fates. He didn't care. He didn't even notice.
Elliot walked aimlessly, out through the corridors and up the stairs. His gaze dropped, his tears flowing freely as he caught sight of the distant blue light of the sun, glowing faintly through a window. For a moment, he laughed again—not from hysteria, but from something deeper, a sense of unexpected joy. His shoulders sagged, and his knees buckled beneath him. He licked his lips as his body collapsed forward, becoming one with the cold asphalt of the street.
'Ren, I guess I made it after all.'
…
Eriksson stood within the spacious museum, his gaze scanning the exhibits with practiced disinterest. Dressed in a sharp suit, he casually admired the various sculptures and paintings, but his attention never lingered on the art itself. Instead, his eyes darted over the surroundings—high, wide, and impressive. The museum was two stories, but it had an almost sprawling quality, the ceiling reaching up as if to stretch into eternity. Pillars were spaced evenly throughout, and at every fourth pillar stood a guard in simple black attire. Each bore a revolver at their side, holstered securely on their suspenders. The guards looked almost interchangeable in their uniformity, their stances stiff and military, their expressions as impassive as statues. Sixteen men in total, yet Eriksson noticed that over half of them had the distinct aura of being blooded—far too much of a coincidence.
A sudden thought struck him. 'Could this be a setup?'
He snapped out of his musings and refocused on the task at hand—his eyes scanning the room for the object he sought: an artifact. More specifically, a hand—a mummy's hand. His mind flicked back to the reward: 800 Elis. This should have been the simplest job of his career. Yet something gnawed at him.
As he walked through the gallery, he passed paintings—still-lifes, portraits, and sculptures of the ancient world. There were curly-haired figures, noses that seemed exaggerated in size, depictions of angels locked in eternal conflict with demons. But most striking were the golden images—figures with flawless features, their bodies radiant and almost inhuman in their perfection. 'Gods,' Eriksson thought. 'Golden beings, who resemble humans, but are far from it. They are the ideal form.'
Rumors had long circulated that the nine blood types were failed experiments—distorted reflections of the divine. The 'gods' were said to be pure, while everything else, the rest of humanity, was a mere shadow. But how could humans ever compare to gods? Yet there were still paintings of other blood types—reds, browns, yellows, purples, each unique in their own way. People were depicted in caves, riding massive machines, standing in oases of violet deserts.
And then, there it was: the mummy's hand. Eriksson stared at it for a brief moment before stepping closer.
"A fine hand, don't you think?"
A voice broke through his thoughts, and Eriksson turned to see a man standing nearby. His skin was dark, with a brownish tint, his hair and eyes smeared with the color of mud. His eyes were small in relation to his large pupils, his brown irises nearly completely swallowed up. Something about him seemed... off. 'Where did he come from? Why didn't I notice him?'
"I heard there's been unrest lately," the man continued. "You should know that others can get information on the black market too. I was told to look out for visitors with... particular strength." He paused, his eyes narrowing as he sized Eriksson up. "I was instructed to keep an eye out for you."
Eriksson took a quick step back, his fine suit rippling with movement.
"Fast on your feet, I see?" The man smiled, stepping forward as sharp stone pillars erupted from the ground. Eriksson dodged instinctively, his leg narrowly missing one of the spikes, but he didn't hesitate. In a flash, he launched forward, landing a solid punch to the man's face. But the brown-skinned figure evaded him effortlessly.
The sound of their blows echoed through the museum like gunshots. The guards, alerted to the commotion, rushed toward them in unison, surrounding Eriksson. 'Gods, just what I needed.'
"Damn you, Hank. 800 Elis? Worthless thieves!"
Eriksson broke off the skirmish with the brown man and swiftly dispatched several of the guards with brutal efficiency. In just eight seconds, he had knocked out all but the brown-skinned figure, who had calmly seated himself on a bench, his chin resting on his fist.
"Is this the warm-up then?" he asked with a bored expression, his voice tinged with mockery.
The brown tried to throw Eriksson off balance, provoking him with a flick of his right index finger, daring him to approach. "I'll even let you hit me. Fair enough?" But Eriksson remained calm, shaking out his fists. Black blood. That was all Eriksson could think of as he felt the black blood stored somewhere deep inside his body, and then he saw it—the vein in his leg darkening, its contents revealed in full clarity to the brown's blood vision. "So we're dabbling with demons now? But why all the blood colors, and why have you absorbed every color, except for gold and white?" The brown's eyes widened with realization. Eriksson only stared ahead, his veins thinning, darkening with the black blood. His leg stiffened, burning with a rising heat, before he leaped, launching off the ground with an immense force. Sparks and a trail of fire erupted behind him as he sprang to the side of the brown, a slash across his cheek. Eriksson's eyes—now a brilliant green—locked onto the ground as he swayed unsteadily.
"You still can't control it, can you?" the brown laughed, wiping the blood from his cheek, which now dripped down like warm chocolate. "Still can't keep it in check."
The brown charged at Eriksson, but with a quick sidestep, Eriksson avoided the attack, using a swift lateral kick that knocked the brown back. The brown caught himself, arms crossing to protect his body. Gasping, the brown's eyes flared with hatred.
"Are you a half-blood, little one?" he sneered.
Eriksson didn't respond, remaining quiet. The brown, after a moment, loosened his posture, twisting his limbs to warm up. The battle had already caused significant damage to the museum, though the destruction was minor in comparison to the forces at play. His veins, now a vibrant yellow, pulsated with overwhelming energy, surging through his body like an uncontainable torrent. Eriksson's veins followed suit, springing from his skin with a violent force. The brown had grown faster, but his vision started to blur with each blink, the world around him darkening exponentially. With each flicker of his eyes, his sight dimmed, until it stopped entirely.
Eriksson narrowed his eyes, peering through the haze, activating his blood vision to track the brown's blood flow. But even that was strangely faint and difficult to discern. His heart raced, his thoughts racing with the realization that the brown was resorting to desperate measures.
'Pow! Pow! Pow!'
Three consecutive blows struck Eriksson's cheekbone, followed by strikes to his liver, until he grabbed the brown's arm, holding it in place. The brief moment of respite was filled with Eriksson's thoughts on his orange blood, desperately attempting to dispel the blindness with the burst of energy. But it was in vain—the orange blood surged uselessly through his head, his efforts to regain his sight squandered. The brown laughed hysterically, "Do you really need your eyes that badly? Down here, we see nothing except the light of the crystals—and even that is a rarity." He spat in Eriksson's face, his blood dripping down. "And yet, despite my species' superiority, you lot still have all the privileges!"
With a roar, the brown pushed Eriksson's grip loose, breaking free and striking Eriksson with a vicious sideways kick. The blow landed cleanly, sending Eriksson stumbling back, but his legs, now weak, could barely hold him upright. His bloodline, tainted with black blood, made it difficult for him to keep his balance, and soon, his blood flow grew unbalanced. He faltered as his leg trailed behind him, completely out of sync with the rest of his body. For a moment, the brown eyed him with suspicion, but soon, his gaze clouded entirely. He could no longer see Eriksson.
"Don't tell me you've run away?" the brown muttered, his voice tinged with disbelief. But Eriksson's form suddenly appeared right behind him, his body partially camouflaged by the distortion in light caused by his violet blood. Eriksson's shape flickered in and out of focus, until, in an instant, he struck, his foot landing firmly on the brown's back. The brown had no time to react as Eriksson's blow sent him hurtling toward a museum pillar. He crashed through it with terrifying force, smashing through another, then another, until he was launched forty meters away, his body slamming into a wall so hard that it shattered. The impact sent shockwaves through the area.
Eriksson followed closely behind, his face marred with brown smudges of blood, his eyes swollen and bloodied. He delivered another strike, this time toward the brown's skull, his foot landing with brutal precision. The sound of cracking bone echoed through the space as Eriksson's strike caused a deep indentation in the back of the brown's head, his skull audibly breaking.
Eriksson exhaled, a long, quiet breath of relief, as his vision returned to normal, his pupils returning to their usual size. He looked down at the brown's crumpled form, blood pooling around him, and grabbed three small vials from his pocket. He quickly filled each one with the brown's blood, muttering to himself, "Soon, I'll have enough of these."
For a moment, he stood still, looking down at the fallen brown, before turning his attention to the mummified hand in his possession. "With this, my task is complete," he thought. A few lives had been claimed, but the real tragedy would come with the collapse of the museum. Many would die, and no one would care. Eriksson gave one last glance to a painting of a golden god, the divine figure's eyes seeming to watch him. "And you, are you watching over me, creator god?" he muttered. "Let's see how our future unfolds."
Without another word, Eriksson leaped into action, swiftly exiting the museum and retreating into a narrow alley. He sat down for a moment, resting, his left hand clutching the mummified hand that bore the name "Sebastian."
As he closed his eyes, he heard the deafening crash of a building collapsing behind him. The streets, the buildings, all began to rumble with the intensity of the destruction. The sound of shifting rubble and crumbling concrete filled the air, the wind picking up and scattering newspapers, trash, and debris across the streets. But Eriksson simply closed his eyes, savoring the rare moment of peace.
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