Chapitre 31: Heartbeat
At Denklin Station, within the kingdom of Zentria, Eriksson stood silently beside the frail Rafael, who clutched his suitcase as if it were his lifeline. The train roared past them, its endless motion a stark contrast to the stillness of the two figures by the platform. Eriksson's gaze was fixed somewhere far beyond the horizon.
"Where do you need to go now?" he asked, his tone as distant as his eyes.
"I—I need to find an alley on Tren Street. Between a bar and a weapons shop," Rafael stammered, his legs trembling beneath him.
Eriksson's expression remained unreadable as he replied, "Then follow me."
Rafael hesitated, his grip on the suitcase tightening. "But... with all due respect, I appreciate your help, I truly do, but if those people see me... they might suspect something and kill my little brother." His voice was high-pitched, the sweat on his brow glistening in the dim light of the station.
Eriksson's response was calm, almost unnervingly so. "Don't worry. I have a plan. And, to ease your concerns," he added with a faint, chilling smile, "I could eliminate everyone there and rescue your brother without a scratch on him."
Rafael swallowed hard, his words catching in his throat. He could only nod, the weight of his fear rendering him mute.
As they walked in tense silence, Eriksson's thoughts wandered. Max... I'll save you. No matter the cost.
…
The sprawling estate of the Rosenmahl family stood proudly within Denklin, the capital of Zentria. In one of its grand chambers, Aston sat upon his oversized bed, his pale skin glistening faintly under the dim chandelier's light. His hair and eyes seemed to shimmer with renewed vitality, a stark contrast to the exhaustion that had plagued him in recent weeks.
Still no word from the so-called god of creation, Aston mused, his gaze shifting to the open drawer at his bedside. Four empty syringes lay discarded within.
Has it forgotten me? Or decided I'm no longer worth its attention? Wouldn't surprise me. After all, I'm just a blue in the eyes of a gold...
He glanced at his forearms, veins pulsating beneath the surface. His shoulders sagged, his head lowering as he exhaled deeply, the oxygen in the room filling his enhanced lungs. The air felt heavier, richer, as though his body demanded more than an ordinary man's.
Blue blood coursed visibly beneath his skin, its vibrant hue a testament to the transformation taking place within him. Aston couldn't help but smirk at his reflection in the ornate mirror across the room.
"Only four doses of orange blood, and I feel this powerful already," he murmured, his voice tinged with wonder. "And to think, I'm only halfway through the process of becoming a two-blooded."
Aston chuckled softly to himself, leaning back against the intricately carved headboard. This is incredible. And the abilities I've gained... remarkable.
He raised a hand, studying his slender fingers as though they held the key to his newfound power. I can alter my own state of mind, he thought with glee. Grief? Gone. Anger? Suppressed. Rationality? Heightened at will. It's like having a shield against the psychological abilities of other blues. And if I refine this power further, I could nullify almost any effect that targets me.
His grin widened, taking on a sinister edge. But that's not all. I can influence others... make them believe what I say, no matter how absurd.
Aston rose from the bed, his elegant royal-blue attire accentuating his sharp features and aristocratic bearing. His reflection stared back at him, glowing with confidence. If I tell someone wood is actually stone, they'll believe it. Though the more mundane the subject, the shorter the manipulation lasts.
The corners of his mouth curled upward in a smirk, his hands clasping before his face as if in silent prayer. His golden-blond hair was slicked neatly to the side, accentuating the brilliance of his sapphire-blue eyes. Today was a significant day—a celebration of the Astarion Calendar, named after the golden god of the sun. A god who had decreed the enslavement of the red-blooded.
Aston's expression darkened. What utter nonsense.
…
On the continent of the Violet Seas, amidst the chaos of an imperial battlefield between the yellow- and violet-blooded, Fynn limped down a long corridor within Outpost 2468. His left leg dragged slightly behind him, the wound still fresh, though his movements betrayed little of the pain.
Through his left, yellow-golden eye, the world appeared in striking detail. Information streamed into his mind with each glance, a torrent of data he could summon at will. A painting on the wall—its creation, provenance, and exhibition history. A chandelier hanging overhead—its crafting details and years of service. Even the people he encountered were not immune to this relentless analysis.
Ahead, a maid polished a set of ornate vases. Fynn's gaze lingered on her for a moment. Leila Smith. Fifty-seven years old. A lifelong servant of the Leninger family. Born within Outpost 2468. Status: underclass. Current role: housemaid. Middle-class rank within the estate.
His fingers brushed his upper lip thoughtfully, his eyes narrowing. But why the Leninger family?
Thud. Thud.
A muffled sound interrupted his thoughts, coming from a slightly ajar door nearby. A woman's breathless voice followed, tinged with desperation.
"Not so hard... What if someone hears us?"
Curiosity piqued, Fynn's golden eye scanned the room as he cautiously approached. The woman's profile appeared in his vision. Emilia Smith. Thirty-nine years old. A maid of the Leninger household. Underclass by status. Current state: lustful.
The male voice responded, equally breathless, "Don't worry. This is my wing of the estate. No one comes here without reason."
Ergon Leninger. Thirty-four years old. Son of Duke Adrian Leninger. Upper-class noble. The Leninger family is part of the Astor lineage, tasked with overseeing Asphanium. Current state: lustful.
Fynn's pulse quickened as he recoiled, his mind racing. Ergon... But I thought he was involved with Diana?
He backed away, running a hand through his yellow-streaked hair. I saw nothing. Heard nothing. Nothing at all.
With one last glance at the crack in the door, Fynn turned and hurried back down the corridor, his thoughts a chaotic storm.
…
In a darkened chamber, where the color blue seemed to dissolve into blackness, Elliot awoke. His eyes were open, yet no sight greeted him. His flesh, charred and blistered like overcooked crust, cracked as he shifted slightly. The crystalline substance that had once infected his blood had finally been neutralized, leaving his body weak but alive.
His heartbeat was faint, his breaths shallow and uneven. He couldn't tell if he was gasping, murmuring, or simply existing.
Is this how it ends? he wondered, his thoughts fragmented. My fingers... I can't feel them. Are they gone? Or has the sensation fled?
The damp air burned against his exposed wounds, though the pain was strangely bearable. Instead, a maddening itch stirred within him, compelling faint, twitching movements.
The ropes aren't even necessary anymore, he thought with a bitter smile.
Elliot stared into the void, his mind teetering on the edge of oblivion. He began to laugh, the sound faint and hollow. This... This is what I've become.
No change was visible on his face, though his thoughts churned violently.
Heh, so here I lie, powerless because of two people—a young woman and an old man. I can't even recall their faces. Did they burn away my mind along with my body?
The effects of the injection had faded, leaving behind an excruciating, searing pain, as though countless swords were mercilessly stabbing through his body. Why do I even continue thinking? Why am I still alive?
Elliot stared into the void with open, sightless eyes. His corneas had been scorched away, leaving his blue irises disfigured. And why don't I have those visions anymore? Maston... or was it Erik? And the boy… Lynn? No, that's wrong too. Maston wasn't the first name; it was a surname... Edwin's surname, I think. His thoughts spiraled in confusion. Does it matter? When will this torment finally end?
Ren... it's because of Ren. My brother. I live because of my brother.
Bound to the chair, Elliot's unseeing, hollow eyes shimmered faintly.
Ren… please. Save me. I can't endure this anymore.
He remained motionless in the suffocating darkness.
He wanted to weep. He wanted to curl up, clenching his trembling body into himself.
He wanted to release all his frustration—to scream, to cry, to rage.
He wanted to shatter everything, to destroy, to kill.
Edwin. Samantha. The old man and the woman.
I will take revenge. I'll kill them all. Every last one of those other-blooded wretches. I am chosen by God! How dare they torture me!
The scream of his soul reverberated in his head, his silent mouth opening wide, exposing the torn flesh of his teeth and gums. The dark, crusted scabs split apart, spilling crimson blood that oozed down his disfigured cheeks. Slowly, the once-proud features of his face were reduced to shredded strands of muscle, like the unraveling of tightly bound ropes on a collapsing bridge.
The metallic taste of blood filled Elliot's mouth, his mangled cheeks leaking red streams onto his collar. His jaw quivered, teeth chattering faintly, as he rasped a hoarse whisper through his shredded throat:
"Ren... my brother. Please..."
Thud.
Am I crying? he thought hazily. Why does it feel warm against my cheek?
Thud.
Another drop ran down his face, this time sliding from his nose. Elliot's vacant gaze remained locked in the blindness of his despair, his body trembling, crimson rivulets still seeping from his torn mouth.
Splash!
A sudden wave of water crashed over Elliot's broken form, drenching his raw, exposed flesh. The liquid burned into him as though his very sinews absorbed its touch, igniting every nerve in his body. He convulsed violently, a raw, inhuman sound rasping from his ruined throat. His skin bubbled and hissed where the water struck, steam rising in wisps as the acrid scent of charred, decayed flesh filled the air.
Splash!
A voice spoke softly over the sounds of agony:
"My boy, your deliverance has come. You were a sinner, but now..."
Elliot barely registered the words. The searing pain eclipsed all else. His consciousness wavered as the relentless heat gnawed through his body. Still, he clung to the last shreds of awareness, his teeth grinding audibly, even as flesh and sinew peeled away to expose yellowed bone.
Acid.
It wasn't water—it was acid. The kind that dissolved human flesh in minutes. A death sentence, cruel and inevitable. Every second stretched into eternity.
Goddamn it! his mind screamed. Stop this! Please, just stop!
"Sto—!"
His voice, faint and strained, broke off mid-cry, leaving only a shuddering exhale. His body slumped, twitching feebly as the acid continued its merciless work, eating through muscle, organs, and bone. His torso, from chest to shin, was riddled with gaping holes that revealed the grim mess within.
The old man, A, stepped closer. Seeing that Elliot no longer moved, he reached down to unbind the lifeless figure. He groaned as he leaned forward, his hunched frame trembling. His gnarled hands formed a gesture—a prayer, perhaps—and he intoned reverently:
"Goddess of the Blue Blood, grant this sinner salvation. Release his soul from its sins..."
The darkness remained undisturbed.
"Goddess of the Blue Blood?" The old man's voice trembled.
Still, no light came.
"Goddess of the Blue Blood!?" he cried, leaning in closer to inspect Elliot's ruined remains. A rhythmic sound broke the silence:
A faint pulse.
A heartbeat.
Elliot's heart still beat.
If I'm going to die, then I'll take you with me, you filthy bastard.
As the old man bent forward, Elliot summoned the last vestiges of his will, spitting a small mouthful of blood into the man's open mouth. A staggered cough escaped A's throat as he recoiled, but the blood was already at work.
It pierced like a needle, forming a jagged lance that tore through the old man's throat and into his brain. It burrowed deep, shredding his insides without breaching the skull.
A choked gurgle escaped the man's lips, his body convulsing before collapsing beside Elliot. Blue blood seeped from his eyes, nose, and mouth, pooling around his lifeless form.
Elliot lay still. His broken body dissolved further into unrecognizable pulp, his blood-soaked flesh replaced by artificial vessels that struggled to sustain his failing frame.
His voice, faint and cracked, whispered one final word:
"Die..."
In that moment, his thoughts turned to Ren. Ren... live well. For both of us. I'm so sorry.
The night dragged on, a brief moment in an endless abyss.
Two breaths ceased.
One young, one old.
One red, one blue.
L’AVIS DES CRÉATEURS 
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