Chapter Text
Come on, come on, come on…
The deafening cheers of the crowd rang throughout the streets. A flurry of punches striking the air with the intent to kill. Shouts stemmed from the edge of the ring formed by the people as the boy hit one of the onlookers. They pushed the brunette back into the ring and moved, narrowly missing the strike of his opponent.
“Saps!”, a yell echoed through the crowd. The white-haired man didn’t miss the way the dagger glinted when it caught the light of the old broken lamps that lit the streets. He moved swiftly, jumping back to create distance between him and the brunette. Saparata’s eyes narrowed, fists clenched and guarding against his face. The two men circled each other, gazed fixed and calculating.
“Leive”, the man seemed to disintegrate into the air leaving nothing but a trace of dust where he stood.
‘Ashen blood’, Saparata thought. Blood was the determinant of whether you lived or knelt in this world. Ashen blood was the weakest of the hierarchy but it wasn’t one to be undermined. If one knew how to use the skill then their opponent would be at their mercy. The Ashen could cloak themselves and nullify blood powers if ingested.
A gust of wind subtly brushed past him and he rushed to lunge to his left, missing the dagger that would have slashed his neck had he stayed in the same spot.
“Didn’t take you for a cheat Ciaran.”, Saps spoke softly. His voice was gentle and clashed with the environment he surrounded himself in. It was almost angelic the way he spoke, drawing in the people with his words.
“Shut your fucking mouth, Saparata. We both know that fairness gets us all killed.” Ciaran spat, materializing in front of him with eyes glinting with murderous intent. The white-haired man smiled before sighing. “Let’s end it here Saparata.” Ciaran dashed forward, dagger in his hand as he wildly slashed in Sap’s direction. Saparata moved backwards dodging every attempt made to swipe at him. The brunette was relentless and Saps could feel himself beginning to tire. With a cry, Ciaran drove the dagger forward.
“SHIT!” Saps hissed in pain, his hand holding onto the dagger, to stop it from piercing his heart. He pushed against the dagger, his wound closing up almost instantaneously. For a second, his blood glowed faintly, then dimmed, the crowd seemed not to notice. Except, Ciaran’s eyes widened at the sight.
He mouthed, ‘No way.’
’This can’t go on’ Saparata pulled the brunette closer to him and maneuvered into a position to disarm him. The dagger fell to the floor with a sharp thud. Ciaran struggled against the strong grip that held him down, trying to reach for the weapon that laid on the floor in front of his eyes.
“I’m sorry, Cier.” Saparata whispered only for him to hear before pulling out the small knife in his boot, driving it into the base of his skull leaving him out on the cold hard concrete of the street. He got up and dusted himself off while walking towards the makeshift payout table haphazardly found at the back. The people cleared a way, hushed whispers and cheers combining into one commotion.
Saparata walks away again.
Ah, shit! Can’t believe I bet on that fuckass.
Holy shit! I just made 30 nuggets of gold!
The air hung heavy as Saparata walked across the cracked pavement. “Sidefall.” He softly spoke, holding out his hand.
“Thanks for the show…Saps.”
Glowing green eyes met gold, Sidefall’s eyes gaunt and sharp, almost manic with glee. He placed the gold nuggets into a small brown cloth pouch, tying it off at the top before dropping it heavily onto the winner’s stretched open hand. Saparata pocketed the coins and stepped back into the street. The place was thick with smoke and sweat, the scent of rust heavy in the air. He could still feel the warmth beneath his ribs. A pulse that didn’t quite feel human.
Saparata walked back towards his home, if one could even call it that. It was just a small shack, enough to house him and his property, which mostly consisted of weapons and clothes in a small pack. He peeled off his shirt and pants, bloodied from the fight and stepped into the small area to shower. The water was ice cold, and would run out every once in a while. He turned the knob, silently thanking the gods for running water. He quickly scrubbed his pale unblemished skin and washed his hair that was damp and sweaty. He closed his eyes, recalling the events that led him at this point in his life.
~
A woman slumped to the floor, seeking what refuge the dark alleyway had to offer. She gasped for air, finding the strength to hold her voice steady. “TurnTapp will take care of you, he’ll teach you everything you need to know to survive in the underground.” Sap’s eyes filled with tears as he grasped his mother’s hands, snot and tears dripping onto the cold hard ground his mother lay on. “What will happen to me?” His mother smiled, she brought her hand up to caress his face softly with all the love and gentleness she could muster. “You’ll make it. You have to. Keep us alive Saps”
He still remembered the smell of iron and smoke. The way life slowly drained out of his mother’s previously bright golden brown eyes. A blade rooted deep into his mother’s chest. Its edges glimmered in red, bathed and imbued with the blood of the royals.
Crimson-Forged.
Blood remembers what the world forgets.
~
A loud thud snapped him out of his daze. His head snapped towards the door, quickly turning the knob of the shower shut and reaching for the towel that hung on the cracked wall of the bathroom.
“Hey Saps.” a bright singsong bubbly voice said, making her presence known. Saparata trailed his gaze upwards to the woman leaning against his wall, decked out in dirtied dark pink boots and a long black tattered shirt. Her hair tied back into a ponytail, clearly rushed.
“Madz.” Saps greeted, nodding his head in her direction.
“What are you here for?” he added. Madz never came to visit lest she had something she needed. “TurnTapp sent me, told me I had to deliver a message to his one and only son” she rolled her eyes, fingers held up and curled repeatedly to the word ‘son’, in a mocking manner. But Saps knew that Mads was only being sarcastic. They both grew up with TurnTapp in the underground after all.
TurnTapp was a father figure to him. Sap’s mother and TurnTapp were close for as long as Saparata could remember, he’d been there to change his diapers and taught him how to survive in the underground. It was mostly grit and sheer will that allowed him to do so, with him pushing Saparata to his limits every training session. He had a long way to go to surpass his mentor honestly, even with the power he currently held.
His mentor was a beast of a man. He was an Oxide, that’s what made him so unbearably terrifying, aside from being the leader of the Covenant, one of the most skilled group of fighters in the underground known to be merciless and monstrous. An Oxide had the power to turn themselves into metal. Their skin turning into a shade of silver that would be an absolute beauty if it wasn’t for its capacity to inflict suffering and pain. Accompanied by the skill to change their limbs into any weapon they so desired, it was an unmatched fight between them and the Ashen that lived in the underground.
Saparata titled his head slightly to the side, curiosity evident in his gold eyes.
“What did he say?”
Madzvie’s face turned grim. “The Blood Dominion is coming to the underground, TurnTapp’s worried that there’ll be chaos. We can’t hide this time around Saps, they’re going to flip this place upside down. It’s been 10 years since they’ve last drawn from every single soul down here.”
His blood froze. He could almost feel it turning as cold as ice
Crimson Royals.
The royal bloodline
In a small voice, he slowly spoke, “…and what of me when they find out I don’t belong?” His face contorted into one of worry. He has already built a life for himself here and he wasn’t about to have it all ripped away from him. Saparata heard TurnTapp’s voice in the back of his mind, low and harsh.
“They say only the blood of the royals could kill them, blades were forged in royal blood. Royal Crimson blood. Only their kind can craft such a thing, and only their kind can make it kill.”
He paused then, bitter. “Cruel joke, isn’t it? pure, unadulterated strength. Only Royal Crimson blood can kill what the world can’t.”
“Fitting, isn’t it? Power so absolute, it leaves nothing standing.”
Saparata could never forget that color. It was the shade of the power and victory that the Crimson blood held against them. The shade of his mother’s blood.
His fists clenched by his sides in anger, remembering the way his mother shielded him from the horrors of the world. Of the consequences of blood. They were driven to kneel in the world by the ruling fist of the Dominion.
Madz's face remained unchanged, looking at her fingers as if they were the most interesting thing in the world. But if one looked closer, you’d see that beneath the facade of indifference, you’d see the slight scrunch of her eyebrows in disdain in the face of the dilemma they were about to face.
~
Blood looked different in the crimson towers that laid on the rich soil of the Aculon Capitol. Never was it spilled onto the land, It was stitched into banners, and polished into pieces of art that spoke of the glory of Crimson Royalty. Tall glass windows caught the golden light of the sun, casting fractured warmth across the marble floors and gilded walls. From here, the world looked clean, bright. Untouched by the rot below.
Beyond the palace stretched the vast reaches of TriColor, the largest state on the continent. Its dominion spanned every kind of land:
The lush plains of the Coalition, Aurics
The war-forged plains of Westhelm, Vermillion
And the radiant blood of Aculon itself.
The Crimson Royal blood ruled TriColor with an iron fist, under the watchful eye of Archon Elaneulo. Instilled in the hearts and minds of every Crimson child were the doctrines of the Dominion. It thrived on three core principles.
Power was inherited.
Purity is law.
Mercy corroded empires.
No Crimson royalty embodied these like Fluixon. Crown Heir of Aculon and the Archon’s only son forged from pure blooded lineage. To the heir, discipline was his only religion. Flux believed in the hierarchy as one believes in the inevitability of dawn, it was absolute. It was necessary. His blood burned bright, a living testament to the strength of pure-blooded Crimson lineage.
At his side stood Cynikka, his sister. Clothed in the finest fabric of silk and silence. Her presence cold, eyes calculating. If Fluixon was the blade, Cynikka was its mind. She saw what even the Archon Elanuelo could not. Her sharp tongue commanded obedience from her subjects. They were two halves of a legacy. The heirs of the Crimson Royalty, carefully sculpted by Elanuelo. The epitome of conquest and control.
They stood before the Archon, eyes glued to the carpeted floor. The Archon had suddenly summoned them with no warning.
Elanuelo fixed his gaze upon his two children. His crimson cape flowing like blood, draped across his throne. His gaze lingered a tad bit longer on his son, Fluixon. His weapon. His Heir.
“For years,” the Archon intoned, “the Crimson has been the blade of cleansing. Mercy was never grafted into our veins. The impure will be root-pulled from this soil and buried where no light can find them.” Elanuelo slowly rose to his feet, his footsteps heavy. Almost as if the ground was shaking beneath his feet. His footsteps drew closer, echoing across the room.
“The time has come to cleanse them again.” He declared, a deep growl accompanying his words. “To remind TriColor what flows through our veins. We are born from the heart of war. Pure power, pure rage, and pure control.”
He stopped before his son, the air between them seemed to shift into something darker, ominous, and heavy. Tension hung in the air — Fluixon could feel the expectation of his father though the lack of eye contact. The burden of his lineage. The burden of power.
“Rise son,” Fluixon slowly raised his head, his amethyst eyes meeting that of his father. His dark onyx eyes that gazed upon him were piercing.
It was suffocating.
The silence seemed to stretch between them, and for a moment it seemed like Flux’s heart stopped.
Elanuelo’s next words fell to a whisper, the kind that carried sharper than any shout.
“You will lead the next purge.”
Fluixon’s eyes widened.
“Do this and you will not only be my son…but my legacy.” Elanuelo’s voice was clear, and it echoed throughout the entire chamber. The words struck heavier than any command. The chamber seemed to pulse with the weight of them. The guards lining the walls stiffened, their faces stoic yet uneasy under the Archon’s presence. Even his council, hardened men who’d seen empires burn seemed to falter in their composure. Elanuelo’s gaze lingered on his son, assessing, dissecting. “Make them remember why the Crimson are feared,” he murmured, almost reverently. “Let the soil drink their blood until it forgets their names.”
Fluixon’s breath hitched. “As you command, father.”
A flicker of pride, or perhaps something darker crossed the Archon’s expression before it vanished behind his mask of command. He turned on his heel, the long folds of his crimson cloak dragging across the marbled floor like a slow bleed.
“Cynikka,” he called, voice sharp enough to still the air.
His daughter stepped forward, her poise flawless, head bowed but eyes unwavering.
“You will watch your brother,” Elanuelo said, each word deliberate, heavy. “The fire in his veins burns too bright, and I have seen what comes of untempered light. Should he falter…” He paused, his gaze sliding toward her. It unsettled her seeing that look from her own father, not one of a loving father but that of a ruler ensuring obedience.
“…you will do what must be done.”
Cynikka’s throat tightened, though her expression did not betray her. “Yes, Archon.”
He sank back into his throne, the crimson metal groaning under his weight. One leg crossed over the other with measured ease as he rested his elbow on the armrest, fingers brushing against his temple, a picture of composed dominance and power.
“Good. The Crimson cannot afford weakness. Not from its own heir.”
“You are both dismissed.” he said, voice calm yet carrying the weight of a decree.
Neither Flux nor Cynikka dared to move until his gaze flicked toward them, a silent command sharper than any blade. They bowed in unison, before turning to exit. The heavy doors closed behind them with a thud that resonated throughout the chamber. Leaving the Archon alone with his second in command, the Hand of Archon, Ender.
“Ender.” Elanuelo calmly spoke, his voice carrying the weight of command. The Hand stepped out from the shadows, his face illuminated by the rays of sunlight. “The preparations for the Purge are underway. The information has reached the underground, and I have reason to believe they will evacuate and cause chaos.”
A low hum escaped from Elanuelo’s throat, something between amusement and approval. He leaned back into his throne, his tear-shaped pendant catching the light. “Hm, let them run. No fun in slaughtering your prey when they don’t even put up a fight.”
“My Lord,” Ender began, though hesitant. “What about the Crown Prince? He’s never led the purge before. It may prove to be a testament of his prowess.” Elanuelo’s lips curved, though no warmth reached his eyes.
“That is precisely why he will lead it. Blood untested is blood unworthy.”
He drummed his fingers lightly against the armrest, each tap echoing through the silent chamber. “Fluixon believes power lies in discipline. Let him learn it lies in dominance. And if his own power takes him…”
He paused, gaze distant. As if the thought pleased him.
“…then we will know that his blood burns too weak for my legacy.”
Ender could vividly remember the scene as if it was yesterday. Fluixon at the age of 11 sparring against the head of the Dominion’s militia — Solev.
~
The sound of blades clashed, imbued with the blood of the Crimson-borne. Sparks flew as Fluixon parried the heavy strike of the older man, Solev. He was a veteran soldier, almost three times his size. His strikes were of absolute power, his veins burned slightly of scarlet luminescence, indicating the use of his skill.
Blood Surge
“You hesitate, young prince. In battle, no opponent would spare your soul!” Solev dashed forward, Fluixon barely blocking the hit before he was knocked off his feet. Sweat was dripping from every square inch of his body, yet the head of the militia seemed to not break a sweat. “Are you a Crimson Royal? Or have you turned into a regular Crimson?”
Flux’s jaw tightened, his fists clenched at his sides. This was fucking humiliating for him. He gritted his teeth and stood, shifting his feet to drive his blade forward. Solev blocked with practiced ease. “Boy, I can read you like a book the way you’ve struck, parried, and blocked from this fight alone.” Flux screamed in frustration, slashing wildly at his mentor before dropping to his knees on the sandy ground.
High above the balcony, the Archon stood. His gaze cold and calculating. Silent. Unmoving. Elanuelo did not falter as he saw his highborne lose the fight.
“Again.” He muttered, his tone commanding yet holding a strange patience, as if waiting for something inevitable.
Fluixon pushed himself up, his breathing ragged, pulse hammering too loud, too fast. The mood seemed to have shifted, taking on a dark tone. It was different now…there was bloodlust in the air Fluixon obeyed, charging forward with all the strength he could muster, strength rippling through every strike. The fight turned cold, cruel, and merciless. The clash sent Flux sprawling on the ground, Solev’s blade nicking his cheek.
“Pathetic, the blood of Crimson must not be running in his veins. A disgrace. ” Fluixon heard his father mumble under his breath.
Fluixon gritted his teeth in disdain, spitting out blood. ‘I refuse to fail my lineage. I refuse to disgrace the Crimson blood!’
Solev grinned, “You bleed like the rest—”
He didn’t finish. A violent hum tore through the air, cutting him off. One look at the crown prince and his eyes widened. Flux’s veins were bright, turning into a shade of golden blinding luminescent scarlet, the sword he held melting in his grasp until it was no longer steel, but living blood morphing into a scythe, hardened by fury.
Gasps echoed throughout the arena.
The soldier’s grin faltered, “Archon! He’s –”
“Let him burn,” Elanuelo said softly.
Flux moved faster than sight could keep up. One heartbeat the soldier stood, the next he was on the ground pinned into the sand with the scythe. It hit his arm, the pain burned and seared throughout his entire body. It was over in seconds. But Flux didn’t seem to stop, a knife materialized into the palm of his hands, moving to deal the final blow. The fire didn’t stop. It consumed reason, his eyes glowing with an otherworldly amethyst light as he slashed at shadows, the heat of his blood scorching the stone beneath him.
“Enough,” Elanuelo’s voice cut through the chaos.
Flux froze, his body trembling, smoke rising from his skin. Perhaps he listened not out of choice, but because something deeper and older had already written the moment. The Crimson bloodline doesn’t choose. It remembers.
The Archon descended the steps, boots echoing through the silence. He stopped before the boy, studying the still-burning veins that glowed like cracks in porcelain.
“Control it,” Elanuelo said. “Or it will consume you. And I will not save you from yourself.”
Flux’s voice came out hoarse, trembling. “Father, I—”
Elanuelo’s hand came down hard on his son’s shoulder. Not in comfort, but in claim. His grip burned like iron through cloth, fingers digging deep enough to bruise.
“Is that all the Crimson fire you can muster?” he hissed, voice low, sharp enough to send his nerves scrambling in fear. “Stand, boy. Show me that the blood I gave you isn’t wasted.”
Fluixon’s muscles trembled beneath the Archon’s hand. Pain seared, breath hitched, but the ember within him flared. The more his father pressed, the hotter the flame clawed to the surface. Elanuelo leaned closer, his breath cold against his ear. “Pain is proof of power. Control it, or be consumed by it.”
When Flux finally collapsed, the Archon released him, his gaze lingering not with pity, but with dark satisfaction. “Good,” he murmured, turning away.
“Let it hurt. Only then will you learn what strength truly costs.”
~