Bloodmarked

The air smelled of burning incense and metal. The streets of the capital pulsed with life, but the crowds parted easily for the Marked. Their glowing veins shimmered under the pale sky, their crimson insignias branded onto their forearms like sacred scars. The symbols of fate, of divinity. The proof that they were chosen.

He had no Mark.Caius pulled his hood lower, keeping his head down as he wove through the streets. He had lived his entire life in the shadow of the Marked, a ghost in a city that refused to acknowledge his kind. The Unmarked were less than citizens. They were accidents. He had been told that since childhood—by teachers, priests, the Marked themselves. If he had been born worthy, the gods would have blessed him with the Mark. Instead, he was nothing.

The great square ahead was packed with onlookers. Another Marking Ceremony. A young recruit knelt before the High Priest, his arms trembling as he lifted them in offering. The priest placed his hands over the boy's flesh, and the crowd hushed. A breathless moment passed. Then, the magic took hold.

The Mark bloomed across the recruit's skin, glowing red-hot as it seared itself into his flesh. His scream split the air, but it wasn't pain—it was transformation. The crowd roared in approval. Another warrior ascended. Another chosen son of fate.

Caius clenched his fists and turned away.He knew where he belonged. The Lower Wards—where the Unmarked lived in crumbling tenements, their futures predetermined as servants, laborers, expendable bodies. The Marked didn't have to work unless they chose to; their futures were crafted for them. The Unmarked, however, fought for scraps, surviving on rationed food while their Marked overlords dined on enhanced proteins and divine nectar that further strengthened their blood.

Some Unmarked accepted their fate. They lived in the shadows, grateful for even the chance to exist. Others, like him, burned with something dangerous. Refusal.

He refused to believe he was lesser. He refused to let the gods decide his fate. And in two days, he would have one chance to prove them all wrong.Once a year, the Unmarked were given a single opportunity: The Project. A brutal competition, a public spectacle where Unmarked fought for the ultimate prize—the chance to earn a Bloodmark and join the planetary defense force known as the World Safe Keepers.

Most Unmarked never survived the trials. The Project was a death sentence, a game for the Marked to watch as the desperate tore each other apart. Only one Unmarked had ever won in the last decade.

But one was enough.

And he would be the second.That night, he entered the underground fight pits hidden beneath the old factories. The Marked rarely came here—it was a place of filth, desperation, and violence. The Unmarked wagered their lives for ration tokens and broken glory.

He stepped into the ring. His opponent was a Marked recruit—young, cocky, eager to break an Unmarked for fun. The Marked always won. Their enhanced strength, speed, and resilience were undeniable. But he had studied them, watched the way they moved, the way they relied on power instead of strategy.

The fight was savage. Every punch reminded him that he was born lesser. But the Marked had never been forced to fight for survival. The Marked had never been hungry. The Marked had never been him.

When the fight ended, he was still standing. The Marked soldier was not. The crowd murmured, some shocked, others angry. The Unmarked were never supposed to win. But he didn't care. He hadn't come for their approval.

He wiped the blood from his knuckles and turned to leave—until a shadow blocked his path.A figure in black stood before him, face hidden by a steel mask. A recruiter. A soldier of the Project.

"You fight well for a dead man," the voice murmured. "Tell me, do you want to die in the streets, or die for something greater?"

He didn't hesitate.

"I want to win."

The recruiter chuckled. "Then let's see if you can."

The doors to the Project had opened.

And there was no turning back.