By The Blood

The conversation continued for a while, and Karl eventually gained a basic understanding of evolution. However, Fredrick mentioned that knowledge about levels above Desolation was either beyond his reach or something he wasn’t allowed to share. Karl also learned about the concept of the 19 standard branches, which were commonly used and publicly known. Then there were hidden branches, used by secret factions, noble families, or even the Ministry. Finally, there were the incomplete branches—branches that were either still being developed or had been lost over time. Because of their nature, some components within these incomplete branches were more potent than normal, reflecting the strength of the creatures or materials involved.

Fredrick also explained that a typical branch doesn’t include creatures above the Special class, and the higher a creature’s class, the shorter the branch. Branches with 14 evolutions, for example, likely contained creatures or materials below the Special class. When fused, these creatures would form the ultimate evolution, which is what the branch was named after.

Fredrick provided one example: the Blood Angel branch. He further explained that physical components alter the physical state of a person unless sacrificed to the Hidden Voice. As a result, powerful or even regular Sanguines might develop unusual physical traits. Fredrick's own feminine appearance was one such example.

"As for your last question," Fredrick said, "Yes, you must. As sad as it may be, there’s a lot riding on your shoulders. The beastmen, who are constantly tortured and killed. The many other races suffering because of the First Order and its crusades. Families from the fallen empire who still hope to see you reclaim your legacy. If you refuse, their anger could consume them. And like a mother who would never want to see her child lose themselves, they might decide to kill you."

So, if I accept, I might die. But if I refuse, I definitely will die, Karl thought, finding the irony almost laughable. Coincidences and fate seemed to be playing a major role in his life now.

Karl was about to speak when there was a knock on the door.

"Go to the bath. Your clothes are there," Anette said quickly, her previously complicated expression giving way to a calm, almost solemn look.

Who could it be? Karl said nothing, following Fredrick's directions to a door on the left. He slipped out and into the room indicated, somewhat surprised to find a bath waiting for him.

He examined the tiled chamber and metal tub. The water had a faint, pleasant scent—something typical of noble baths, or at least what he imagined noble baths to be like. To the left, on a wooden hanger, a set of clothes was laid out.

For a moment, he stood there, unable to hear any noise from the other room. Odd, especially given his heightened senses. Nevertheless, he stripped off his dirty clothes and lowered himself into the tub.

As the warm, scented water enveloped his body, Karl sighed, muttering to himself, "I don’t want to do this..."

He added inwardly, I’m willing to accept this fate, but I won’t confuse it with free will. In the end, I’d prefer not to do any of it.

The weak had no choice.

"How am I supposed to do any of this?" Karl asked aloud to no one. But if I can, it would certainly help me fulfill my promise of building a utopia and securing whatever freedom might come with it.

After finishing his bath, Karl returned to the room and found only Fredrick there. When he asked, Fredrick explained that Anette had been summoned by her faction. As for why Karl needed to hide, well, it was the capital of the empire, after all.

Now dressed in black trousers and a white coat adorned with golden buttons along the chest, Karl also wore a black cape attached to his collar—designed to protect against the falling red dust. The clothes were comfortable, noble attire meant only for the elite or the wealthiest merchants. Karl couldn’t help but wonder about the price of such garments. I guess this is the perk of being part of an evil faction or a fallen royal family, he thought, glancing at Fredrick.

"How am I supposed to accomplish all this?" Karl asked, turning his attention back to the androgynous figure, waiting for Fredrick's reply.

"I suppose through chaos. Militarily, you stand no chance against the Sovereign... yet. But that’s not your focus right now. First, you need to regain your memories. The more you remember, the stronger you become." Fredrick smiled, pulling out a round object wrapped in white cloth.

He unwrapped it, revealing a dark brown cake that smelled delicious.

"What kind of mother lets her children go hungry?" Fredrick grinned, handing the cake to Karl.

Biting into the dense, richly spiced cake, filled with sweet fruit and liquor flavors, Karl muttered under his breath, Definitely better than bone soup.

"For now, your priority is to find a way to kill Harrison. I’d love to help, but you need the faction’s support—their resources, their teams. Perhaps one day, you’ll have gained enough power to take back what’s yours. Fortunately, you don’t have a time limit. You’ve got forever to achieve it."

_____________

ALTHOUGH THE NORTHERN part of Canen is mostly vast flatlands covered in red dust, the western region is different. Here, the landscape is marked by hills. These hills, when crossed, lead to small villages, and further west lies the majority of the forge cities, whose ash sometimes drifts into Canen. Despite this, the hills around Canen have their own forges, flesh farms, and the occasional keep. Most notably, they are home to the Pleasure Pavilion's headquarters. Though it operates as a faction, the Pleasure Pavilion has ensured that no information about its inner workings ever leaks. While people know of its existence, there is no concrete evidence to support its activities. Because of this, the Pleasure Pavilion maintains a respectable and prosperous public image.

After all, who doesn’t crave pleasure?

The porter pulled the cart uphill, sweat dripping down his bare back, his tightly locked dark hair whipping against him like a cane. But he didn’t pant. Do Maw people even pant? Jean, seated on the tarped cart, mused with a smile. Too bad, a middle-aged man like him would already know the pleasures of life.

As they ascended the hills, they passed various people. There were beastmen and their task enforcers, swinging canes and lashing whips as they herded the workers up to the forge factories. Drunkards stumbled along the road, some missing their footing and tumbling down the hill, likely to bash their heads and die. Women walked too, but with more grace in their steps. Men were dressed in white coats and trousers, or black. The women wore white gowns or short-sleeved silk blouses. Many carried umbrellas to shield themselves from the red dust swirling under the dark sky and from the faint light of the white sun that barely pierced through the gloom.

Other carriages moved along the winding paths down into the city. By the side of the road were fields of grass, scattered with flowers ranging from crystal blossoms to diamond flowers, and even a few pure white roses. The latter had a simple radiance as if the sun had been shaped into a flower. Together, the blooms created a landscape that seemed to glow with a soft white light, though the beauty was dulled by the ever-present red dust and ash.

Even here, the ash mingled with the dust, raining down in black and red. At least the red was familiar. But imagining the forge cities covered in perpetual darkness sent a shiver through Jean. Though she was now a believer in the Mother, she had once been a devotee of the Pure White God and his philosophy of cleanliness.

Finally, she arrived at her destination. Stepping down from the cart, she handed the porter five ments—enough for a small cake. She smiled and strode toward the Pleasure Pavilion. The building was carved into the side of the hill, giving it an imposing yet beautiful appearance. Its smooth, windowless face was interrupted only by a large square gate, through which noble-looking individuals passed. This was, after all, the headquarters—no commoners allowed.

The surroundings, as always, were meticulously kept. Red-faced flowers adorned the grounds, with a few crystal-skinned blooms mingling among them. Jean allowed her crimson hair to cascade down her back as she walked, ensuring that her appearance alone would grant her entrance without question.

Stepping into the grand hall brought back fond memories. She recalled how the faction had once saved her from a nest of spiders, granting her peace and purpose. The thick scent of pleasure mixed with various perfumes filled the air, a heady aroma that could easily ignite passion in anyone who entered. A lesser man would likely find himself overwhelmed just by stepping inside.

The hallway was lined with glass-encased eternal lamps, casting a reddish-orange glow over everything. Nobles mingled in the soft light, while a few vixens, laughing and smiling, escorted a slightly bloated man toward the exit. The headquarters itself was dug deep into the hill, like a broad, high, and long tunnel burrowed into the rock. Chambers lined the sides, and subsidiary corridors branched off from the grand central walkway. Jean felt entirely at ease here, enveloped by the waves of perfume and the intoxicating scent of men. This was where she belonged.

Still, the place had one flaw in her eyes: there were too few virgins. While nobles would often bring their sons here to make them into men, they were, after all, nobles—and Jean had little interest in that.

She raised her right hand in a gesture common in the knight cities, and soon, a "lost" approached her. Dressed in red hooded robes, his back bent, he moved swiftly. The "lost" were men who couldn’t afford the price of pleasure and thus devoted themselves to the Pavilion. At first glance, this might seem fortunate, but those who stayed too long often became little more than sex slaves to the Pavilion’s higher-ranking members. Over time, their desire to leave faded, and they remained as servants, hoping for another taste of high-class pleasure. But that day never came. The public, unaware of their true fate, simply believed the lost to be workers at the Pleasure Pavilion.

The man who approached had pale skin, slim shoulders, and visible bones, yet thanks to potions made from special components, he could move quickly, with the strength of a strongman—though he was dying. Jean didn’t care much. After all, pleasure had its price.

"Yes, vyrelen," he said, using a word that meant “beautiful” in the Maw tongue. For some reason, the language was becoming more popular in the city.

"I’m here to see Mistress Blue," Jean replied. "Is she available?"

_______

Does that mean I’m immortal? That I can’t die or age? Karl wondered. If he were truly immortal, he might be more open to taking on the empire. After all, death was his greatest fear. But he suspected it was more likely that he simply wouldn’t age, meaning survival was still paramount.

After a moment, he said, "I’m going to find Harrison."

"Good," Fredrick replied. "And when night falls, we’ll begin our training."

"Aren’t you worried the empire’s guards might recognize me?" Karl asked, wondering if they had some sort of protection in place.

"No," Fredrick said with a smile. "None of them know what you look like. They’re just hoping to catch us and force us to give you up... but that will never happen, son of the fallen."

Karl nodded, his gaze drifting toward the books on the table. He glanced at Fredrick and asked, "Read me something."