By The Blood

Whoever is controlling everyone should also not be controlled by it. So, find the next calm person outside the three leaders. He could see the subtle changes in the motions. The shadows of everyone blended and melded as they moved about in cheers. He gritted his teeth tightly. The sensation was growing more intense, like something was trapped within him, wanting to burst out into the world. No! Maintain control. Maintain control.

Just then, in his slightly sharpened but also blurry vision, he spotted a dormant shadow that remained stable despite the swaying and melding of others around it. He looked at the source: a man sat in the left corner of the room, beside the door. He was obscured by movement and the bumping bodies of the men. That's him? Karl focused on the man with simple black hair and slightly yellowish eyes, but he couldn't be sure of the color as it seemed to be shifting between blue and yellow. The man simply crossed his leg, dressed in a red dirtied shirt and black trousers, with a passive look.

He's the one doing it? Karl tightened his fist, although he was somewhat unsure whether that was his own choice or the induced emotions. Again and again. I listen, I do what others say. But I endure that because they control my survival. But... this thug? The person controlling me is doing it because he thinks I'm weak.

"Everything you do is for your survival. If they think you are weak, show them that you are not," he recalled his friend's words.

With that, he delved his fingers into his back, underneath his clothes, taking out the sickle. He sharpened his vision further, seeing clearly the form of the man who was controlling him. The enemy! He raised his hand, drew it back, and launched the sickle.

Bang!

A sound echoed through the air. The sickle pierced through like a bullet. In a world slowed down, it passed the cheering thugs, passed a hand that almost got pierced by it. It moved toward a bottle atop a table but was avoided as a hand reached out and took it. It approached the man, and in a swift moment, plunged itself deep into his chest.

Splurt!

The man coughed up blood, staring confused at the sickle that had suddenly embedded itself deep within his chest. The room froze. The banging sound now reached the ears of everyone present. It was as if the drug moving through the air, igniting their emotions, was suddenly drowned out. They stared blankly at the man who coughed blood. The man gradually lowered his head—dead!

Their eyes moved past the man and to the boy on the opposite end of the throw. They stared at Karl, at him. The moment of silence seemed to be announcing something imminent. Karl subtly placed his fingers on the rifle gun. The gun that was within his clothes, tucked within his trousers.

Just then, a man within the crowd bellowed, "An invigilator!"

The thugs all drew daggers and swords, poised at Karl. They seemed to not care that he was a child. If he was an invigilator, then they had to take him out before he revealed their plans to the ministry.

Don’t they notice I don’t even have a monocle? And I also helped them! However, he knew this lot likely wouldn’t wait for him to explain.

One of the thugs suddenly lunged at him, brandishing a smooth-edged sword. He was followed by others, some of whom were holding teeth-edged blades.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Without wasting a moment, three of the attackers dropped down. They all had holes leaking blood from their bodies—some in the head, some in the mouth, and another in the stomach. That one was still alive, screaming in pain. Nonetheless, that did the trick as the rest of the gang froze in their place. The young boy was holding a strange weapon that spewed out smoke from a small hole in it. They couldn’t even understand what had happened. There were sounds, and then there were bodies. Was that some kind of mystical sanguine weapon? Like something built by the dwarves or something?

They all shared similar thoughts.

Just then, Karl saw something roll from the front of the room towards him. It was half a fist-sized ball with a netted surface, faint white light spewing out from it. Soul bomb!

Boom!

He recoiled backward as a flash of white light blew out from the soul bomb. It caused a small wave that smashed him against the right wall of the room. He felt his back pound on the stone surface. He grimaced, but the pain was not too much. His vision was slightly blurred, but it soon cleared enough to see some of the thugs on the ground, on broken pieces of chairs and tables. Some screamed in pain as certain stray wood impaled their bodies, while others clenched tightly from the force that pushed them to the wall. Some even fell atop others.

There was a charred spot before him that expanded out like a blossoming flower, its tails connecting to the walls. Knowing that was a soul bomb, he realized two possible scenarios. It was either Heinrich or Harrison. But since Harrison was likely the worst choice, Karl believed that was the most probable one.

A figure walked down from the stage. He was dressed in a robe stained with red dust. With yellow hair and blue eyes, he seemed somewhat handsome. And in his hands were a couple of finger-sized balls, ones he twirled around like toys. Didn’t Annette say that the Order couldn’t make many soul bombs? But he’s playing with them!

Karl groaned, the sound heavy as he pushed himself upright, every movement made a struggle. His hand clutched his chest, as if trying to calm a frantic heartbeat. Each breath was labored, forced.

Harrison approached with deliberate steps, his gaze sharp and stern. "Who sent you?" he asked coldly, casually tossing the metallic balls into the air. Their polished surfaces caught the dim light before he caught them again.

Karl remained silent, his fingers still wrapped around the rifle. A quick glance confirmed his fear—it was empty. No bullets left to use. Worse, his sickle was out of reach, making the situation seem hopeless at best. His eyes flicked to the side, where Jean leaned against a table, one knee bent, her forehead slick with sweat. But for a brief moment, he saw something else—snake-like protrusions seemed to slither beneath her skin. He frowned but quickly looked away.

She’s a sanguine, he reminded himself, a person who had evolved into strange creatures, so it made sense for her to also have some strangness. Yet, this strangeness sparked an idea in his mind.

"You don’t want to talk?" Harrison's voice cut through his thoughts. He tilted his head, still playing with the balls. Then he raised his hand, and a fireball ignited in his palm, spinning lazily like a vortex, casting an orange-red glow. "Will you answer now?" he leaned closer, the flames dancing dangerously close to Karl's face.

But something was off. Karl’s eyes narrowed. Despite the fire’s closeness, there was no heat, no sound—just a cold, silent light. An illusion! His mind raced, recalling the earlier battle, and he realized this must be one of the Newman Branch’s tricks.

This could work!

With a sudden burst of energy, Karl clenched his fist and lashed out. The movement was swift, almost too quick to see. Harrison’s eyes widened in surprise, but the blow didn’t connect. Instead, he was sent hurtling backward, but not from karl's punch. He landed feet-first against the far wall. He stood there, as if gravity itself had reversed, watching Karl with a cold, steady glare.

Karl observed the scene—the man standing on the wall as if it were the ground. The latching power. He had anticipated missing the punch. His mind quickly shifted to Jean, who now stared at him with an unreadable expression. Would she act? Should I trust her to act? Jean, a member of the Pleasure Pavilion, was an unknown—a potential ally or a problem. He couldn’t be sure which. But....

The thugs around them, sensing the shift in the atmosphere, backed away cautiously. They knew better than to interfere in a battle between sanguines. What were they, after all, but fodder?

Karl’s gaze flitted to the sickle embedded in a nearby corpse, then to his empty rifle, before returning to Harrison. He didn’t react to the rifle, Karl thought. He must know it’s useless. His mind raced through possibilities. Was this knowledge something all members of his order shared? They know about the gun?

Pew!

A green ray of light sliced through the air. Karl dropped to the ground, the beam whizzing past and slamming into the wall behind him. He rolled, grabbing the broken leg of a stool, and hurled it with all the augmented strength he could muster. But Harrison was too fast, latching onto the ceiling, his cold eyes never leaving Karl. "Who sent you?" he demanded again, his voice a low growl.

He’s stalling. Why isn’t he attacking directly? A thought struck Karl—He doesn’t want to drag this out. Neither did he. Who knew when an invigilator might arrive? Or worse, if the gang leaders who had been sitting on the sidelines would decide to intervene. He needed to end this quickly.

He crouched low, his thighs coiled like springs, then launched himself upward. His speed was swift, closing the distance between him and Harrison in the blink of an eye. Harrison’s expression shifted from surprise to determination. He’s not afraid!

The balls in Harrison’s hand glinted as he tossed them toward Karl. A flash of white light filled the room.

Boom!

Karl was thrown back, his body slamming into the stone floor, shards of rock scattering around him. Pain shot through his spine, but he forced himself to move, flipping to his feet in one fluid motion. Strange how he knew how to do that. Nonetheless, he reached into his pocket and pulled out the bone claw. He had come prepared, knowing full well he might need to defend himself in this den of thugs.

With a casual toss, he sent the claw flying toward Jean.

Startled, Jean reflexively caught it, her eyes widening in surprise. Why did he give this to me? she wondered. Does he expect me to help him? Or has he just implicated me? Her gaze shifted to Harrison, who hung from the ceiling like some monstrous bat. If I fight him now, he’ll think we’re in league together. But what choice do I have?

Pew!

Another bolt of green light streaked toward her. Jean grabbed a table, lifting it as a shield. The light struck, causing the table to float. She stared at it for a moment before whispering, "Susan." A tingling sensation quickly spread through her, as if numerous insects were crawling atop her skin. She felt a strange itch in the back of her head—or was it her mind? The itch seemed to carry information, threading its way through her thoughts. Plague!

Suddenly, the room was filled with the sound of coughing. One by one, the thugs began to hack and choke, their faces contorting in pain. Some doubled over, blood splattering from their mouths, while others desperately gulped down alcohol, hoping to stave off the sudden affliction. Panic spread as the first body hit the ground, blood pooling from its mouth. The rest scrambled for the exit, their fear overwhelming any other sense.

Harrison’s brows furrowed. He reached for more of his metallic balls, ready to hurl them at Jean, but he froze when a single word rang out—"Hanek!"

The word echoed through the room, sharp yet soft. Harrison’s body stiffened, his eyes widening in terror as he realized he couldn’t move. He trembled, every muscle straining against an invisible force. He tried to turn his head, but even that simple act seemed impossible.

Why does he keep trying to look at the gang leaders? Karl realized, his gaze shifting to the men who had remained strangely still throughout the chaos. They sat there, their eyes passive, watching everything unfold. Something’s wrong. They should be helping him, but they’re not.

Although he had the thought, he didn’t have time to ponder the implications. Jean had bought him moments, and he needed to act before the situation spiraled further out of control. Whatever she did, it’s affecting everyone except me, Karl realized. Maybe because of my durability. Even back on the farm, I never got sick.

Nonetheless, the current situation meant his plan had worked. He needed someone other than Frederick and Anette to help him, and given the circumstances, he made do with what he had. Adapt to survive, he reminded himself.