Yellow Vision

Elliot absently stroked his slowly regrowing stubble, deep in thought. So, one can absorb only certain types of blood without significant issues. Blue is compatible with red, orange, violet, white, and gold, while the others lead to madness, corruption, and transformation. In contrast, red, green, yellow, brown, and black blood can be mixed. But why are reds different? Anyone can take red blood, and reds can absorb any other type, albeit with a delayed transformation. Why is that? Elliot sighed, rubbing his brow as he continued to gaze into Aston's eyes. The room was dim, the oil lamp struggling to cast light around them. Aston's expression was grim, his fists clenched tightly.

Hank leaned closer and whispered, "Do you know what this means?" Aston nodded, his teeth grinding together, on the verge of breaking something but reconsidering. Hank swallowed hard. "I'm sorry, but you could use the black blood differently—perhaps as a trade for more information or as leverage for protection or other types of blood." He managed a crooked smile, his gaze downward, before falling silent.

Elliot's lips curled into a smirk as a realization struck him. His thoughts turned devious; he could wrest the black blood from him. What if it were a sacrifice or an investment, ensuring that Hank owed him a favor? Elliot continued to ponder, rubbing his hands together.

...

Only half an hour passed, the length of a carriage ride, before Hank said goodbye to Aston. Another hour later, Aston exited as well. Accompanied by the embodiment of God, Elliot followed Aston, who was carrying a suitcase filled with the remaining seven vials of black blood back to his estate. How I miss all the technical gadgets! With a tram, we would have arrived in ten or twenty minutes. A razor would be nice again, although I suppose they have them here too. But most importantly, the mobile phones... Elliot sank deeper into his thoughts, boredom creeping in. But now was the time for Aston to be alone in his bedroom with his suitcase full of black blood.

"Aston, write on a sheet with ink on your desk: An intriguing second life for an aristocrat." A blue light flickered, accompanied by the wind.

Whooosh!

Aston stood up, took his fountain pen, and wrote in orange ink. His posture remained elegant, but his eyes and hands trembled as he looked around wildly, just like the first time. "What do you want?!" Aston's pulse quickened, sweat forming on his palms. Elliot spoke again, wearing a smile. "Aston, write this: I mean no harm. I, as the true God, love my children, my worshippers. But one of my devotees needs something you possess: the black blood."

Another flash of light followed, and the wind whipped through the room. Aston trembled, his voice fluctuating between high and low as he stammered, "You want the black blood? How much?" Elliot rubbed his brow. "Aston, write again: My devotee requires three vials of black blood." It blazed and hissed, Elliot's eyes reddening as his ears rang. Glistening with goosebumps, Aston exclaimed, "I can give you three vials, but where shall I send it? And forgive my curiosity, but which god are you?"

Which god am I? Good question. Elliot ran his fingers through his tousled hair. "Aston, write again: Send the blood to Trüben-City, to the Kingdom of Avelor. In an alley on Fing Street, between house numbers 10 and 12. I am the God who is lost, the tenth among the nine, the deity of creation, of beginnings and ends."

It blazed and hissed again, a sharp pain stabbing deep in Elliot's left eye. Aston, reading the message with widened eyes, appeared more composed. "As you wish, God of Creation. I will send it to your devotee. However, it will likely take 10 to 12 days to arrive." Elliot nodded, rubbing his eye. But suddenly, darkness enveloped him, and his body felt as if it were falling endlessly.

...

On the tenth day of the journey toward the Kingdom of Zentria, under the day of the Violet Dunes, a frail man named Rafael sat before the elegantly seated Eriksson. Rafael clutched his suitcase as if his life depended on it, while Eriksson scratched at the green, dark crust of a wound, something orange seeping from it this time. About five milliliters spilled out, hovering slightly above the newspaper he had recently bought, leaving behind a message written in blood.

Good morning, contractor. It is time for new information. The client who provided me the funds is a certain Hank Dosen. He wants to eliminate a rival faction that has been shooting at him and also steal an artifact that resembles a hand—a mummified one. In any case, the address is as follows: near the Dosen family estate, specifically the building across from it. I will possibly provide you with more information, so you must keep your wound open for another 8 to 10 days. The payment will also come from the client, Hank Dosen, once you complete your mission. Yours sincerely, Reggy.

Eriksson stared at the tiny writing, barely legible, noting the name Hank Dosen and the estate across from his. Fine, but now I will enjoy my journey first. The rising sun bathed the fields in a bluish glow as Eriksson filled his coffee with more sugar than usual, nearly a quarter of the cup.

...

Elliot had been awake for some time, buying provisions for Edwin and Samantha, washing up, and now sat in his small office, the Blue Shark. As everyone around him busied themselves with work and kept their heads down as usual, Elliot continued reading his book on ritual magic. His gaze turned murky; the dark emptiness that had been absent returned, bringing forth his worries and negative feelings. The atmosphere matched the color of the room, dim light filtering in. Cold—everywhere reminded him of Bill. Even in Elliot's workspace, Bill's black cloak hung on the back of his chair.

I'm sorry, Bill. I wish I could undo what has happened, but the world is cruel. What's even crueler is that I've begun to accept it as normal. Bill... it hurts. It truly hurts, yet it feels like the passing of two birds, two ships, or two strangers. It feels as if I'm starting to normalize it. How can that be? It is death. Yet perhaps they are in a better place. Mother, Father, Cham, Bill. I hope you dwell in a better realm—a place where one feels no fear, no remorse, no anger, and no sorrow.

Elliot was entranced, lost in the echoes of old thoughts, his gaze fixed on the pages of his book. It was a tranquil reverie until a sharp pain pierced his consciousness, pulling him back into the present. With a sudden shake of his head, he dragged his finger across the words on the page, but the discomfort only intensified. It felt as if someone were squeezing his eye, though without the full agony of such a sensation—more like a persistent flicking, a reminder that something was amiss.

He rubbed his eye, feeling an unsettling warmth that refused to dissipate, an insistent whisper that warned him of an impending revelation. As he continued to rub, he felt something viscous and warm emerge from beneath his eyelid. It was yellow blood, the strange substance that had camouflaged itself within the crimson. Why? Why yellow? His thoughts spiraled, yet his eyes drooped heavy, and he found himself collapsing forward, his face meeting the half-open pages of the book. More crimson blood spilled forth, entangling itself around the yellow, ensnaring it, only to draw it back into his eye.

…

In a realm of darkness, Elliot awoke with a frantic gasp, the weight of confusion pressing down on him. Where am I? Panic surged as he grasped at his eye, but the warm yellow blood was gone. The emptiness that surrounded him was no longer void; it was filled with a piercing yellow light. The wind howled around him, whipping his hair back as he squinted against the brightness. Even with his eyes shut tight, he was enveloped in blinding yellow. Shielding his face with his hands, he found the light dimming to a more bearable saffron hue, though shadows lurked at the edges of his vision.

"What in the world is happening?" Elliot cursed inwardly, each step he took toward the source of the light met with a fierce gust that pushed him back. The wind grew stronger, and the ground beneath him felt as though it might collapse at any moment.

Suddenly—whoosh!

Elliot's fingers grazed a rough, angular yellow crystal, and in that instant, the light and wind subsided, though he still felt the oppressive weight of their presence.

…

The sky above him blazed a vivid cyan, the sand beneath his feet a striking violet. The sun loomed high, its rays beating down on a child—approximately sixteen years old. The boy's skin was pale, tinged with an unsettling yellow hue. His red eyes contrasted sharply with his almost blonde, light brown hair. What are those sounds? Why is the sky so blindingly bright, and why does it feel both cold and hot at once? Elliot cursed, trapped within the boy's body, experiencing the conflicting sensations of temperature while gazing up at the endless sky.

But he could see through only one eye; his left remained lost in the dark void. Sounds of gunfire echoed in the distance, loud and jarring, while the dull thud of vibrations pulsed through the violet sand beneath him. The bright cyan sky loomed overhead, the sun glaring down upon the child, who lay there in confusion.

Then, a shadow fell over him—a dark silhouette that seemed to stretch for an eternity. Goddamn it! Pain shot through his body, stiffness gripping him as an ache flared in his head. What is happening? Why do I feel both cold and warm? Elliot continued to wonder as the child remained prone on the violet sand, which rippled like waves, shifting under him yet failing to lift him.

The boy, with one red eye staring into the blindingly bright sky, remained paralyzed by fear. Above, birds soared, their massive wings casting shadows over the barren expanse of desert and the grotesque machines of war, colossal constructs engaged in brutal conflict. The boy raised his arm, reaching for the infinite blue, only to be seized by a hand—rough and strong, belonging to a man who approached with hurried strides.

"Boy, what are you doing?" The man's voice was gruff, filled with urgency as he hoisted the boy onto his back. Elliot felt a wave of disorientation wash over him, caught in the boy's fading consciousness. What the hell is going on? Vivid violet sand stretched out endlessly, and towering machines loomed, their orange frames casting monstrous shadows. Was he on a battlefield? In the midst of war? Elliot cursed the situation he found himself in.

Despite feeling relatively unharmed, a grim sense of impending doom clung to him, and he yearned to protect the child's life—especially now that he was intertwined with it. I refuse to die again, especially not against my will! He cursed inwardly, watching through the child's hazy vision as the ground trembled and shadows danced around them.

"Stay awake, boy!" the strong man warned, his voice booming as they made a narrow escape. "Watch your tongue, yellow-belly!" With a powerful leap, he bounded across a vast chasm, landing on the other side with a calculated grace. A barricade loomed ahead, where men with guns peered down at them with wary eyes.

"Outpost 2468! I'm from Outpost 2468! Don't shoot!" The man called, his voice strained yet authoritative, while he maneuvered the boy securely on his back, gripping the rough surface of the ladder with one hand as he climbed. The guards exchanged glances, noting the boy's unsettling yellow skin.

"Show us your tongues!" came the order, and the strong man complied, sweat streaming down his face as the child struggled to do the same. After a tense moment, the guards nodded, lowering their weapons and reaching down to help. But instead of lingering, the man leaped back into the violet desert, and Elliot felt the boy's eyelids grow heavy, as his own consciousness began to fade.

"Stay awake! Get the medics! Now!" The words echoed faintly in his mind as the strong man urged, but instead of the chaotic scene around him, Elliot found himself swept away into distant memories—faded recollections of the boy with bond-like brown hair and red eyes, drifting like whispers in the wind.