FORCED TO BLOOD

2 Days Ago...

On a perfectly bright day in the outskirts of Aldevia, the sun cast its golden rays across the tranquil landscape, painting the scene in hues of vibrant warmth. A gentle breeze danced through the air, carrying with it the sweet scent of blooming flowers and freshly tilled earth.

Amidst this idyllic setting, a man could be seen bustling about his homestead, his tall and sturdy frame casting a shadow over the lush greenery that surrounded him. Standing at least six feet tall, he possessed a commanding presence that seemed to harmonize with the natural beauty of his surroundings.

With jet-black hair that gleamed in the sunlight, cascading in unruly waves around his shoulders, and brown eyes that sparkled with vitality, he moved with a sense of purpose and determination. A well-maintained goatee beard adorned his chin, adding a touch of rugged charm to his rugged features.

Dressed in a crisp white shirt that was unbuttoned at the first three buttons, allowing the fabric to flutter in the breeze, he exuded an air of casual confidence. His attire was completed by a circular farmer's hat perched atop his head, shielding his face from the sun's intense rays while adding a rustic charm to his appearance.

As he went about his tasks, moving crates of freshly harvested vegetables with practiced ease, a contented smile played upon his lips. There was a sense of satisfaction in the rhythm of his movements, a deep connection to the land that spoke volumes about his bond with nature.

In this tranquil oasis, far removed from the hustle and bustle of city life, the man found solace and peace in the simple joys of rural living. And as the day stretched out before him, bathed in the golden light of the sun, he embraced each moment with gratitude and reverence, knowing that he was exactly where he was meant to be.

As a carriage pulled up in front of his house, the farmer paused in his work, squinting against the sunlight as he watched the scene unfold before him. Two men emerged from the carriage, their crisp white attire contrasting sharply with the rustic backdrop of the countryside. They were followed by two more men, one of whom caught the farmer's attention—a tall figure standing at 6'2", adorned in a fedora hat and white gloves, with dark-brown hair and a matching beard.

"Ahh... Mr. Hezborn, is it?" the man in the fedora hat began, his tone smooth and calculated.

The farmer, Mr. Hezborn, regarded the strangers with a hint of suspicion, his brow furrowing slightly. "Yes, who's asking?" he replied cautiously, removing his farmer's hat and wiping the sweat from his brow.

"We are from the Department of Health of Aldevia," the man explained, his voice tinged with authority. "The royals have sent us to recruit volunteers for the new cure to Spirecore. We kindly ask you to oblige and come with us for testing."

Mr. Hezborn hesitated, his gaze flickering between the strangers and the unfinished tasks awaiting him. "Sorry, but I have to get back to my matters," he said firmly, taking a step back. "Go look for someone else. I'm not interested."

Before he could turn away, however, he was caught off guard as the two men behind him lunged forward, pinning him to the ground with surprising strength. A sharp blow to the back of his neck left him reeling, the world spinning as darkness crept in at the edges of his vision. With a muffled cry of protest, he slumped into unconsciousness, the sounds of struggle fading into silence.

Armon's eyes narrowed as he surveyed the surroundings, ensuring that there were no prying eyes witnessing their clandestine operation. With a swift motion, he adjusted his white fedora hat, casting a shadow over his features as he maintained an air of secrecy.

"Bring out the Mana detector," Armon commanded, his voice low and authoritative. His comrade complied, producing a sleek device designed to measure the levels of mana within an individual's body or the surrounding environment.

"He's a farmer, so he's quite perfect for this," Armon remarked, his gaze shifting to Mr. Hezborn's unconscious form. "Healthy, perfect height, and a well-defined muscular build."

As the mana detector hummed to life, Armon's comrade murmured under his breath, "Hezborn here is at the Vermillion stage," the words barely audible but carrying a weight of significance.

"Tha's perfect... absolutely magnificent. He'll do," Armon declared with a hint of satisfaction, his eyes gleaming with determination. Turning to his comrades, he gestured toward the carriage waiting nearby. "Take him to the carriage. We have what we need."

With precise efficiency, the other two men hoisted Mr. Hezborn's limp body and carried him toward the waiting carriage, their movements swift and practiced. Armon lingered for a moment longer, ensuring that their operation remained undetected before joining his comrades and disappearing into the carriage, the door closing behind them with a soft click.

As the scene transitions to a sketchy part of Aldevia under the cover of night, the ambiance changes drastically. The air is thick with the scent of oil and rust, and the sound of clanking pipes and roaring engines fills the space. Metal structures loom overhead, casting eerie shadows across the dimly lit alleyways.

Inside one of the dilapidated buildings tucked away in this industrial area, four men are seen dragging a body through the narrow corridors. The metal door behind them clangs shut with finality, multiple locks clicking into place to secure their clandestine activities.

Descending a rickety staircase illuminated by a solitary bulb covered in dust, the men navigate their way deeper into the bowels of the building. The light flickers ominously, casting elongated shadows that dance along the walls.

"Mr. Armon, where should we put the body?" one of the men inquires, his voice echoing in the cavernous space.

Armon, the man with the fedora hat, steps forward with purpose, his expression unreadable in the dim light. "Put our good friend Hezborn in the last isolated area behind the cells," he commands, his tone authoritative yet tinged with a hint of menace.

With silent efficiency, the men comply, maneuvering the body of Mr. Hezborn to a secluded corner hidden from prying eyes. The air grows heavier with anticipation as they carry out their grim task, the weight of their actions hanging palpably in the air.

As the cacophony of clanking noises and hissing steam pipes echoed through the dimly lit chamber, Hezborn gradually regained consciousness. His head throbbed with a relentless ache, the memory of his abrupt loss of consciousness flooding back to him. With a start, he realized that he was confined within a cage, surrounded by the oppressive darkness of his grim prison.

Summoning his courage, Hezborn's voice cut through the shadows like a blade. "Hey!" he bellowed, his indignation palpable. "This is truly unacceptable! Wait till the Royal Council hears of this!"

In response to his outburst, the dark recesses of the chamber were illuminated by the flickering glow of multiple bulbs. What Hezborn beheld left him utterly dumbfounded. Within the confines of the neighboring cells lay lifeless bodies, some stained with blood while others appeared drained of vitality, their features twisted in silent agony.

Before long, the comrade of Armon, the man responsible for Hezborn's captivity, approached the cell with an air of sinister calm. "Ah, Mr. Hezborn, awake I see," he remarked, his voice dripping with malice.

"What have you done to these people?" Hezborn demanded, his voice trembling with a mixture of fear and fury. He knew all too well the dire consequences of making a false move in this perilous situation.

"Oh, them?" the man replied with chilling nonchalance. "They simply failed to meet our expectations."

With a sinister flourish, the man produced a glass container, within which a small, insect-like creature writhed. Its crimson body, adorned with antlers and three pairs of legs, seemed to pulse with malevolent energy. Opening the container, the man allowed the creature to emerge, its movements sinuous and deliberate.

"I hope you'll fare better, Mr. Hezborn," the man intoned ominously.

In an instant, the red insect leaped from the container, its trajectory aimed directly at Hezborn's face. With a sickening lurch, it forced its way into his mouth, eliciting a strangled cry of pain from Hezborn as he choked on his own blood. Groaning in agony, he felt his consciousness slipping away, swallowed by the darkness of the nightmarish realm in which he found himself.

///NEXT CHAPTER: FREEZING POINT ///

Edited by: JJ