Survival (2)

I stare into the void, the warmth of the lights flickering around me. The sound of footsteps grows fainter, as if their weight were being lifted with each passing moment. Eriksson, please save me. But I remain silent. He does not know who I am. My gaze lingers on the decayed, hollow eyes of the corpse beside me. The footsteps grow nearer. My body is still numb; I tremble, yet I remain motionless. I must stay calm. I must meet Eriksson face to face, in a moment where I can speak to him, convince him. Convince him that I am not just a mere red-blood, but an agent of the Creator God—a servant like Eriksson himself.

I close my eyes, allowing the darkness to settle over me. The orange and red tones of flames dance across my eyelids, like a fiery waltz in the night. But I remain unmoving. No sound escapes my lips, no flinch betrays my nerves. The weight of bodies presses against me, their lifeless forms thudding one after another. I hear the faint rustle of hands sifting through the pile. A fleeting moment of dread tempts me to open my eyes. Just for a second. Just to glimpse Eriksson.

When I do, I catch sight of his tall frame retreating into the distance, disappearing into the crimson haze of the night. His figure stands out, even among the shadows—commanding and unyielding. The red moonlight shines down on my face, casting the world around me in shades of black and scarlet. My heart sinks as I spot another figure beside him, shorter by a head, walking alongside him like a shadow.

Damn it, I curse inwardly, but not a sound passes my lips.

I glance for too long. Too long. Two other men notice me. Their cold, weathered gazes fall on my seemingly lifeless form. My chest tightens as I fight the instinct to blink or react. Sweat runs down my temple like ice. They are broad-shouldered and rugged, with dark beards and weathered skin that shimmers faintly blue under the moonlight. One of them has a cigar between his teeth, its embers glowing faintly.

"Willi," the man with the cigar grumbles, his voice gravelly, "am I losing it, or did that red pig just look at us?"

Willi turns to face me. My hollow gaze remains fixed, unyielding. I stare blankly at the cigar, letting it anchor my sight. Willi takes the cigar from his mouth, examining me with a mocking smirk.

"You're losing it, man. Maybe those old eyes of yours are finally failing. By the gods, look at your gray hair," he scoffs, his laughter echoing in the stillness. Yet, his sharp gaze flickers back to me. "Look at him. The maggots are already feasting on his face."

I feel their gazes drilling into me, their words a thin veil over their suspicions. My heart thunders in my chest, but I keep my expression cold, lifeless. The maggots crawling across my face feel like fire, writhing on my skin. One slithers near my eye. I don't blink. I can't blink. My vision blurs slightly as the weight of corpses shifts again, and more bodies roll down the pile, pressing against me like a slow avalanche.

I can barely see Eriksson and the other man disappearing into the mist, their silhouettes shrinking as they move farther from the ship. My teeth bite into my tongue as another body presses against mine, the stench of decay filling my nostrils. I let the weight drag me. Shift me. I push slightly against the pressure, forcing myself to slide down with the rest of the dead, letting the flow of lifeless forms carry me deeper into the pile.

Cold seeps into my skin, chilling me to the bone. My body convulses slightly, but I clamp my jaw shut. I feel my arms and legs faintly—just for a fleeting moment—as if my blood is forcing itself through my veins. The sensation is faint but unmistakable. My limbs aren't dead. Not yet. Something in my blood—divine, otherworldly—keeps me tethered to life. I hold on to that thought, clutching it like a lifeline as the weight of hundreds of bodies settles above me.

The suffocating darkness closes in, leaving only a narrow slit of air. It's enough. I can survive.

But why?

Why am I here? Why was I on that ship? Why are we red-blooded treated as nothing more than meat, discarded like refuse for the brown-bloods to consume? My thoughts spiral, yet I remain still. I am nothing. A shadow in the night. I stare into the void, into the infinite emptiness, and see nothing. Absolute Nothing.

…

Eriksson walked beside Markus, whose long, bulbous nose glowed faintly red under the moonlight. The ship's journey had taken just over a week, and before that, they had waited nearly three to board. Eriksson's emerald-green eyes glanced up at the red moon hanging high above, its crimson light bathing the world in an eerie glow. He exhaled deeply, savoring the moment.

'Max... one of your murderers is here. And he will pay. I swear it.'

His expression darkened, his gaze hardening as he looked forward once more. He and Markus stepped off the ship, leaving the bodies to be loaded onto transports by the workers. Neither man spared the corpses another glance.

"If you're lying to me," Eriksson said coldly, his voice cutting through the silence like a blade, "you'll have a sword between your eyes."

Markus flinched, nearly tripping over his own feet as Eriksson adjusted his long coat, revealing short, dagger-like blades strapped to his belt. They gleamed under the moonlight, a warning as sharp as their edges.

"N-no, Your Excellency," Markus stammered, his hands wringing nervously. His voice quivered, his words slipping out in a half-whisper.

Eriksson didn't respond. He simply walked on, his pace steady and deliberate. The red mist swallowed them as they moved farther from the ship, its thick veil obscuring everything beyond a dozen meters. The crimson light of the moon seeped through the haze, staining the landscape in shades of blood. The ocean behind them shimmered darkly, its waves reflecting the faint red glow. Ahead, mountains loomed, their peaks blurred and distorted by the mist.