The Abandoned Factory

"Screw… Screw?" Elliot muttered, perplexed. "Damn it, why must I act so quickly?" Taking a deep breath, he tried to gather his thoughts. But time was slipping away. "Lennard, write this on the back of the newspaper with your own blood: I know your past. And be careful — no smudges."

The light flared as the wind whirled through the room. Eriksson's finger started to bleed as he traced the letters, deep in focus. I know your past. The words held Eriksson captive for several seconds, his gaze locked, unwavering. "Fine… what do you want?" His voice was steady, his posture as still as a candle.

Elliot exhaled, his eyes determined, the corner of his mouth curving into a slight smile. Good, very good, he thought. His past — that's what binds him. Yet, he felt a knot of tension in his stomach. Let's hope I haven't struck too deep a nerve… "Lennard, again with your blood. Write, The better question is, what do you want?"

Once more, Eriksson's blood traced the words on the page, the letters taking shape in a faint, green glow. After reading it, Eriksson's eyes stayed fixed on the message, his expression tense. But then he spoke, low and certain, "Revenge. I want revenge."

Revenge, Elliot thought. The very thing he needs, though I know what it'll cost him in the end... With a sigh and a nod, Elliot pressed forward. "Lennard, write one more time on the lower part of the page, without smearing. Revenge? It'll come to you, but all in due time."

A green glow and a cold draft filled the room as Eriksson completed the line. He nodded once, satisfied. "Fine." Elliot returned the nod, satisfied as well. Scratching his brow, he decided to close their interaction. "Lennard, throw the newspaper in the toilet and flush it away."

The page dissolved, swirling down as Eriksson followed Elliot's instructions, his gaze fixed on the fading whirlpool. Elliot's vision went black, and he felt a lurch, as if he might faint.

…

On Fring Street 95, at the Blue Sharks' hideout, the day of False Gods.

Elliot awoke, sprawled over his desk, his face smeared with drool, a heavy tome lying under his cheek. The thick book cover was damp, bearing a faint mark of his sleep. He blinked, taking in his surroundings: the room, shrouded in dimness, and his coat slipping off his shoulders. Outside, the sky was still dark, with the golden moon drifting slowly westward.

A sudden chill gripped his chest. What time is it? He glanced at the ritual magic textbook, now slightly damp. Damn it all, I fell asleep! His face twisted as he stumbled to his feet, searching frantically. Where's the clock?

He scoured the hallway, his office, and the nearby room, checking every wall. Finally, in the entry room, amidst tables and cabinets arranged like a bureaucratic maze, he spotted the clock. It was somewhat oval, but mostly round, with sixteen Roman numerals displayed, from 1 to 16, and no number at the zero mark. Tiny lines marked the hours, twice as many between 16 and 0. But the crucial thing was the long hand, pointing to 1:30.

1:30…? His panic surged. Damn, I need to get back before Edwin or Samantha notices I've been gone.

At first, he walked, but within seconds, he was running through the narrow, shadowed streets. The streets were empty, save for a few solitary figures. Elliot's breath grew ragged as he turned down a familiar intersection

Thud!

He collided with a figure. A tall man in a wide, long, dark cloak stood before him, nearly hidden in the shadows. A lengthened hat covered his brow, and tufts of greyish-white hair peeked out from under its brim, reaching down to his ears.

"Ahh!" The old man groaned, collapsing to the ground, clutching his back and hip as he winced.

Of all things, Elliot thought with an inward groan. Exactly what I needed… He quickly bowed and extended his hand to the man, his breaths heavy, arm outstretched. The man hesitated before taking his hand. Even with Elliot's support, he needed his other hand to steady himself as he rose.

"Are you all right? I'm terribly sorry for that," Elliot said, pasting on a contrite smile.

The old man, still rubbing his lower back, cleared his throat with a raspy cough but nodded. "No harm done, thank you." He offered a brief smile, adjusting his hat before limping off with a hand on his back.

Elliot's smile faded, and he hurried onward, rushing toward home, where Edwin and Samantha awaited.

…

Near an Abandoned Factory, Another Deserted Building

In the shadow of the abandoned factory, Bill followed a group of five individuals. A bald man with a blue-tinged complexion led the way. Beside him was a woman with white-blonde hair, her elegant features defying the signs of age. Behind them trailed two men, both identical in appearance, with side-parted black hair and pale faces tinged with blue, each wearing a black mask.

Bill blended in with his dark attire, his eyes alert. Today, he wore a white shirt beneath his coat rather than his usual black. Yet, it wasn't the company around him or even the ominous presence of A9's scarred leader, Gerlinger, that made him feel powerful. It was the brown-blood injection he had taken, the rush of heat it brought, his veins pulsing beneath his skin. His gaze flicked toward the leader at the front, a tall man with scorched, bald patches and blue-mottled scars covering his face — Gerlinger himself, unmistakable even without his signature top hat.

Bill felt a deep thrill, suppressing the urge to let his lips curl into a grin. The blood flowed with a fiery intensity, a sensation close to boiling, yet strangely bearable. It was hot but not searing.

"Is that the infamous A9?" Elton's voice broke the silence, a trace of excitement in his tone, the faintest glimmer of apprehension fading as he watched the scarred man in front. Even from a distance, they radiated an unmistakable aura of authority, despite the low visibility.

"Yes, that's them, kid. Now tell us — where's this place?" Gerlinger's voice was rough, almost a rasp, layered with a deep timbre.

Elton glanced back at his comrades — William, Chris, and Elisia — before speaking, "Just around the corner, about five hundred meters ahead."

Elton gestured with a slightly trembling finger, directing Gerlinger, who was already moving toward the spot where V was rumored to be. Bill stayed silent, following close behind, his eyes trained on the backs of the group.

Elton's expression turned serious as he watched Gerlinger stride ahead, his gaze steady. Behind him, William's blond hair melded into the night shadows, just as Elisia, dressed in more practical footwear, moved with quiet poise beside him. Chris offered a gentle smile, his gaze lingering on Elisia's profile.

The golden moon dipped behind the tall buildings, casting long shadows and leaving only the starlit sky to illuminate their path.

…

Amidst the ten-day journey to Denklin in the Kingdom of Zentria, the train sped through the night, lit only faintly by dim, flickering candles and oil lamps. Most passengers slept through these late hours, for three or four hours, perhaps even six if they were lucky. But not Eriksson. He rarely slept for more than an hour and a half at best. Yet, he never yawned, nor did the darkness unsettle him. He kept his gaze fixed on the man across from him, who clutched a suitcase on his lap with one hand. Though both hands had held it firmly at first, sleep had claimed him, and his other arm now hung limply at his side, peaceful as an infant. For a fleeting moment, Eriksson mused at the sight, then looked away, out into the night at the golden moon sinking slowly over the horizon.

The large, golden moon cast a soft glow across the clouds and distant fields. Eriksson wondered when it would next shine in full green or amber—three, maybe four months from now. He kept his eyes fixed on the fading horizon. The thought that someone on board might have injected themselves with green blood amused him, drawing a quiet, knowing laugh. But this god—this true Gold-Blood—well, he was different. Eriksson admitted he might have been too hasty in his earlier judgment. The deity seemed powerful, possessing a calm that could easily deceive, strong enough to strike him down at any moment without effort. Foolish indeed to have challenged a Gold-Blood—not even in his wildest dreams, not even those where his younger brother, Max, appeared, nor on the Day of the Green Moon in the Jade month. Eriksson continued to gaze at the distant golden glow, barely glancing up when the sleeping man jerked awake, sending his suitcase tumbling to the floor.

…

Outside an abandoned factory, ten figures, including two women, stood concealed by the night. The distant glow of the golden moon did not reach them; a thick fog obscured all visibility. They stood alone before the vast, dilapidated building, surrounded by neglected grounds, shrouded in silence. No one spoke; no one truly knew the plan, yet they all understood one another. They split into two groups, with Elton, Chris, William, and Elisia joined shortly by Bill, forming a team of five each. Their faces were tense, some crouched low, some gripping their revolvers with both hands. Their hair—straight, full, or absent altogether—was concealed in the darkness as they moved, silent as shadows.

Gerlinger's eyes gleamed an icy blue as he muttered an incantation, letting droplets of his blue blood fall to the ground. "You five, stay behind us, keep watch, and provide cover if anything goes wrong," he thought, his mental voice cutting through the silence and resounding in the others' minds. Elton, Chris, William, and Elisia stiffened at the intrusion, though only briefly. "No matter what happens," his voice repeated in their heads, "no one is to leave. No one, unless all but you are dead." His tone echoed sharply, leaving a few to swallow hard, some to tremble, while others remained indifferent. Only Bill smiled, his mouth twitching as he fought a surge of energy heating his body. He steadied himself and took position with his team of Blue Sharks, following close behind the five of A9.

Bill clenched his fists, veins surging blue under his skin as his body pulsed with heat, a grin stretching into the endless, starlit night. Moving in tandem, they slid alongside the rows of men and crates, separated by moments as they crossed through gaps in the shadows. Finally, Gerlinger raised a hand, signaling everyone to halt. The members of A9 froze immediately, while Elton, William, and Chris overshot by a step or two before also halting. Hearts pounding, they listened to the thrumming in their chests, drowning out even the wind's faint whispers and the distant murmurs of voices inside.

A voice shattered the silence, powerful, deep, laden with authority—a voice that filled the factory with its sheer presence. "Gentlemen who serve the faith of true gods! Yours is the blood of blue, the only true blue. Not the blue that once lost its radiance! Not the blue that gave up its wings in pursuit of peace! Not the blue that was taken to forge kingdoms! Nor the blue that once united us only to divide again! Our blood, the blood of divinity itself! Not the false red, nor the green, nor even the golden of pretenders! Ours is the blood of true gods. Praise the Goddess of the Blue Blood! Praise her, that our blood may rise again to its ancient splendor, that we may multiply our own for eternity and reclaim the power that once was ours!"

With that, V's words echoed and Gerlinger's fist shot up, signaling the assault.