Violet Eyes

Darkness enveloped everything. No light, no fire, no smoking cigars—only the crisp sound of snapping fingers.

Snap! Snap!

The echo punctuated the silence, breaking through the void. There was no laughter from V, no monstrous groans from Bill. The sense of touch, sight, and even smell seemed to vanish, leaving only the searing violet glow of a man's eyes piercing the blackness.

Snap!

Another snap shattered the nothingness, and suddenly, the sensation of falling subsided. However, everyone present found themselves immobilized, save for the man in black whose eyes burned with an intense violet flame. "Divine blood is not freely given; it must be earned," he declared, his voice cold as he stared at V's barely visible, wide-eyed face.

V's mouth twitched, his veins standing out as he strained to speak, but his voice was lost to him. The man in black approached, his eyes unwavering, and muttered, "I can't hear you, but don't worry—I'll help with that."

Snap!

The air exploded with the sound of flesh tearing and the squelching of blood. The splattering noise was unmistakable—a torrent of blue blood surged, cascading in waves, as V's head erupted in a gory spectacle. The viscous, vivid blue liquid scattered everywhere, only to rebound away from the man in black, as though repelled by an invisible force.

Snap! Snap! Snap!

The man snapped his fingers 21 times, each click followed by the haunting sound of heads bursting, one after another, in a morbid symphony of destruction. Bodies thudded to the ground in sync with the grisly tempo, collapsing into pools of blood.

Yet, the man in black was not finished. His gaze shifted to Bill, standing frozen a short distance away. Slowly, with unnerving precision, he peeled back Bill's skin, revealing sinews of blue muscle and veins bulging with a network of writhing maggots that seemed to crawl beneath his flesh. The blue-blooded men gasped for air, though their bodies remained paralyzed, terror written across their strained faces.

The man's voice echoed in the desolate factory, resonant and calm. "There's no going back. You should be more cautious with blood you're unfit to wield." He closed his violet eyes for a moment, as if recalling something painful, his expression softening into one of brief sorrow. "But your suffering ends here."

Snap! Snap! Snap!

Three final snaps echoed, each louder than the last. Bill's head exploded on the first, a cascade of blue blood painting the darkness. The second brought a blinding flash of fire and oil—a stored reserve that ignited instantly, flooding the factory with brilliant, unforgiving light. And with the third snap, the man vanished, his silhouette lingering for only a moment, head bowed and expression melancholy, while the blue-blooded onlookers regained control of their bodies.

As they looked down, horror filled their tear-streaked eyes. Their limbs shook, sweat and snot streaming down their faces, while before them lay their captain, their friend—Bill—now a lifeless heap. His headless body sprawled on the ground, blue flesh exposed, and writhing with worms.

…

16 Lynn Street, on the corner by the Monument of the Night Goddess.

Elliot jolted awake, his forehead slick with sweat. Another one of those dreams. Rising slowly, he scanned his surroundings, a question lingering in his mind. No additional visions this time? Could I be limited to one a day, or am I just too weak? Puzzled, he shook his head and stepped outside, stretching as he noticed yet another note tucked in the basket beside him. Someday, he thought with resolve, I'll leave this place for good. He faced forward with a small smile, heading towards the narrow street lined with sharp, towering buildings, the sun rising and casting a blue glow through the dissipating morning fog.

…

Within the humble establishment known as Delicacies in a Bowl, Aston Rosenmahl waited, his skin pallid and dark circles heavy under his eyes. How much longer must I wait for him to show up? His leg tapped restlessly as he glanced at the watch strapped to his wrist: 7:10 a.m. Dressed modestly in a blue suit that complemented his weary gaze, Aston nodded at a waiter who had been keeping an eye on him for several minutes.

"What would you like today, sir?" The waiter in black inquired, arriving with impeccable speed.

Briefly considering, Aston glanced at the empty chair across from him. "Two servings of today's drink and dish."

The waiter replied smoothly, "Two pressed orange juices mixed with Avalorian fruits, and bowls of cured lowland beef in a day-aged broth, as requested." With that, the waiter turned, and at that moment, another man approached the round table for two.

With light brown hair bordering on blond and striking blue eyes, Hank Dosen carried himself with an air of elegance. He wore a dark brown suit draped with an even darker coat, adjusting his tie as he approached. "Apologies for the wait, Aston. I only received the letter on Azure Breeze Day," he explained with a smile as he took his seat, hanging his coat neatly on the chair.

Aston leaned forward, fatigue etched into his face, and cut straight to the point. "So, what exactly are you planning to do with these materials and the blood? And what's this mission of yours? Who are these people you're dealing with, and what do I gain from all this?"

Hank accepted the barrage of questions with a patient smile, fingers entwined as he replied, "The individuals I'm negotiating with form a vast organization—a black-market collective. They're mostly green-blooded, though some have yellow, even brown blood. Among them are a few two- and three-blooded hybrids, with rare instances of four-blooded ones. Those… we couldn't afford even with a year's salary."

Aston swallowed hard, feeling his stomach turn. Holy Mother, what have I gotten myself into? First, I attracted the attention of a deity—a golden-blooded being whose intentions I can't begin to fathom and who could be watching my every move. And now, I'm in indirect contact with a black-market syndicate teeming with green-, yellow-, and brown-blooded individuals. Especially those with blood ratings of three or higher…

Aston struggled to process the weight of the information Hank had just shared. He watched as the waiter brought two drinks in elegant glasses that seemed extravagant for their usual standards. Hank continued, "You apparently need these materials to create artifacts and blood abilities, but as I mentioned, I can't ask any further questions. It's a firm 'no' with those people down there. Anyway, you wanted to know what's in it for you regarding this whole situation. It's quite simple: it's the formula to deal with the madness of blood, so we can become less likely to be possessed."

Aston stared, his eyes widening in disbelief. The dark circles beneath his eyes seemed to fade as a spark of excitement ignited within him. A formula to counteract the possession of blood? If he had that, he could elevate his rank and power! Leaning his fingers against his dark blonde brows, he pondered for a moment before agreeing, "I'll help you. So tell me, what is this formula?"

Hank smiled slightly, scratching the back of his head, and leaned back in his chair. Aston took his first sip of the warm juice, feeling its richness. "As for that, I don't know it precisely myself yet. They told me I would receive the formula if I provided them with the necessary materials. It's sort of a supplement, but worth more than the initial offer."

Aston considered this, acknowledging the inherent risk. He set down his glass, feeling the determination swell within him. It's worth the risk; I need to become stronger—not just for justice, but for my own protection. "I still agree," he replied resolutely.

Hank grinned, revealing one of his dimples. "Thank you, truly. I wouldn't know what to do without you." Despite his fatigue, Aston mirrored Hank's smile, their camaraderie forming a fragile but hopeful bond.

…

An hour later, Elliot was out shopping. He met Gene and then later encountered him again at the bathhouse. However, as Elliot made his way to the detective agency of the Blue Sharks, he found it eerily deserted. No one was present—not Chris, not Elisia, not William, not Elton, nor Captain Bill. The silence enveloped him, reminiscent of the first days when he had started working and knew no one.

Instead of dwelling on the absence of his colleagues, he buried himself in textbooks on ritual magic. It's only the second day. Just the second day, and I've perhaps studied for six to eight hours. Yet my progress feels abnormal. I know I've consumed a significant amount of yellow and, especially, blue blood, but the fluency with which I can read the text—despite it being in German—is impressive. I can derive most words and translate them, or even recite them by heart.

His thoughts drifted. If only I had this blood back in school, I'd be living comfortably underground in a bunker with my brother, stocked with supplies for decades! Gazing melancholically at the flowing text, he sighed, murmuring to himself, "I suppose it's time to uncover the divine gift of my blue blood."

With that resolve, he set out to gather the required materials: a blank sheet, two grams of silver lizard powder, a flora herb, and a nib made from niche wood. As he worked, he accidentally nicked himself, allowing a drop of his red blood to spill onto the empty page. He began to chant from the book beside him in German, each word clear in his mind. "Let us know what gift you bestow upon us! Oh, all-knowing deity, share with us your boundless wisdom!"

As his eyes became clouded with a crimson hue, his pupils seemingly dissolving, he held his hands before him in a book-like gesture, spanning from his forehead to his chest. The red blood began to spread, mingling with the ingredients, bubbling with intensity. He uttered a final phrase in the language of the gods, "Let it be known through the blood of my knowledge, oh worthy God of Wisdom!"

The red blood formed a symbol of an eye, devoid of a pupil, with concentric circles within the iris. The niche nib, seemingly moving on its own, began to write on the sheet, "Your gift is the control of your own blood in small quantities." Elliot marveled, his lips curling into a smile. So my gift is to control my own blood?

Various possibilities danced in his mind. That's quite useful, especially if I were to bleed out. As long as the quantity isn't too low, I could potentially reanimate myself—or rather, keep my blood flowing. Not bad at all. Elliot felt a smile spreading across his face, dimples forming gently in his cheeks.

Suddenly, the bells rang out, cutting through his concentration. Startled, he hurried to the nearest wastebasket, crumpling the blood-soaked paper along with other consumed ingredients. Quickly, he hid the nib behind the display case, then licked the slightly bloodied finger clean as he moved through the adjacent room toward the main area. But upon entering, he was met by four individuals, each casting their eyes downward. They appeared more troubled than the last, all clad in dark blue, almost raven-black attire. Elisia wore a dark mourning hat, its veil hanging low. None of them dared meet Elliot's gaze.

What had he walked into? The atmosphere grew heavy with unspoken tension as he approached the group, sensing a storm brewing beneath their silence.