Fynn’s gaze locks onto Eriksson’s unyielding stare as the man pauses for a few seconds, his expression unreadable. Slowly, Eriksson shifts his focus to me. "Mr. Eos, how exactly would these transactions proceed?" he asks, his voice calm yet deliberate. I raise my right hand slightly, resting my fingers under my chin in thought.

"Let us start with the basics—across the seas or overland," I reply, my tone measured. I say no more, leaning back into my throne and intertwining my fingers. Eriksson’s attention drifts briefly to the green crystal resting before him. He then speaks, his voice directed at Fynn but loud enough for the entire group to hear.

"What compensation would I receive in exchange for my information? I can already assure you that these three pieces of intelligence cannot be obtained by conventional means."

Aston’s sharp blue eyes narrow as he cuts in directly. "That depends on what you desire," he counters, his tone unwavering. Eriksson exhales slowly, his focus once again on the green crystal.

"What I seek," he says, his voice heavy with intent, "are details about a man who, a century ago, built his fortune trading blood. He operated under the alias 'Juice.'"

A moment of tension lingers between them. Fynn’s gaze is firm, while Viena remains on the outskirts of the exchange, her expression unreadable. Eriksson shifts his attention again, addressing me directly this time. "Mr. Eos, when will these meetings take place?"

I allow the silence to stretch deliberately before answering, my voice resonating with authority. "On the first day of every week."

Eriksson bows his head slightly in acknowledgment. "Then it is agreed. If you can provide these details within eight days, the information is yours. Otherwise, the offer remains open until someone else claims it. To all present, know that my offer holds the weight of black blood, should you not understand its significance."

The room—vast and bathed in endless red—falls silent. Fynn’s voice eventually breaks the stillness, his gaze shifting to Viena. "Mrs. Wing, where exactly do you hail from? And do you have anything to add?"

Viena appears momentarily caught off guard. Her dark eyebrows lift slightly, and her pale skin takes on a faint flush. "I... I come from the Black Continent and am the daughter of the Admiral who served in the War of Demons and Angels." She pauses, her hand instinctively clutching her chest. Her shimmering eyes lower to the obsidian-black crystal before her, her shoulders visibly tense.

The others remain silent, their gazes heavy with curiosity yet restrained. I lift my hand once more, and their attention shifts back to me—either directly or tangentially. "I hereby conclude the first assembly of the Divergent Bloods," I declare, my voice steady and commanding. "But before I send you back, I wish to bestow a gift upon each of you."

Their expressions shift—some curious, others cautious, and a few unchanging. All of them wait with bated breath for the decree that follows. I do not keep them waiting. Raising my hand, I concentrate, feeling an odd tingling sensation spread through my mind. The moment I sense the connection solidify; I speak.

"From now on, you will all have the ability to communicate with me. Moreover, you may pray to me and perform rituals as you once did for the false gods."

Fynn’s brows furrow, his gaze sharpening in a mixture of intrigue and skepticism. The others follow suit, exchanging puzzled glances. Slowly, I lower my hand, my fingers brushing lightly against the armrest of my throne. "Begone, my children," I command.

In an instant, they vanish. I am alone in the endless red void, the smearing hues thick and viscous like blood. Whispers and screams surround me once more, but this time they are subdued, like a faint breeze on a summer night. The red begins to fade, melting away into darkness. I find myself in the familiar emptiness of the underworld, the air cooler and sharper. My senses feel heightened—every sound, every scent amplified.

The taste of brown blood lingers in my mouth, bitter and metallic. Suddenly, a strange sensation builds in my stomach, a sickly churning that forces saliva to pool rapidly in my mouth. I swallow repeatedly, but it does not subside. Pain stabs at the back of my neck and head, spreading to my joints. My knees buckle slightly under the strain. My body feels heavy, rusted, like a machine long overdue for maintenance.

I tremble violently, the spasms overtaking me until I can no longer hold back. My stomach heaves, expelling its contents onto the ground—a mixture of red and brown, coarse and fragmented, littered with small white specks. Maggots, perhaps. My body convulses again, and bile splatters onto my worn shoes and trousers. I gag, the bitter taste burning my throat. My head spins as though someone has wrenched it sideways. Dazed and disoriented, I wipe my mouth with the sleeve of my already stained coat.

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Leaning heavily against the cold, jagged wall, I remain still, my breaths shallow and labored. My back hunches instinctively as I try to regain control. The silence is fleeting. In the distance, a faint metallic clatter echoes—a sound that sharpens my awareness. My eyes widen as I strain to focus.

...

Meanwhile, in a place cloaked in impenetrable darkness, Fynn lay motionless. His red eye snapped open, while the yellow one remained shut, oozing blood. A scream tore from his throat, his hands clawing at his head as pain seared through his body. The ground beneath him feels wet and slimy, a grotesque mixture of mud and viscous fluid. He coughed violently, spitting out the sand that scratched his throat.

His screams reverberate through the space, a haunting echo that seemed to mock his despair. “By the gods, what the hell is happening?!” His voice cracked as he yelled, his body writhing against the unyielding ground. Sticky liquid seeped into his hair, sliding into his ears. Blindly, he groped at his surroundings, his fingers slick with the unknown substance. Yellow blood dripped steadily from his eye.

"Dammit! Dammit, where am I?!" Fynn’s voice was raw, and the strain evident. He blinked rapidly, his vision distorted and dark. Slowly, an image took form—a reflection, grotesque and unrecognizable. His own body, displayed before him, is caught in a horrifying cycle of disintegration and restoration. Flesh tears, veins writhe, and organs pulsated unnaturally before knitting themselves back together.

His eyes widened as he watched the scene unfold, tears streaming down his face. Despite the grotesque horror of his surroundings, a shaky smile tugged at his lips. His voice trembled as he whispered, "Thank you… Mr. Eos.”

…

Viena lay motionless upon the cold ground in the suffocating gloom of a sealed chamber. Her body was broken, a dark pool of her blood spreading across the obsidian floor, indistinguishable from its shadowy surface. A yawning wound marred her chest, her skin pale and lifeless, drained of the shimmering darkness that once defined her.

Her breaths came in shallow gasps, fragile wisps of air struggling to sustain her. Her eyes fluttered weakly, catching faint glimmers of the blackened ceiling above, their light dimming with each passing second. The faintest of murmurs escaped her trembling lips—disjointed, unintelligible whispers that spoke of her faltering grasp on life.

As death crept closer, the inevitable seemed certain. But then, a shift.

The black blood staining the floor quivered, trembling as though alive. Slowly, then with growing urgency, it surged back toward her. Viena’s body convulsed as it forced its way beneath her skin, threading through her veins like molten fire. Pain erupted, an excruciating symphony of agony as torn flesh began to reknit, broken bones snapping back into place. She arched against the ground, her body trembling violently as every fiber within her screamed in protest.

Her heart stuttered, then roared back to life. The pain was blinding, searing, and all-consuming—but it was fleeting. As quickly as it began, the torment eased, replaced by an eerie calm. Her chest rose and fell steadily now, the gaping hole sealed, her skin unmarked. Strength returned, though faintly, as her body pieced itself together with unnatural precision.

She blinked, her gaze drifting upward toward the unseen heavens. A faint smile curved her lips, her voice a fragile whisper. “Thank you… Mr. Eos.”

Her words lingered in the air as her vision began to blur. From the edge of her awareness, she caught movement—a figure approaching in the shadows. But Exhaustion claimed her, and her eyes slipped shut.

…

In the endless maze of the underground, I flee through the darkness, the cold air slicing against my skin. Chains clatter behind me, their metallic rattle echoing through the narrow corridors. The sound is faint, but relentless, growing closer with every misstep.

My head pounds, the pain unbearable, a throbbing, splitting agony that radiates from within. It feels as though my skull is being torn apart, pried open by invisible hands. I clutch at my temples, my legs trembling beneath me as I stagger forward.

I can’t fight. Not now. My strength is slipping away, and my chest burns with a ferocity that rivals the pain in my head. It’s as if something inside me is tearing itself apart, devouring me from within. My breaths come in ragged gasps, cold sweat dripping down my face as I force my legs to move.

Each step feels heavier than the last, but I keep running. My pace falters—too fast to go unnoticed, too slow to truly escape. I stumble, nearly falling, the darkness around me pressing in. The chains grow louder, the sound twisting with a voice that cuts through the air like broken glass.

“Food?” it hisses, the word drawn out, dripping with malice.

I freeze, my chest tightening as I fight the urge to collapse.

And then I see her.

A woman lies ahead, crumpled upon the ground. Her black wings stretch out around her, broken and tarnished; their once-pristine feathers smeared with shadow. Her hair pools like liquid night, framing a face so pale it seems carved from stone. A jagged hole mars her chest—but even as I stare, it begins to close, flesh knitting itself together with unnatural speed.

I stumble forward, coughing violently, blood splattering across her tattered garments. My vision blurs, my legs trembling beneath me. The chains behind me clatter louder, their sound accompanied by a voice—shrill, grating, and filled with venom.

“Food!” it screeches, the word bouncing off the walls, sharp and relentless.

I glance at the woman, her chest rising faintly as her body mends itself. Then back at the darkness behind me. My instincts scream at me to run, but my legs refuse to obey.

The chains draw closer, the voice growing more insistent.