A heavy silence blanketed the room, as if even the air held its breath. The blue light cast a chilling glow, enveloping everyone in an icy embrace. Why was everyone dressed in such somber attire? Why did they all look so defeated? Elliot’s shoulders slumped further under the weight of his thoughts. His legs trembled slightly, and he leaned against a table for support. His eyes flickered, struggling to maintain focus, and he felt his equilibrium wavering. “No, no, this can’t be real,” Elliot murmured to himself, his voice faltering.

Elton lifted his head, glancing away as he spoke, “It’s true, Bill is dead.” The dim light from the blue sun outlined the silhouettes of the four figures standing by Elliot, casting a stark contrast against his fading composure. He felt his strength give way, leaning heavily as tears sprang unbidden to his eyes. Elliot fought against his emotions, desperately wishing to hold back the flood, but the tears flowed freely, blurring his vision and burning his throat.

“No, this can’t be true,” he sobbed, the weight of grief overwhelming him. The stillness returned, punctuated only by the soft glow of the blue sun and the fog rolling outside, mingling with the despair that hung in the air. Even the others wept, their tears dampening their hands, empathy deepening as they caught sight of Elliot’s anguish. William added softly, “We’re heading to Bill’s funeral this afternoon. It’s at the Trüben-city cemetery—just to the right if you walk down Fring Street and then take the other roads without turning.”

…

The estate of the Rosenmahl family in the Kingdom of Zentria, Denklin.

Aston led the way, with Hank trailing behind. “Thank you again for your help,” Hank said gratefully. “No, I owe you my thanks, my dear friend. Once I have this formula, I’ll finally be the rightful heir. I will be richer, more powerful, stronger.” Though Aston maintained a calm exterior, a tempest of ambition roiled beneath his seemingly placid surface. They passed through a large gate guarded by two robust men wielding lances, reminiscent of ancient knights.

The estate was adorned with exquisite decorations that left even Hank in awe. Eventually, they entered a sprawling garden, so vast it resembled a small forest. However, they did not venture into the thickets, instead approaching a larger-than-usual chest, filled with various materials waiting for them: a quarter kilo of ground Avel roses, six roses bearing eye patterns—three with one eye and three with three eyes. There was also twenty grams of powdered Nightshimmer from a violet moth and ten grams of a dead rose bouquet from the Glimmering Woods.

“What blood do we need for this?” Hank asked, swallowing hard. “Black?” Aston erupted into a furious scream, his hands clenched into fists. “Are you serious!? The black blood of a demon? No wonder they demand such a formula!”

Gradually, Aston calmed, though his fury remained palpable. “But we can acquire it relatively easily. Well, not easy, but for the circumstances, it’s manageable—at least for someone of your stature.” Aston’s expression remained skeptical as he fixed his gaze on Hank’s blue eyes. “Continue.”

With another swallow, Hank adjusted his tie. “Typically, you can obtain such blood through combat or monetary means. However, acquiring it with money is more challenging due to the limited supply and high demand. Occasionally, black blood can be purchased, but it’s rare. Since Zentria is quite popular, there are large events—markets and the like—where black blood can be accessed through auction houses that aren’t publicly accessible. But you, Aston, son of Argon Rosenmahl, can gain entry and purchase it without issues.” Hank smiled, a crooked grin revealing his eagerness.

“Not a bad plan. However, I must convince my father first. How much does a milliliter cost, and how much do they require?” Hank took a deep breath. “The current price is about 1,040 Elis per milliliter…” He hesitated, gauging Aston’s reaction. “…and they want three large doses, so twenty milliliters in total.”

Over twenty thousand Elis? That’s almost my monthly budget. Aston mused, pleasantly surprised it was less than he had anticipated. “No worries, I’ll find the money. Just tell me where this auction will take place.” Hank’s blue eyes lit up as he clapped his hands together slightly. “It’s at the Reichenfell family auction house.”

…

Inside the ten-day train to Denklin, the capital of the Kingdom of Zentria, Eriksson sat, absorbing the warmth of the blue light around him. Before him, a man clutched his suitcase tightly, appearing frail and gaunt, with sunken eyes that hinted at daydreams and forgotten thoughts. Every time he snapped back to reality, he grasped his suitcase as if it were a precious child being pulled away by a crowd.

Meanwhile, Eriksson gazed out the window, lost in the horizon of the turquoise sky. The sun shone with a vivid blue brilliance, effortlessly radiating warmth. It was midday, yet the sun beamed its energy to warm the distant landscape. For billions of years, it had given us everything, and soon it would extinguish. Once bright white, it now glimmered in shades of blue. Yet we give it nothing in return…

I must succeed. Max, my dear boy, I will avenge you. Mother, Father, I will come to you, even if it costs me another hundred years of my life. Eriksson fell into a trance, his body rigid as a candle, his gaze fixed on the horizon beneath the azure sun.

This story has been taken without authorization. Report any sightings.

Thump!

Suddenly, a man stumbled and fell as the train jolted violently. Eriksson remained fixated on the sun, though his gaze had become vacant, devoid of thought. In the chaos, a slender man beside him dropped his suitcase, which contained numerous cans of an orange liquid. Orange blood, it seemed! Eriksson's mind raced with possibilities as he quickly composed himself.

“Excuse me, may I speak with you?” he asked, his tall frame looming over the trembling man who clutched the suitcase as if it were a lifeline.

“What is it about?” the man replied, his voice shaky.

“You know precisely what this is about,” Eriksson replied, his tone deep and calm. “Let’s keep this to a conversation, shall we?”

But the slender man simply grabbed his suitcase and darted down the narrow aisle. Eriksson's gaze lingered on the dark brown leather of the case, his thoughts consumed by its mystery.

…

On a cemetery that afternoon, the sky was overcast, and the sun dipped low on the horizon. The colors shifted from violet to black as the golden moon rose in the east. The air was chilly. Elliot stood amidst a group of mourners, almost indistinguishable from them.

“In the name of the gods, let this poor soul rest. You may now say your goodbyes,” intoned a priest clad in a long, pale blue robe that bordered on white, adorned with golden patterns. A silver veil draped over his face as he leaned on a staff, surveying the gathering with solemnity.

Each attendee approached Bill's closed casket, tears glistening in their eyes. They trembled, their sorrow palpable. Elliot did not recognize them, yet their connection to him felt intimate. He chided himself for considering a scene too grand for the occasion. Since then, he had not shed another tear. He didn’t even want to, but for some reason, the urge resurfaced. Was it the fear of losing warmth forever, the thought of never feeling it again? Or was it because Bill had treated him as a friend? Elliot remained confused, his emotions tied in knots.

The blue sharks—the name they called themselves—stood in silent reverence, their expressions a mix of loss and respect. “We will miss you, Captain. Thank you for your service,” they murmured as they prepared to bid farewell to Billgard List, as inscribed on his gravestone.

Elliot wiped his eyes with the back of his hand, the blue of his gaze deepening. Chris and William cast their eyes down, their sadness palpable. One by one, they drew their revolvers, each chamber loaded with blue blood, and with resolute looks, they fired three shots into the air.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Silence fell over the graveyard as Elliot waited. He waited for everyone to leave, for the last words to be spoken. A few mourners trickled away, and then more, until only he remained, enveloped in shadows, the priest having long departed. The starry sky unveiled itself, accentuated by the golden moon, which cast a spectral glow over the scene.

Elliot lowered his gaze, moving toward Bill's gravestone. He settled beside it and murmured, “I don’t care if Edwin punishes me for this; let him do it…” His thoughts spiraled, and with one hand resting on the gravestone, the other absently adjusted his clothes. “No one ever gave me more than you did. I was lost; I thought I would remain lost forever, a slave to my fate. But everything changed when I met you. It was your gentle smile and the kindness from the others that made a difference, but you… you seemed to care for me like no one else. The help, the gestures, the respect, the feeling of belonging… You gave me everything. Even the clothes. Those early tips, the textbooks; we were strangers then. Just a few days, yet it felt like family, a family I once had.

First, my parents; then Cham, and I thought that my last hope for Ren had shattered. And now you. Bill, I will forever remember you, and you will remain in my thoughts.”

His eyes shimmered, but no tears fell. Not a single one. He was sure Bill wouldn’t have wanted it that way.

…

Before long, Elliot was halfway to Edwin and Samantha’s house when he spotted the old man again—the one he had collided with earlier. He wore the same oversized black cloak, the brim of his hat casting a shadow over his brow, white wisps of hair escaping at the sides.

“What a coincidence,” the old man rasped, his voice gravelly. “I wanted to tell you something last time. You bear a striking resemblance to my younger brother. What’s your name?”

Elliot stared, momentarily bewildered. He lifted his melancholic gaze. “Elliot, Elliot Starfall,” he replied.

The old man sighed. “Why such a downtrodden look?”

What a time to receive such lectures. Before Elliot could respond, the old man continued, “But I know a thing or two about loss—it hurts, I understand that intimately.” He leaned against his back, his posture crooked.

Elliot felt an unsettling curiosity rise within him. How does he know what I’m feeling?

Clearing his throat, the old man shifted the conversation. “Look to the future,” he said, liberating Elliot from his thoughts. “Not exactly looking to the future, but let’s leave it at that for now. You’re searching for your brother, Ren, correct?”

“Yes,” Elliot replied, uncertainty clouding his thoughts. What was he to think? How should he respond? It felt as though he had forgotten everything; he could barely stand still.

The old man, hunched yet kind, continued, “I can help you, Elliot.”

“Why?” Elliot asked, his voice flat. “Why would you do that?”

“Let’s say I see my brother in you and want to do him one last favor,” the old man replied, his forehead shadowed by the brim of his hat.

Elliot clenched his fists at his sides, looking down at the ground. “How exactly can you help me?”

The old man smiled gently, still massaging his back. “All I need is a strand of your hair. With it, I can pinpoint an exact date, time, and place of your brother’s whereabouts. But I’ll need some time; come back tomorrow, and we can talk again. For now, let me take a few strands of your hair.”

…

Time passed, and Elliot soon found himself back at Edwin and Samantha’s house. Once again, they showed no concern for him. It felt as if he were so insignificant that his absence wouldn’t even matter. He trudged toward his makeshift sleeping spot on the cold floor of the storage room. With his eyes shut, he lay in darkness, the golden moonlight streaming through, illuminating his solitude.