It was dark, and several children sat in a cramped room, listening to a man in uniform delivering a passionate speech. “You, our descendants! You, who will one day nourish, provide for, and celebrate us! You must fight for the well-being of us all! Think of your children, your grandchildren, who will one day sit here. Think of these and the deeds of the past. We were guilty, and we admit it. Our ancestors committed sins. They spoke in the name of the gods, behaved like them, and presented themselves as such. No one can take pride in that! But we are us now. Not those from the past, and not those from the future! We are those who must endure all this suffering! Our homeland has been pushed back! Our resources, our asphanium, have been stolen from us! At some point, it was enough; we were looked down upon, spat on! Just like the Red-Blooded, but we are Yellow! A pure, a powerful race! With our technology, we can trample our enemies and reclaim our power! I tell you, children, our ancestors made mistakes, but we do not have to stand for it! No! It has been far too long, and we were not even close to a millennium away to be planned at all. Therefore, I tell you, you children who will be the future of our army: fight for us, for yourselves, and fight for all our descendants so that one day we can once again raise our heads in shining armor!”

Dozens of children listened to the speech of a tall, strong man whose arm had been replaced by a metallic prosthesis. But the scene shifted. The small boy Fynn, without a last name, was running alongside a man in pious clothing. They were in a city, outpost 2456, as it was called, one of many on the imperial battlefield of the continent of violet seas, which was divided between Yellow and Violet-Blooded people. One half was a vast violet desert, while the other was an equally large expanse of solid land.

The now even smaller Fynn, with his slightly yellow-tinged white skin and his two red eyes, asked, “Father, why exactly do we have to fight?” The pious man in dark clothing replied, “If you don’t fight, who will? The old or the wounded? The world is cruel, but our enemies are even crueler. Fynn, do you really want to be trapped behind these walls forever? Do you really want to live a miserable life just because of our ancestors and others who box us into a corner?”

The scene changed again. This time, Fynn stood alone on the walls, proud and determined, as evening fell. The blue sun set, and the sky turned dark violet, a slight pinkish shimmer running through the sand, which moved in the wind like the waves of a sea. The little Fynn murmured to himself,

“Tomorrow is the day. I will make my homeland proud. I will win and gift my children the world. One day I will marry a woman, a beautiful one, and together with her and my children, I will go to the seas, to the real ones.”

Fynn proudly gazed into the violet-pink horizon as the clouds descended, followed by the sun. In his line of sight stood massive robots, known as titans, walking on all fours or rather on eight legs.

Once again, the scene changed. Fynn ran with hundreds of others his age, followed by older fighters, quickly through the desert. Sand grains whipped into their eyes and onto their faces, but no one stopped. After some time, they were overtaken by the titans, monstrous beings powered by asphanium, the resource they fought over with the Violet-Blooded. The crowd screamed as they charged onto the battlefield. The sand trembled, the cries echoed, everyone was armed with firearms and lightly dressed. A slightly older boy, about 17 years old, shouted from the front:

“We will defeat them! We will restore our yellow blood to its former glory!”

But just a moment later, a bullet struck the boy, and his body crumpled. He fell to his knees. The violet sea absorbed the yellow blood, blowing it in one direction. Still, they all continued running, proud in their ordinary clothing, with a yellow star on their chests. But the shots continued to rain down; they seemed to come from nowhere.

Bang! Bang! Bang!

Suddenly, the gunfire intensified, but no one was visible. Only when Fynn glanced to the side did he see another man in violet garb hiding in the violet desert, also firing at him and all the others. Dodging, Fynn turned around, but he felt a stabbing pain in his left eye. Fynn screamed and screamed, but no one came to help him. No one! Minutes passed, yet everyone kept fighting. Finally, Fynn’s life was just one of many on a battlefield.

“Arghh!” Fynn screamed. He was in pain, almost forgetting it. Fynn, an interesting story. A completely new continent, a violet desert, and a kind of land, full of outposts in various factions of the continent. Yellow and violet blood warring against each other? Elliot thought, as he listened to the screaming Fynn. Sweating profusely, the medics pressed cloths to Fynn’s eye while the yellow blood gushed out. Yet there was also a bullet lodged in Fynn’s leg.

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“His leg won’t stop bleeding! I fear a major artery has been hit!” A female voice rang out, followed by one of the men. “What’s the status of the boy!?” The guardians hastily replied, “We don’t know!” Everyone screamed, but not Fynn anymore; his skin turned paler, and Elliot felt that too. He sensed his vision fading gradually. Goddammit, don’t die on me now! This time, Elliot was also a bit distracted. As he pondered, he scratched the back of his head hard.

Fynn’s vision continued to fade, the voices grew quieter, but Elliot quickly had an idea. Please, let it work! “Fynn, reclaim your blood and do not let it out; use my power to control the blood!” A blinding light and a gust of wind followed. Parts of the yellow blood flowed back into Fynn’s body, circulation resumed, and his heart beat stronger. Fynn’s eyes closed, the voices vanished, but the pulse remained strong, and breathing resumed.

…

“Fynn!” Elliot shouted, spittle hanging from his mouth, his voice hoarse and frayed. Is he dead now?! God, please, no. This should work; if I command him not to lose blood, he should be able to use my power to stop it since I’m in his body. Indirectly, it’s mine, isn’t it? Please! He clasped his hands, pleading, his thoughts overtaken by the voices echoing nearby.

“Yes, we can accept your assignment.” A soft voice spoke from across the room. It was Elisia, her dark blond hair cascading down a white blouse paired with a beige skirt. Elliot edged closer, wondering if anyone had heard his earlier cries, but Elisia and the others remained focused on the conversation. Are they ignoring me? He glanced at them hopefully, his hands still clasped tightly.

“It’s settled then,” Elisia continued in her composed tone. “The job is to find your husband, and in return, we’ll receive four Elis, plus any additional hourly rates after the second week, correct?” The client gave a slight nod, but no one directly answered her. Nearby, a delicate woman in a fine dress stood by the entrance, only to disappear almost as quickly as she’d appeared. All Elliot managed to see were her black hair and the striking crimson gown that marked her departure.

“Who was she?” Elliot asked as he leaned against the door frame, trying to catch his breath and ground himself after the chaos of his vision. The room felt surprisingly relaxed, even calm, in stark contrast to the intensity he had just experienced.

“A woman, or rather, the wife of a scoundrel,” Chris remarked dryly, glancing down with a smirk, only to be met with a sharp look from Elisia. He shrugged, stifling his humor as he glanced away, while William offered a bit more information.

“The woman’s husband seems to have vanished without a trace,” he explained.

Elton, eager to contribute, added, “In other words, he’s flown the coop.” He gave a faint smile, adding, “...fifty-fifty, at least.”

Elliot blinked, still catching up to their lighthearted tone. So, a new assignment. He mulled it over, then asked aloud, “Who’ll be handling this one?”

Elton turned to him with a faint grin. “Good question. This isn’t a specialized mission; anyone can take it on, really. Since this would be your first real job, Elliot, I imagine you’d be the one to go. But as it’s your first time, you’ll need someone else along. Any volunteers?”

Silence fell over the room for a few moments before William sighed and raised his hand, drawing nods of approval from the others. “Then get dressed; it’s a bit brisk outside. Winter’s creeping in.” With that, William reached for his beige coat hanging over a nearby wardrobe, while Elliot returned to his study to grab his own black coat, the familiar wear from Bill’s collection.

…

Elsewhere, a figure draped in a shadowy cloak entered a dimly lit room, one he had shared with Hank earlier but was now deserted. Aston stood there alone, a suitcase in hand, waiting. Before long, another man appeared, his hair raven-black and his eyes an unsettling white, a grin spreading across his face as he sized Aston up.

“Well, well, I didn’t know you were the mischievous type. What brings you here?” the man asked, his voice smooth yet taunting.

Aston swallowed, steadying himself before he replied, “I need this suitcase delivered somewhere... elsewhere.”

The man chuckled, clearly amused. “I suppose we haven’t been introduced. I go by Ranton, and you are?”

“Aston.” His response was clipped, his body tense.

“Not one for conversation, are we?” Ranton smirked, pausing as Aston gave a hesitant nod. With a brief laugh, he gestured to Aston to follow. “I’ll take you to someone who can deliver your suitcase wherever you need, aside from the realms of the Angels, Demons, or Gods, of course.” He moved purposefully, leading Aston to yet another man cloaked in dark robes, much like Aston himself.

The man they approached, known as Cas, sat drinking in silence. His silhouette was broad and imposing, his frame wiry and muscular under the shadows. Ranton cleared his throat, catching Cas’s attention. “Cas, we’ve got a client.”

Cas glanced up from his drink, his voice rumbling as he asked, “How much?”

“Six hundred Elis,” Ranton replied, without missing a beat.

Cas downed the rest of his drink in one gulp, his face obscured under a hood, save for the hint of a thick, scarred beard peeking through. “Where’s the destination?” he asked, turning to face Aston fully.

Aston shifted, finally managing to answer. “The Kingdom of Avelor, in Trüben City.”

A grim smile crept across Cas’s face, a glint of dark amusement in his eye. “Only if the next round’s on you,” he grinned, his tone mocking. A deep laugh rumbled from his chest, echoing through the dimly lit room.

The deal set, Aston watched as Cas prepared to handle the suitcase, his heart pounding slightly as he processed the strangeness of the evening. He barely knew Ranton and Cas, yet here he was, placing his trust in them, entrusting this valuable parcel to a man whose face remained shrouded in mystery, marked only by the fleeting glimpses of scars and a life forged in violence.