Before Elliot lay an astonishing scene: a massive, elongated table brimming with an excess of food—far too extravagant for the three people seated around it. The view stretched out to the distant horizon, where an azure sun shimmered over a turquoise sea and a golden beach. Yet, in stark contrast to this idyllic vista, dark, towering Gothic spires loomed in the foreground. In the same grand dining room where the three men sat, a butler and a maid stood poised, dressed in elegant black and white. The butler wore a fine black suit, complemented by a crisp white shirt and a neatly knotted tie. His thin black mustache and slicked-back hair bore a striking resemblance to Edwin. His expression remained calm and attentive at all times. The maid, by contrast, donned a simple white cotton blouse, a black skirt, and a corset. Her dark brown hair was neatly tied back, and both she and the butler wore plain, snow-white gloves.

The room itself was vast. Golden chandeliers hung from the ceiling, casting a warm glow over the expansive blue carpets that spread across the polished floor. The walls, painted in shades of blue, were adorned with intricate rose patterns in gold, blue, and white. Massive paintings adorned the space, but one in particular—a grand canvas framed in thick gold—captured Elliot's attention more than the others. It depicted two young men, an older man, and a woman, all of whom were blonde, blue-eyed, and elegantly dressed in garments embellished with gold accents. To Elliot's surprise, he recognized the older man and one of the young men—they were the same blond figures seated nearby, though at a slight distance. They ate leisurely, occasionally pushing small pieces of meat or vegetables into their mouths.

Elliot could only take in these details out of the corner of his eye, for his body moved without his control. He savored the food on his tongue—steak, asparagus, pâté, roast meats, salad, and seafood—though he was not the one chewing. “Bizarre,” Elliot tried to articulate, but no sound emerged from his lips. It was as if he were imprisoned within another person's body, confined in their mind, unable to influence anything around him. “Damn it!” he screamed internally, but the words echoed only in the confines of his consciousness. Even the tension in his brows or the clenching of his fists—he felt them, yet could not express them physically.

As his gaze drifted to a plate in his periphery, he noticed a peculiar blue fruit he had never encountered before. Long and oval, resembling a cucumber, it revealed a turquoise interior speckled with black seeds, reminiscent of a kiwi.

“Aston.”

A gruff voice reverberated through the opulent hall, and for the first time, Elliot’s uncontrollable body lifted its gaze to the old man. Aston, then… So Edwin and Samantha have trapped me in this body? Or perhaps they’ve confined me within that black void? No… Is this my vision? Is it somehow evolving?! Elliot halted his attempts at speech, resigning himself to silent contemplation, as it no longer felt right to even try.

“Yes, Father?” Aston, the older man with a few wrinkles and blond-gray hair, raised his left hand and ran it through his meticulously groomed beard. At his father’s gesture, the maid and butler exited the room through a side door, closing the large double doors behind them.

“How goes the ship trade of the red-blooded?” The old man’s gaze was icy, his expression unyielding. He continued to eat leisurely, piece after piece of meat passing his lips. Aston’s eyes dropped momentarily as he laid down his silver knife and fork, the uneaten meat still resting on his plate.

He lifted his gaze again, noting that his brother Jonathan was also watching him intently. “The trade is thriving. We’ve captured and smuggled several dozen million red-blooded individuals. The revenue should amount to approximately 20 to 30 million Elis, assuming no significant complications arise.” Aston’s eyes fell back to his plate, his teeth clenching slightly, and his right foot tapping restlessly beneath the table.

“I’ve heard that on the continent Earth, the red-blooded have initiated a revolt. Some have even unraveled the secrets of the blood. A few have already managed to defeat the weaker shapeshifters—the green-blooded. It’s possible that some red-blooded individuals have already infiltrated our ranks, posing as one of us. Father, we should disseminate this information throughout all of Zentria, no—throughout all of Elisa. Should I speak with Friedrich to ensure this message is published in the newspapers?”

To Aston’s right, his brother spoke, his cold eyes and expressionless face mirroring their father’s. “Of course, Jonathan. Speak to Friedrich. And while you’re at it, let him know that anyone who uncovers these infiltrators among us will receive a reward—ten Elis per head.” The old man leaned back in his chair, adopting a relaxed posture as he stroked his beard once more.

Throughout the conversation, Aston kept his eyes on his plate, nervously tapping his legs under the table as he continued to eat.

...

The discussion concluded when the father set down his silverware. The butler and maid returned, now accompanied by six others. They moved in to clear the table of its extravagant delicacies and clean the dining hall. Without a word of farewell, the father left the dining room, heading into a side chamber. The two brothers followed shortly after, taking separate paths as they passed through the large double doors. The lingering scent of food and drink was now replaced by a faint note of lavender and rosemary. What a family… Elliot mused sarcastically, though the thought left him with a heavy heart.

The room Aston entered was dim, shrouded in heavy curtains. Only a few lines of blue light filtered in, illuminating a large king-sized bed, its covers echoing the shades of sky and dark blue found throughout the room. Nearly everything within was tinged with blue—the pillows, the clothing in the wardrobes—save for the wooden and gold accents, which remained true to their natural hues. Atop a nightstand beside the massive bed rested a small picture frame. Aston walked over, his head bowed low. He picked up the frame and gazed at the photo within. The glass was shattered, yet the picture itself remained unharmed. It depicted a young child with blond hair and blue eyes, held lovingly in the arms of a woman. Elliot's eyes widened in recognition; it was the same older woman from the painting, albeit younger.

Pooow! Pooow!

Suddenly, a wave of pain crashed over Elliot, and he clutched his head with both hands. “Arghhh!” He ground his teeth against the overwhelming agony. His mind felt as though it were being flooded. Memories surged in, too numerous to process at once. Initially, they appeared as disjointed images, distorted, while the voices of people sounded muffled, as if submerged underwater. Yet, suddenly, everything coalesced into clarity. New images and sounds poured in, cascading over him.

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As Elliot clutched his head in turmoil, vivid scenes unfurled before him. A family gathered around a large table: Aston, Jonathan, their father Argon, and their beautiful, smiling mother Hanna. They dined together, laughter echoing in the air. The brothers appeared younger, but then, as if time were on fast-forward, the scenes raced ahead. They aged—first nine, then ten, then eleven—while their parents grew older, their hair turning gray, their faces becoming etched with lines. The dining hall transformed as well. The colors of the walls, the furnishings, the chandeliers—everything shifted in rapid succession. Dresses, shirts, suits—their clothing morphed as time sped onward.

Eventually, the changes began to slow. The once-joyful family became forlorn, their faces painted with melancholy. And by today, they had grown cold.

It had been a year since she had departed.

Yet still, more images continued to bombard Elliot's mind.

…

They stood beside a large, cold, rounded stone, a somber marker in the rain-soaked ground. The entire family was clad in dark, deep blue attire, their grief palpable in the oppressive air. Argon, their father, towered over the grave, a figure of rage and sorrow. Aston and Jonathan, his sons, flanked him, all three dressed in tailored suits that had once symbolized nobility but now only served as a reminder of their loss. The rain cascaded from their damp, dark blonde hair, almost turning it brown in the gloom, mingling with their tears as if the heavens themselves mourned.

"It was the red-blooded!" Argon screamed, bitterness dripping from each word. His eyes burned with a fury that could set the world ablaze. "Those people, those slaves, those worthless swine!" The words echoed in the cold air, heavy with disdain.

Jonathan, the younger brother, stood rigidly, his face a mask of rage as he stared down at their mother’s grave. “Cassian 1, 1483 – Jett 49, 1612, after AORB, the Alliance of Red-Blooded,” he muttered under his breath, as if the recitation could anchor him in this turbulent moment. His fists were clenched tight, knuckles white against the downpour, his red eyes glistening with unshed tears. The rain obscured his grief, yet the sight of it could not mask the anguish etched on his face.

His gaze shifted to Aston, filled with a mixture of horror and disbelief. “How could you?” Jonathan's voice cut through the rain like a dagger. Aston, lost in his own turmoil, could only stare at the grave, his expression a tumultuous blend of fury and sorrow.

The memories surged forth, unbidden and relentless, transporting them back to a different time—a time when the sun shone brightly, and the streets of Zentria thrummed with life.

…

Jett 49, 1612, after AORB.

On that day, the skies were a brilliant blue, and the streets, wider than those in the poorer neighborhoods, were bustling with carriages, bicycles, and pedestrians going about their daily lives. It was quieter than usual in the kingdom of Zentria, a welcome reprieve from the constant din that typically filled the air. The oppressive fog that often cloaked the capital had finally lifted, revealing a clarity that had been absent for far too long.

Aston walked beside his mother, Hanna, and a young man who was an unexpected companion. At twenty-one, Aston carried the weight of his noble lineage with grace, while Hanna, at forty, exuded an ageless beauty that belied her years. The young man, just twenty-three, wore a neatly pressed linen shirt, trousers, and suspenders that spoke of modesty rather than grandeur.

As they strolled through the lively streets, their shared laughter painted a stark contrast to the grim realities that loomed just out of sight. Aston and his mother, draped in the elegance of nobility, bore the family crest embroidered upon their clothes—three roses, one gold, one blue, and one red—a symbol of their status and heritage.

But beneath the surface of their idyllic outing lay a darker truth. Their purpose was insidious, masked beneath layers of pleasantries. They sought to purchase another red-blooded slave, another soul to be bound to their will. Aston’s heart sank at the thought, but he dared not voice his dissent.

As they walked, Aston’s mind began to wander, contemplating the man who accompanied them. Why is he dressed like that? And why are they all conversing so easily, as if they are equals? Confusion washed over him, a tempest of emotions battling within.

Hanna walked ahead, her elegant form cutting through the crowd, and Aston found himself lagging, too slow to notice the dangers around him. As they approached an intersection, he caught a glimpse of something out of the corner of his eye—the eyes of the red-blooded slave widened in alarm.

In an instant, chaos erupted. Aston’s heart raced as he watched the scene unfold before him. The young slave surged forward, desperation etched across his face, as he reached out to grab Hanna just as she stepped into the road. Time seemed to slow, each second stretching into eternity as a carriage thundered down the street, its horses galloping wildly, hooves pounding against the cobblestones.

“Mother!” Aston’s voice tore from his throat, but it was too late.

The red-blooded slave made a valiant attempt to save her, but the carriage struck Hanna with a sickening thud, her body thrown several meters away. Gasps erupted from the onlookers, and Aston’s world shattered as he witnessed the horror unfold.

Hanna lay motionless on the cold asphalt, blood streaming from her body, blue blood mingling with traces of green and orange. The shock paralyzed him, his heart pounding in his chest like a war drum. The horses halted only after trampling over her, their owners unaware of the devastation they left in their wake.

The once-bright streets of Denklin darkened, shadows swallowing the light as the tall houses and spires loomed like specters over the scene. Every part of Aston’s being trembled—whether from shock, fear, or the chilling grip of despair, he could not tell. The vibrant atmosphere turned to one of horror, regret, and an unbearable silence.

Jett 49, 1612, after AORB, marked the day when Hanna Rosenmahl bled out on the side of the road, an ordinary morning transformed into a nightmare.

The culprit, the man who had once been entrusted with her care, stood accused—a red-blooded slave, Wilson Neet. The name echoed in Aston’s mind, a bitter reminder of betrayal. Witnesses emerged, their accounts filled with indignation and rage. They claimed Wilson had pushed Hanna, their voices rising in condemnation. But Aston saw it differently. In his heart, he believed Wilson had acted out of instinct, trying to save her life.

But the crowd was relentless, their collective fury turning on the red-blooded man. The nobility scorned the Rosenmahl family for their kindness towards their slaves, as if treating them with dignity was a crime. This was a society that thrived on hierarchy, where blood status dictated one’s worth. To Aston, it was incomprehensible that a noble family of mixed blood—entitled to their status—would stoop to the level of the lowly red-blooded.

Days blurred into weeks after Hanna’s death, each moment tinged with despair. Wilson was sentenced to death, left to rot in a cell as the world outside continued without him. Aston, once a beacon of hope for his friend, found himself alone in his defense. He realized the futility of his efforts; the odds were stacked against him, and he began to lose faith in his ability to prove Wilson’s innocence. As his family distanced themselves, Aston became a ghost in his own home, haunted by the memory of his loyal friend, condemned unjustly.

Elliot could only perceive the chaos of memories as flashes—brief images strung together like pearls on a thread. Each one spoke of a world fractured by grief and betrayal, a world where innocence was a casualty of bloodlines and status. In the quiet of his mind, Elliot and Aston gazed mournfully at a photograph of young Hanna, cradling a small Aston in her arms. The shards of shattered glass surrounding the image reflected back their anguish, two pairs of eyes slowly filling with tears.

“Mother… I’m sorry, I failed.” Aston’s voice trembled as he whispered into the emptiness. His sapphire blue eyes stared at the ground, lost in a sea of regrets. Outside the covered window of his bedroom, the black night enveloped the world, the raven-filled sky dotted with stars, while a golden moon cast its ethereal glow over the scene.