Origins of Blood (RE)-Chapter 25: Half-Blood (1)

Eriksson’s POV

“The hardship isn’t in belonging to one side and being shunned by the other, but in belonging to both and being accepted by neither.” 𝕗𝕣𝐞𝐞𝘄𝐞𝚋𝚗𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹.𝚌𝕠𝚖

—Eriksson Lennard

Why are my hands slick with hues of green and orange? I stare at my fingers, puzzled, as I lie on the ground, boredom seeping into my bones. The sky above is a deep navy, and my eyes catch the iron raindrops descending. I don’t blink. I merely sigh when a scream pierces the air.

"Two o’clock!" Merry, a fellow Green, veers left, dodging a right hook from a Blue striker. A rare sight, Blues at the frontlines. I smirk, watching her wet, dark-blonde hair trail behind her as she evades the thrown blades. The Blue, clad in a black and blue coat, slices his palm, letting the rain mingle with the wound. Water coalesces, forming a stream as thick as a carriage wheel, shooting towards Merry, missing her hair by a breath. I whistle at the dent it leaves in the stone wall of a ruin, yet I remain lying down, my cap cushioning the back of my head, watching the theater unfold before me.

"Duck!" Tiger shouts again, but this time, Merry is struck on the arm. I yawn as her wound, deep to the bone, heals within moments. I push myself up with my right hand, feeling each drop of the gods’ piss on me. But my eyes widen, a grin spreading across my broad jaw. I lick my green tongue over my teeth.

"An Orange!" one of my kin shouts, standing opposite Tiger. His spine twists like a wrung cloth, his body flung swiftly against a crumbling wall of the ruin—a city we’re reclaiming as our territory. For a heartbeat, my smile fades; his head bursts like an egg. He’s dead.

I rise, my legs stiff from watching. Merry stands a bit ahead, Ben retreats, and my other comrades have long fled. Blues. Inferior. Only we Greens fight in significant situations. I yawn at the thought of how easily a Blue could be crushed. Just slightly sturdier than Reds. I chuckle, my green gums bared towards the Orange.

My 110-kilogram frame strides effortlessly through the mud amidst the battle. Blues and Reds lie on the ground. Reds, armed; Blues, supporting from behind; and we Greens, fighting openly. Kingdom of Zentria. I was born in Nigil, yet I fight for Zentria. What irony. I smirk again, not out of amusement, but sorrow.

I twist my neck, letting my vertebrae crack loudly, glancing at Merry and the other Green. They’re decent folks. They shouldn’t perish here.

"I’ll handle it," I say, my voice drowned by the rain. They barely hear me, but I don’t repeat myself. My gaze fixes on the bearded Orange, his eyes gleaming despite the lack of sunlight. He grins—broadly, like me. Though mine is gentler, not from the joy of killing, but the thrill of combat. I love it. I couldn’t live without war. Without the exhilarating feeling of facing death at any moment. I dislike killing—a flaw—but I love feeling alive.

My right eye shifts from green to orange. I see in green and orange tones, my pupils shrinking, like the Orange’s, though both his eyes are orange. I process every attack pattern in breaths. First, my foot stomps into the mud, my calves propelling me forward, and I clench my fist. The world around me distorts. Raindrops descend slowly, mud splashes from my sturdy boots into the air, the Orange grins at me, clenching his fists together. I bite my cheeks, spitting the mixture in my mouth—green and orange blood—forming needle-like projectiles before me. I whistle, each step covering meters. Colored blood, like tiny daggers, accompanies me as time warps.

The Orange, twice as broad as me, leaps towards me, but I sidestep, balancing on my heels, dodging his knuckle dusters, likely made of Elitran steel.

"Half-blood!" he roars like an ogre, his voice both mocking and laughing. My brows furrow, and I sidestep again as the Orange, agile despite his massive stature, advances and strikes. Three, then five blows in a rapid breath. I exhale, letting the gods’ descending piss evaporate with my hot breath. My blood circles the Orange until I lower my index finger to the ground. Three large knives of my blood graze the Orange ogre, who, while dodging, charges at me. My hat falls off, exposing my shoulder-length hair to the damp rain. I move like a gazelle, narrowly evading fists as large as my head.

"Filthy half-blood!" the Orange shouts, sounding dumber than he looks. Hairless and shirtless, his orange-tinted body contrasts sharply against the blue battlefield. He advances faster than I can react, striking my abdomen. I’m hurled away—not as far as Tiger—but enough to roll backward twice. My mouth curves upward as I roll, landing on both feet. Merry and the other are gone. Good.

I look around, spotting a few Blues in the distance, using rituals, praying to their deities.

I should end this quickly.