Heir of the Fog

CHAPTER SEVENTY-FIVE

Betting Blood for Glory

***

The act of killing one's own kind has long fascinated scholars across disciplines. Early theorists proposed that most animal species possessed innate mechanisms to prevent such behavior, instincts that could only be overridden under conditions of extreme stress or social upheaval. For many cycles, this remained mere speculation, until the High Neuroarcanists of Araksiun ventured into the deep sciences of the mind.

It is now understood that most sentient and semi-sentient creatures evolve with what is known as a Disgust Response, rooted in the Insular Cortex, a structure designed to trigger revulsion toward cannibalistic impulses. This response serves as a safeguard, a biological bulwark that ensures kin are not consumed, preserving the reproductive fitness of the species as a whole.

However, as creatures evolve, particularly those with increasing cognitive complexity, new motivations emerge: social tension, dominance struggles, ideological fracture. These influences can override the ancient disgust circuit, and unlike the primal instinct to avoid cannibalism, there is no equally embedded inhibition against killing for power or belief.

Some have called this a flaw in evolution, for intra-species violence risks weakening the very lineage it stems from. But through the study of magical beasts, I suspect this may be a feature rather than a defect. Among ebony-tier creatures, we see strong clustering behaviors, kin-bonding, and mutual survival. Yet as they evolve, transitioning into the more solitary and territorial onyx-tier, and then into the often brutal apex predators of the crimson-tier, those communal instincts diminish rapidly.

This pattern suggests a broader truth: that evolution does not solely favor the survival of the species, but the survival of power itself.

Excerpt from "Cognitive Barriers and Evolutionary Drift in Magical Beasts"

by Thamir Vosk, Faculty of Neuroarcane Studies, Araksiun Concord

***

District 98 clung to life, but no one could've grasped the ruin its artifacts could unleash until they saw it. The primary road stretched before me, vast and wide, wide enough for armies to clash—hundreds of boots churning dust, steel flashing under a sky choked with fog. Blood soaked the cobbles, pooling in cracks, the air thick with screams, clanging metal, and the sharp hum of mana. This was the true fight, the heart of the district's fate, and I'd arrived late.

The battle raged, a storm of bodies and blades. Both sides had abandoned the side streets, their bait spent, their weak left to die. Here, on this endless stretch of stone, the district would break or stand. I scanned the chaos from a shattered rooftop's edge, Hazeveil cloaking me, tentacles coiled beneath, ready to spring. Lirien was nowhere—her absence a blade in my gut. "She'll let the weak die to sharpen the survivors," I muttered, her ruthlessness no surprise but bitter all the same.

Hundreds fought below, a sea of steel and flesh. On our side, 80 chainrunners, their sub-artifact blades and spears glinting with faint mana, led the charge. Behind them, twice as many civilians followed, their armor patched, weapons crude: rusted swords, sharpened poles, hammers scavenged from forges. Across the road, the council's forces loomed, three times our number. Guards in polished plate, civilians clutching clubs, and a few nobles wielding true artifacts, their power cutting through the haze like beacons. The Rovind family's coin had swelled their ranks, promises of riches luring men to die.

Norman Highrow led them, a giant in the fray, his axe artifact a blur of crimson and steel. Unlike Lirien, he fought with his men, his presence a rallying cry. I couldn't shake the question gnawing at me, one I'd buried too long: "Do I have to take part in this?" As a crimson beast, I felt the cycle's pull—war's brutal culling, weeding the weak to forge the strong. District 97 had emerged sharper for it, its blood paving progress. Was I wrong to interfere, to disrupt what nature demanded? The thought froze me, my frost humming unused, as I took in the carnage.

Chainrunners pushed forward, their sub-artifacts slicing through lesser blades. Civilians trailed, clumsy but fierce, their shouts raw with desperation. Familiar faces stood out amidst the melee, their movements sharp against the blur. Gustav, lean and weathered, darted toward a broad guard in heavy plate.

The man swung a two-handed sword, its arc whistling, but Gustav ducked low, his light armor letting him move like a shadow. The blade passed inches above his head, stirring his hair. He lunged, his spear humming with mana, its tip piercing the guard's chest through plate like cloth. Blood sprayed, and the man fell, eyes wide, dead before he hit the ground.

Nearby, Leslo and Artemis moved like a single blade, their sibling bond a dance of death. Artemis, quick and precise, wielded a short sword, slipping it into armor gaps at knees and elbows, toppling foes with surgical cuts. Leslo followed, his longer blade flashing, ending each crippled enemy with a thrust.

Gorin fought differently, grounded and fierce. He'd lost his sword, his shield his only weapon. He straddled a guard, smashing the shield's edge into the man's helm, again and again, blood seeping from the dents. His face was set, no hesitation. The guard stilled, and Gorin rose, panting, scanning for the next threat.

But chainrunners fell too, their sub-artifacts no match for true artifacts. The council's nobles carved through, their weapons ancient, forged in eras lost to fog. Norman was the worst. His axe, shimmered with crimson light, its blade drinking the blood it spilled, growing heavier, sharper with each kill. Mana pulsed through him, his enhanced body rivaling an onyx beast's strength—muscles bulging, eyes glowing faintly. A chainrunner charged, shield raised, but Norman swung. The axe hummed, unleashing a shockwave of mana that shattered the shield, severed the man's arm, and sent him sprawling, blood gushing.

If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

Another chainrunner rushed to help, blade high, but Norman spun, impossibly fast, and drove his elbow into her face. The blow landed with unnatural force, mana amplifying it, and her skull crumpled, her body collapsing like a broken doll. Two more came, a chainrunner and a brave civilian. Norman's axe arced, cleaving the chainrunner's stomach, cutting him in two, guts spilling. The civilian, a young man with a spear, tried to flank, but Norman twisted, slamming the axe's wooden haft into his chest. A sickening crack echoed—ribs shattering, and the man fell, gasping, dead.

"This is the real threat," I muttered, my voice swallowed by the roar of steel and screams. Norman carved through the melee like a storm, bodies piling at his feet, blood dripping from Bloodreaver's edge. Other Artifact Holders fought, their weapons flashing in the dust-choked haze, but none matched him, his axe's mana-charged fury a wall no one could breach.

The Law of the Finders spurred the brave to face them, the promise of an artifact worth dying for. As I watched, Artemis struck, her short sword finding a noble's chest, someone from the Rovind family, an Artifact Holder crumpling under her blade. She knelt, claiming the artifact, her eyes fierce with triumph, but Norman loomed beyond, untouchable, his kills a grim promise of the fight's cost.

"Its time." I said as I leaped, tentacles snapping taut to launch me high, Hazeveil's shadows peeling back to reveal me. No hiding now. I landed with a deliberate thud, the ground trembling, dust billowing around me. Norman stood steps away, his axe cleaving a civilian in half, blood spraying as the body fell. His eyes locked on me, burning with rage. "YOU!" he roared, voice raw, some kind of berserk state gripping him. Bloodreaver hummed, its mana flaring, fed by the blood it had taken, its edge sharper, heavier with each kill.

"Your artifact," I said, curiosity cutting through the combat's rush, "it grows stronger with blood?" My voice was calm, steady, but Norman didn't hear. His scream drowned it, his mind lost to Bloodreaver's fury, veins bulging, muscles rippling under his enhanced frame. The axe pulsed, crimson light flaring, ready to unleash another shockwave.

The melee paused, a ripple of silence spreading. Chainrunners and guards stepped back, eyes darting between us. They'd expected Lirien, her stern presence to meet Norman's wrath, but she was absent, likely watching from afar, letting the weak fall. I was here instead, a crimson monster against an onyx warrior. The air grew heavy, dust settling on blood-slick cobbles, the road's vastness framing our stand-off.

Norman charged, faster than any human, his axe arcing to split me. His own men stood in the way, but he didn't falter, trampling them, their screams cut short as his bulk crushed bone. I dodged, tentacles snapping me backward, my boots skidding on stone. Bloodreaver slammed the ground, a mana shockwave erupting, cracking cobbles and flinging debris. He swung again, relentless, his movements a blur, tireless in his berserk state. The drug and artifact made him deadly, a force that could rend steel and flesh alike.

But he wasn't my equal. As his next swing came, wide and fierce, I met it with frost. Hollow claws formed, curved and translucent, glinting like ice under the fog's dim light. They slashed his arm, piercing deep. He recoiled, staring at the wound—shallow, barely bleeding. "What?" he snarled, laughing, a guttural sound, shrugging it off as he lunged again. He didn't see the venom—frost seeping from the claws' hollow tips, chilling his blood, slowing his pulse.

I struck again, claws grazing his side, then his leg, each hit precise, injecting more venom. His arm paled, veins blue beneath skin, his swings growing sluggish. He charged, axe raised, but I danced aside, raking his neck, a faint scratch that carried more frost. Each wound was small, but the venom stacked, his body betraying him. His breaths grew heavy, his steps unsteady, yet he fought, Bloodreaver's crimson glow dimming as his strength waned.

"What have you done?" he demanded, voice thick, axe swinging slower, no longer a blur. It thudded against the ground, missing me, its shockwave weak. I could've ended him, but I didn't want Bloodreaver. Its berserk state was something I would rather avoid.

The battle raged around us, but the council's numbers dwindled. Most Artifact Holders lay dead, their weapons claimed or broken. Norman was the last true threat, and he was faltering. I stepped back, frost claws retracting, and raised my voice, mana amplifying it, runes flickering in the air like sparks. "End him," I commanded, the words carrying over the clamor.

Chainrunners surged forward, weapons ready. Artemis and Leslo led, their steps synchronized, Artemis gripping her new dagger artifact, its blade faintly glowing. But Norman wasn't done. A final surge of will broke through the venom's grip—not full strength, but enough. His muscles tensed, Bloodreaver flaring crimson, and he roared, shaking the frost's hold. Artemis lunged, dagger aimed, but Norman's kick caught her chest, a brutal snap of force sending her flying. Her armor crunched, and she hit the ground meters away, gasping. Leslo shouted, rushing to her, dragging her from the fray.

The other chainrunners froze, circling Norman, blades raised but feet rooted. His axe swung in slow arcs, blood dripping, his eyes wild despite the venom's chill. None dared step in—his surge, even weakened, was too much. None but one. Gustav stood, blood caking his face, his shield long gone, only half a spear in his grip. His eyes burned, not with fear but with the grim resolve of a man whose soul had been lost to the fog long ago.

Norman met his gaze, a predator sizing prey, and charged. The ground shook, Bloodreaver aimed for Gustav's head. Gustav dodged, barely, the axe grazing his shoulder, blood spraying. He ducked low, thrusting his spear, aiming for Norman's chest, but Norman anticipated, swatting the blade with Bloodreaver's haft. A kick followed, slamming Gustav's chest. Bones cracked, loud enough to turn heads, and Gustav staggered back, blood flecking his lips.

"Not enough," Gustav spat, eyes blazing, matching Norman's fury. He stood, swaying but defiant, and charged. They clashed, spear against axe, blood and steel. Gustav took blows—kicks, punches, each one shattering ribs, splitting skin, but he rose, again and again, his will unbreakable. Norman, slowed by venom, landed heavier hits, but Gustav's grit matched his. The crowd watched, chainrunners and guards alike, the battle's din fading around this duel.

I stood back, frost humming in my veins, fighting the urge to intervene. Gustav could die, his body broken, but if he won? I saw it—evolution, the cycle turning, forging something stronger. What could he become? The thought held me, fascination outweighing pity, as they bled.

Norman faltered, his surge fading, venom creeping back. Gustav lay battered, barely standing, but Norman moved to finish him, axe raised. Gustav acted. He hurled his half-spear, the jagged tip flying at Norman's chest. It struck armor, deflected, clattering away, but it bought a moment. Gustav surged forward, snatching the falling spear mid-air, and leaped. The spear drove into Norman's neck, through a gap in his gorget, piercing deep. Blood gushed, a crimson wave.

Norman fell to his knees, clutching his throat, blood pouring between fingers. Gustav yanked the spear free, and the flow surged, staining the cobbles. The berserk state flickered out, Norman's eyes clearing, human again—fearful, then empty. He slumped, breath gone, his massive frame still. Norman Highrow, Guard Captain, fifth seat, Artifact Holder, was dead.

Gustav seized Bloodreaver, its crimson light flaring in his grip. He raised it, a raw scream tearing from his throat, cutting through the battle's roar. The council forces faltered, their leader gone, while chainrunners roared, rallied by their new Artifact Holder. Gustav, bloodied, broken, stood tall, Bloodreaver his by right, the district's second greatest artifact claimed.