Origins of Blood (RE)

I want more.

This time I crave not silence, not the stillness of one man's death. I crave the sound—the screams, the shattering of bones, the tearing of life in chorus. So, I run again, hunger screaming louder than thought, until I stumble upon them: a cluster of boys, huddled beneath the glow of another narrow street.

They're young—too young—none of them older than my little brother ever could dream of being. None older than Cham. My breath falters for half a second, but I crush the thought before it can dig into me. They wear the same uniform, dark blond hair slicked to the side as if molded from the same clay; five of them are children still, but the sixth—slightly older—maybe their brother. Maybe a friend.

My fist tightens, and the thought alone splinters me.

I burst from the alley. The instant their eyes meet mine—their pale, cold-blue eyes—they freeze. They see not a man, but something else rushing toward them. Their bodies jerk back, startled prey, while I hurl forward like a rat unleashed. Not upright, but hunched, feral, my head nearly level with my knees as I sprint. Everything in my head is foggy.

Momentum lifts me off the ground. I slam into the wall beside me, ricochet for height, and drop like a stone, my knee colliding with the throat of the older-looking one—perhaps the same age as Ren or even me. He crumples beneath me, gasping, their faces frozen in horror.

I laugh and sob all at once as the world bleeds red at the edges.

No one dares strike first. They stand in shock, waiting. Only when I twist the arm of the second who charges—snapping it like dry wood, guided by strands of light weaving through the air—do all of them finally surge.

The two on the flanks lunge. The rest hesitate.

I duck low, drive my elbow into the ribs of the one on my left, everything feeling distinct. My surroundings seem as if turning pastel, but still I move; His breath—one of the boys—vanishes in a wheeze, and before he can collapse, I kick him upward with my shinbone. His chest caves, his head snaps sideways, and he lies still. Silent.

Another comes, slamming into my side, and I'm thrown half a meter away. Blood bursts in my throat as I cough, splattering dark across the street—thick maggots writhing with it. I spit, wipe my mouth with the back of my left hand, and grin, even though I don't feel like it.

"That bastard is corrupted!" the oldest shouts, clutching at his throat—still trying to make sense of what has just happened to him—and his voice breaks, strained and hollow, as he gasps for breath that never comes.

The others don't look shocked; instead, their eyes swell with tears. Some cry because of the unmoving body at their feet, others because of the pain lacing through their fractured arms. But the oldest coughs again, his body convulsing, unable to draw air into his lungs after a few seconds.

My elbow smashes into his throat once more, silencing him, his lips frothing in desperate futility.

I spit onto the ground, my saliva mixing with the blood already pooling there, and spring forward with zigzagging steps—one wider, the other tighter, my movements erratic and sharp, as unbalanced as the ruin of my life in this very moment.

My fate hangs by strings I never hold, strings that pull and jerk me toward a single destination: their heads.

Kill all of them.

I must.

Pivoting to my right, I slam my left fist into another's temple. All my punches with my weak arm, yet they are magnetized—my left hand the south, their heads the north—and the red lines leading me everywhere I need to go. I follow it mindlessly; his body stumbles, turning circles in blind confusion for a heartbeat or two, before collapsing with a hollow thud.

My eyes snap to the one who bolts, tearing through the golden mist, desperate for escape.

Coward.

He dares to run, and so I chase; my boots strike the cobblestone, closing the distance, until he vanishes into a darkened alley.

He might have made it.

He might have survived.

But then I see them, his veins, glowing blue beneath his skin, tracing every pulse of blood. The scarlet lines draw me to him in mere seconds.

The boy presses his trembling body against the old brick wall of a house, tears streaking his face.

Around us, people peek from windows, their pale eyes watching but never daring to intervene. Silent witnesses, bound by fear. They do nothing but watch.

Yet I cannot linger. They will have called the local police.

I must finish this quickly.