THE DEVIL'S FRUIT

Chapter 1: Black Reach

When death draws near and shadows swell, we rise together, breaking the spell.

The first light of morning spilled like molten gold across the empty grasslands. The air was sharp and hollow, carrying the faint scent of decay, like something sacred had long since rotted. The breeze whispered of corruption, a voice only the damned could hear.

No birds sang here anymore. No animals stirred. The land had fallen silent after The Fall. What life once thrived was now still, as if even the earth itself was holding its breath. The quiet was so deep it pressed against the heart, heavy and suffocating.

And within that stillness, an army waited.

The Blood Knights of House Blackthorn stood row upon row, eyes glowing like embers in the cold light. Their hair, crimson and wild, burned like living flame against the gray of the world. They rode upon creatures that were neither horse nor beast, things of slick, hairless muscle and pale green skin stretched too tight over bulging veins. Each breath they took steamed through their gaping jaws, hungry and restless.

Behind them rose the iron gates of Black Reach, monolithic and endless, swallowing the horizon like a wall of judgment. Beyond it stretched a black fog, the boundary between life and the abyss, and somewhere in that choking dark loomed the last dome, the final refuge of their dying world.

The soldiers laughed quietly among themselves, their humor sharp and cruel, born not from joy but from defiance.

And beneath that laughter came the whispers.

“Is he really only fourteen?”

“Why bring him here at all?”

“He never evolved. What’s he supposed to do against the shadows?”

“The Sovereign must be desperate.”

“A shame to the Blackthorn name. The boy was doomed from birth.”

All eyes turned toward one figure, the smallest among them, yet the one who stood the stillest.

Aric Blackthorn, ninth son of House Blackthorn, sat astride his Gravethorn, his red hair tied back in a soldier’s knot. His eyes burned with the same crimson light as his kin, but his face remained unreadable, carved from quiet resolve.

He heard every word. He did not react.

When death creeps near and shadows swell, we rise united, breaking the spell.

The words of the creed beat through his chest like a second heart. To others, it was just a chant. To him, it was a weapon, his last one.

Then the air shifted.

A Gravethorn at the front reared, its claws carving deep into the dirt. The murmurs stopped.

Rowan Blackthorn, the Blood Champion, sat atop the beast, his presence a storm contained in flesh. Even without shouting, his voice rolled like thunder when he finally spoke.

“Form up.”

The army obeyed instantly. Swords and spears gleamed as the ranks reformed, silence tightening like a drawn bowstring. Rowan’s eyes flicked toward Aric, a brief nod, half pride, half regret.

At fourteen, Aric was barely a man among killers. This was his first battle at Black Reach, and though fear clawed at his stomach, his hands did not shake.

If only the gift of evolution had touched him, he might have been something greater, a true Blackthorn, not the weak son fate had mocked.

Rowan drew a slow breath, the sorrow in his eyes gone as soon as it appeared.

“Stay ready,” he said. “It begins.”

Aric nodded once, a promise forged in silence.

Then the pit ahead began to stir.

From its center, darkness spilled forth, thick and alive, crawling across the land like ink soaking through parchment. The ground blackened where it touched, grass turning to ash.

Shapes emerged, twisted limbs dripping with obsidian slime. Some were hulking, malformed giants with teeth like knives. Others slithered, whispering as they moved, their bodies slick with living oil.

Eyes, thousands of them, blinked open. Empty. Cold.

Then came the scream. A sound so deep it rattled the sky.

The horde surged upward like a black tide, swallowing the horizon.

Rowan’s Gravethorn stamped the ground, the sound cracking through the air. His voice rose, carrying across the field, strong and unshaken.

“When death creeps near and shadows swell, we rise united, breaking the spell.”

The army answered him in thunder.

“Through crimson storms and endless dread, our strength is iron, our blood is lead.”

“In darkest nights with devil eyes, Blackthorn hearts never die.”

The chant rose higher until it was not a song but a roar, a wall of fury crashing against the dark.

Rowan lifted his sword, the blade catching the morning light.

“Charge!”

The Blood Knights surged forward, their beasts pounding the earth in unison. The ground trembled beneath their charge.

Aric tightened his grip on the reins, the wind tearing at his face as his hammer swung free, a weapon too heavy for most men, yet balanced perfectly in his hands.

Rowan’s voice carried once more through the chaos. “Bloodflow!”

The word rippled through the ranks like fire through dry grass.

A red glow burst from the knights’ veins, spreading across their bodies. Their eyes blazed brighter, muscles swelling, senses sharpening until every breath became a weapon. They had embraced the Bloodflow, a curse and a gift of their lineage.

But Aric’s body remained still. No surge of power, no crimson blaze. His blood did not sing. His evolution had never come.

And still, he fought.

The field became chaos, iron, flame, and shadow colliding. Gravethorns ripped through monsters with bared claws, blades sang through the air.

Aric’s hammer came down like falling meteors, shattering bone and splitting the black sludge that passed for flesh. Each swing was a defiance, every breath a rebellion against the fate written in his blood.

For every creature that fell, another crawled from the pit. The ground became a swamp of ichor and smoke.

The Blackthorn line began to waver. Soldiers were dragged into the dark, screams vanishing before they reached the air.

Aric’s Gravethorn shrieked as claws tore into its flank. He leapt free, landing hard, rolling to his feet as the hammer swung in a wide, ruthless arc. Shadows split and dissolved under his blows, black blood staining his armor.

Even without the gift, he moved with the precision of a master. Cold. Focused. Unrelenting.

Around him, other knights noticed, the boy without evolution holding his ground when veterans fell.

The whispers returned, softer now, edged with awe.

“He’s still fighting.”

“He shouldn’t even be alive.”

Then the ground trembled again.

From the pit rose something colossal, giants made of shadow and rage, their forms barely holding shape.

Rowan’s eyes darkened. “Prepare to clash.”

The air shattered with a roar as one of the creatures charged, its massive fist crashing through the ranks.

“Aric!” Rowan shouted.

The boy turned just as the monster’s blow descended, a wall of flesh and fury.

He raised his hammer, every ounce of strength behind it.

Impact.

The world exploded in light and dust.

Aric flew backward, crashing through the dirt, breath ripped from his lungs. Pain spread like fire.

Not yet, he thought. Not yet.

He tried to rise, but the world tilted. Above him, the sun hung cold and distant, its light too pure for this place.

And then darkness swallowed everything.