THE DEVIL'S FRUIT

Chapter 5: The Curse.

Ironhold sat beneath the fading sun like a city forged for war, its metal veins of raised roads slicing through the landscape like old battle scars. It wasn’t built for beauty or dreams; it was built to endure. Every wall, every beam, every road carried the same message: survive, no matter the cost.

At its heart loomed a towering fortress, grim and unyielding, surrounded by smaller settlements huddled beneath its shadow like desperate survivors seeking warmth.

When twilight spilled across the horizon, Darius Blackthorn declared the day done. The group would rest here under Ironhold’s cold gaze until dawn offered safer skies. Flying at night was suicide, only fools tempted the dark, for it belonged to creatures faster, sharper, and deadlier after sunset.

Their arrival swept through the city like a storm. The Blackthorn crest burned bright on their carriage, trailed by armored warriors whose presence silenced the streets. No one dared to challenge them. They stopped at the heart of Redmourne’s stronghold, a colossal outpost standing like a sentinel at the city’s core.

Aric stepped down first. His crimson eyes locked on the building ahead, and his fists clenched tight. “Soon,” he muttered, his voice low and rough, more a promise than a word.

Though born of the powerful Blackthorn line, Aric knew too well the weight of the laws that ruled their world. Only Blood Knights and their apprentices were welcome inside these fortresses of power. He was neither.

At fourteen, his body had rejected the gift that had already awakened in others his age, a cruel reminder of his failure to evolve.

“It’s late, Ninth Vein,” Seris said softly, pulling him from his thoughts.

Aric exhaled, a sound more like defeat than relief, and turned toward a smaller, humbler building nearby. As he walked, the whispers followed him, sharp, mocking, poisonous. He ignored them all. Denied entry to the stronghold, he had no choice but to settle for a lesser shelter, one that mirrored the inadequacy that haunted him.

Behind him, Darius’s lips twisted into a sneer. “Garbage being treated like garbage,” he spat, the satisfaction clear in his tone before he turned away.

Inside the compound, Aric’s footsteps echoed against the cold ground. Then suddenly, the air shifted, thickened, as if something monstrous had drawn breath nearby. A chill ran down his spine.

At the edge of the courtyard, a man stumbled into view. Pale, thin, with tangled black hair and bloodshot eyes, he looked like a ghost dragged out of a grave. Each of his steps wavered as though life itself was slipping through his fingers.

Since the night his parents were taken from him, Aric had carried a strange gift, or curse. He could sense when death was near. It wasn’t something he had been taught; it had been carved into him by grief and loss. He had seen death too many times since then, felt it crawl closer again and again, and now it was here once more.

Could it be happening again?

Long ago, humanity had forged the golden Dome, a radiant barrier that protected a third of the world from the spreading darkness. But the Dome was never perfect. It kept the monsters of the south at bay, yet it couldn’t stop what was already festering within.

And now, as Aric watched, the nightmare returned to life.

The man’s lifeguard device on his arm began to flash wildly, its calm green light turning a violent red. A chorus of alarms followed as every Blood Knight’s device in range echoed the same warning.

A cold, mechanical voice rang out:

“ALERT: Subject life signs critical. Death imminent. Please clear the area. Blood Knights have been notified and are en route.”

The message repeated again and again, echoing like a dirge through the air.

Blood Knights drew their weapons, their eyes narrowing with lethal intent. Around them, ordinary citizens scattered in panic, their footsteps hammering against the stone as they fled.

A shimmering blue barrier surged up around the compound, crackling with energy, runes glowing in frantic rhythm to the chaos.

“We should move, Ninth Vein,” Seris urged calmly.

But Aric didn’t move. His gaze was locked on the man in the center of the storm, curiosity and unease mixing in his eyes. What fate dragged you here?

A heartbeat later, he turned and walked away, slipping past the edge of the barrier. The AI kept repeating its warnings, but no one else dared move.

The man stumbled once, twice, and fell. His chest rose and fell weakly, then stilled.

Silence swallowed the courtyard.

One second passed.

A wave of cold swept through everyone, deeper than winter.

Another second.

Then, darkness erupted from the man’s body, a black pillar twisting upward like a living shadow. It struck the barrier with violent force, bleeding into it, warping its light. The shadow writhed, folding in on itself until it took form: a towering, grotesque creature with hollow, glowing eyes and a roar that split the silence wide open.

“A Grade Two Enhancer!” a Blood Knight shouted.

In an instant, weapons flared to life. Blades blazed with runes, mana sparked through the air, and chaos exploded in a storm of light, steel, and screams.

By nightfall, the echoes of battle had faded, leaving Aric once again face-to-face with a truth he hated: without evolution, he was powerless. In the old world, intelligence, charm, or ambition could open doors. In this one, only strength mattered.

The monsters from the south were just the beginning. The real curse was what came after death, the corruption that twisted corpses into walking vessels of darkness. Even the Dome couldn’t stop it. Not even the animals were spared, reshaped by death and mutation.

Humanity had adapted as best it could. Lifeguards, once simple health monitors, had become early-warning beacons, flawed but vital tools in the fight to survive.

Aric had tried to watch the Blood Knights in battle, hoping to learn, but all he ever caught were flashes of violent movement before the monsters dissolved into nothingness.

That night, sleep offered no peace. The images of death clawed at his dreams until dawn broke and Seris quietly informed him it was time to move on.

Their carriage lifted into the air once more, carried by winged beasts toward the Blackthorn’s true seat of power.

Vitaemora.

The City of Blood.

It rose before them like a dark crown, ancient and immense, its walls etched with centuries of conquest and grief. The Blackthorn crest glowed above it, a mark that inspired awe in some and terror in others.

Even after countless visits, Aric still felt the weight of it pressing down on him. Awe mixed with resentment in his chest.

Their passage through the gates was swift, the Blackthorn emblem granting them entry through layer after layer of security.

Once inside, Aric stepped down, the cold ground grounding him as he turned east toward the shadowed forest beyond the keep. His steps were steady, quiet, deliberate. Seris followed at his side, loyal as ever.

Behind them, Darius watched, anger smoldering in his eyes.

“Let’s make our report to the Blood Sovereign,” he said through clenched teeth, voice sharp and bitter as a blade.