THE DEVIL'S FRUIT

Chapter 6: Dinner.

Time slipped quietly through the forest as Aric Blackthorn and Seris moved beneath the bare branches, their footsteps light and soundless. They traveled until the trees gave way to a clearing, revealing the broken silhouette of a manor swallowed by decay and silence.

The building stood like a monument to forgotten glory, its cold stone walls weathered by time. This had been Aric’s inheritance—bestowed upon him at twelve, the age when every Blackthorn heir was meant to awaken and claim their destiny. It was meant to be his stronghold, a symbol of nobility and promise.

But to Aric, it was no throne. It was a prison.

The house that should have marked his rise had instead become a tomb of quiet isolation. His parents, once powerful and proud, were long gone—casualties of the brutal politics that consumed the clan.

Without allies or favor, Aric had become a ghost among his own bloodline. No one wanted to tie their fate to a boy who had failed to evolve, who carried the Blackthorn name but none of its divine inheritance.

The manor’s heavy doors creaked open, the sound echoing through the empty halls as Aric entered. Seris followed in silence, her presence a mere echo against the vastness of the place.

He walked through the wide corridors to his chamber—a long, narrow room built of gray stone. The ceiling loomed high, the single window gazing out at a lifeless horizon. There was nothing of warmth here, nothing that spoke of home.

Aric stripped away his formal garments, trading them for lighter clothing that allowed movement. The soft rustle of fabric was the only sound, like a whisper urging him to act.

Moments later, he was outside again. The courtyard lay untended, the once-grand estate sinking beneath years of neglect. He sprinted through it, his boots striking the earth in steady rhythm as he vanished into the forest beyond.

He ran until the trees opened to reveal a clearing—his sanctuary, his secret.

It was a rough, hand-carved training ground, the result of years of relentless self-discipline. Every fallen log, every stone scarred by impact, carried the weight of his will.

Here, Aric had forged himself in solitude. Cast out from the clan’s training halls for his lack of evolution, he had built his own crucible. His hands and body had become his teachers, his failures the only lessons he could afford.

He would not yield to fate.

Day after day, he pushed himself beyond exhaustion. Each movement was precise, each repetition a step toward strength.

By the time night fell, the forest was drenched in deep purple light, the horizon bruised with dusk. Aric’s body trembled from fatigue, but he did not stop.

Seris appeared at the edge of the clearing, silent as a shadow. She watched him without a word.

When at last Aric sank to the ground, crossing his legs in meditation, his breath was slow and deliberate. His mind replayed each recent battle in perfect detail—every strike, every mistake, every flicker of hesitation.

This was how he learned: through reflection, through pain, through the study of his own imperfection.

He inhaled deeply, each breath sharpening his awareness, each heartbeat syncing mind and muscle into something unified, something deadly.

At length, he opened his eyes. Seris was already kneeling before him, her voice soft and formal.

“Ninth Vein… dinner approaches.”

“Dinner?”

“Yes, Ninth Vein. It has been three months since the last.”

Aric exhaled, the sound heavy with resignation.

The quarterly dinner—a gathering of the Blood Sovereign’s direct descendants. A ritual cloaked in elegance but dripping with cruelty.

He despised it.

Still, he rose to his feet, silent but resolved. Beneath his calm exterior, a storm stirred.

Together, he and Seris returned to the manor. Awaiting him inside was a set of formal garments—dark fabric threaded with crimson patterns, the mark of his lineage. He dressed without haste, the weight of tradition hanging heavy on his shoulders.

Soon, they were on their way to the clan’s fortress—Vitaemora.

The stronghold towered ahead, a vast structure of black stone and blood-red banners. Its walls stretched endlessly, blotting out the stars, the Blackthorn sigil glowing from its highest spire like a curse.

Even after countless visits, the sight of it pulled at him—equal parts awe and dread.

The great gates opened without resistance, the family crest granting him silent passage. Inside, the halls were empty, lined with relics of conquest and ambition.

Aric’s footsteps echoed as he approached the chamber of the Blood Dinner.

Before him loomed a pair of heavy mahogany doors. He paused, breathing deeply, gathering what remained of his resolve.

“Let’s get this over with,” he murmured.

The doors opened, and the world beyond pressed down on him like a weight. The air was dense, the silence suffocating.

For a moment, his knees weakened under the pressure of so many unseen eyes. He steadied himself and stepped forward, his gaze sweeping across the grand table.

Twenty-one figures sat around it, perfectly arranged as if for war.

Closest to the empty throne at the head were twelve elders—the Pulses, Aric’s aunts and uncles. Their authority filled the room like a living force, each one a ruler in their own right.

Further down sat nine of the younger heirs—the Veins, his cousins. All powerful, all evolved.

And between them, the spouses and consorts—adorned like royalty, dangerous as serpents.

Aric’s boots struck the polished floor as he made his way to his seat—the one farthest from the head of the table, the seat of the unworthy.

No one greeted him. No one even looked his way. He was the shadow they all pretended not to see.

Good. The Blood Sovereign isn’t here yet.

A breath of relief escaped him. To draw the Sovereign’s eye was to invite humiliation—or worse.

But even unseen, the room’s hostility pressed against him, thick and bitter.

He could feel their loathing. Their contempt.

To them, he was a stain—an unfulfilled promise wearing the Blackthorn name.

The silence fractured.

One of the wives—a woman glittering with jewels and poison—lifted her hand, her voice smooth and venomous.

“Still no evolution, I see. You do us all a kindness by staying quiet. Some of us prefer not to dine with disappointments.”

A ripple of cruel amusement moved through the table.

Aric met her gaze without flinching.

His eyes, cold and steady, burned with quiet fire.

The game had begun.