Devil's Fruit

Chapter 9: Clash

Chapter 9: Clash

Soaked in the cold sweat of a ruthless training, Aric Blackthorn stopped abruptly, his crimson eyes narrowed, when they fell upon the white slip of paper in his hand. The woods about him hushed as though in expectation, the far-off rustling of the leaves dying away to nothing.

Is it time? A tempest of suspicion and fatigue rolled in his mind.

Another Blood Sovereign mission? He was accustomed to the missives of the Sovereign, and they were always enclosed in blood-red parchment,--a silent sign of serious importance and unquestioning reverence. But this was no ordinary letter: it was white as snow, almost harmless.

The silence was broken by the voice of Seris, calm, yet with a certain caution. It is of Mistress Vira, Ninth Vein.

Aric frowned and came nearer to her, ripping open the letter with a sharp impatient movement. The words leaped before his eyes in a blur, enough time to read the cold, cutting message.

There was a slight rustling of paper as Aric folded the letter in his hand, then flung it aside with a certain scorn.

“Ignore it.” His voice was cold and sharp like a blade cutting through bone.

He went back to the painful movements of his training, muscles aflame with anger and determination, without another word.

Seris looked on, and was not surprised. She had seen the contents of the letter when Aric had opened it. His icy rejection was not surprising given that we knew his temperament. She had already heard whispers among the other maids that Vira would not suffer the humiliation of the evening to pass without reply.

A measured blow, to incite, to fracture.

She dropped her head low and turned back to the manor, already her mind racing with the consequences that would follow.

---

Hours passed in a blur of sweat, pain, and blood, until evening draped its dark velvet cloak over the sky. Aric returned to the manor, his every step heavy with exhaustion but also with grim determination to survive whatever storm brewed on the horizon.

Yet even before he reached the manor’s weathered steps, movement caught his gaze. A figure emerged, disrupting the sanctity of his solitude.

Guests were rare in this forsaken refuge, and today seemed hellbent on shattering that fragile silence.

The woman approached, draped in swaths of vibrant silk, each fold shimmering with the weight of countless golden trinkets. Rings adorned her fingers, gemstones flashing like captured stars with every casual flick of her ornate fan.

Her face was painted with the practiced, unnatural gloss of nobility, shimmering unnervingly under the dying light.

Trailing behind her like shadows clung to flame were two of Aric’s maids, their heads bowed so low it seemed their very necks might snap. Trembling breaths escaped them as they whispered in unison.

“Ninth Vein,” they intoned with trembling reverence, stepping aside to give way.

Aric’s gaze hardened, riveted to the source of the growing tension.

Vira.

The name alone coiled through the air like a snake ready to strike.

Wife to a Pulse, her position cemented by power and privilege, untouchable in the Blackthorn clan’s labyrinthine hierarchy.

Aric—bloodline pure but unevolved—stood beneath her shadow, a pawn in the merciless game of status and scorn.

Vira halted several meters away, chin lifted, radiating an aura of unshakable superiority that seemed to suffocate the very air.

With a languid flick of her fan, she summoned the guard behind her.

“Kael.”

The man stepped forward, bowing so low his forehead nearly kissed the earth.

“Yes, Mistress,” he breathed.

“Did you deliver my letter?” Vira’s voice was ice coated in venom, her fan snapping shut with a deliberate, crisp click.

“Yes, Mistress,” Kael answered swiftly.

“To whom?”

Kael’s hands trembled imperceptibly, his eyes flickering toward Seris, who stood silently at Aric’s side.

“To… her, Mistress,” he confessed weakly, nodding toward Seris.

The weight of silence dropped like a guillotine.

Vira’s narrowed eyes pierced the shadows, her lips curling into a scornful frown.

“Kael,” she repeated, voice cold and unforgiving, “to whom exactly were you ordered to deliver the letter?”

The man stiffened visibly, knuckles whitening as sweat gathered at his brow.

He knew what was at stake. His voice fractured as he spoke.

“To the Ninth Vein, Mistress,” he admitted under her unrelenting gaze.

Without missing a beat, Vira’s hand plunged into the folds of her robe, producing a dagger that gleamed ominously in the dying light. The blade was sharp, its edge singing with cruel promise.

“Extend your hand,” she commanded with cold finality.

Kael’s breath hitched, but obedience won over fear. His left arm stretched out, revealing scars and a missing finger, silent testimony to brutal past punishments.

In one swift, merciless stroke, Vira’s dagger descended. The sickening sound of flesh and sinew parting echoed starkly as two of Kael’s fingers fell, dripping blood pooling on the ground like dark rubies spilled on cold stone.

Kael’s arm shook violently, his body wracked by pain, yet he gritted his teeth and held his position, refusing to utter a sound. His knees nearly buckled, but pride and terror forced him upright.

The two maids trembled uncontrollably, their faces drained of color, eyes darting wildly between their mistress and the fallen bloodied fingers.

Aric watched in silence, his expression an unreadable mask carved of ice, his crimson gaze flickering briefly to the trembling maids before settling back on Vira.

Vira’s smirk was thin, cruel. She turned her gaze to Seris.

“You.” Her voice was a whip, laced with scorn. “Did you deliver the letter to your pathetic excuse for a master?”

Silence stretched taut, broken only by the cold wind rustling the leaves.

Seris remained unmoved, her calm face betraying no fear, though her hands clenched tightly at her sides, the tension coiling like steel springs ready to snap.

Vira’s eyes narrowed, patience fraying like worn silk. “Are you deaf, maid?” she spat, stepping closer.

Still no answer came from Seris, who stood resolute as stone.

Vira’s frustration exploded. She drew her dagger again, blade catching the fading light, glinting dangerously.

“Do you think you can ignore me, insolent wretch—”

Before her insult could finish, Aric stepped forward, towering over her despite his youth.

His voice was low, calm, but wrapped in an unyielding chill that made the air itself seem to freeze.

“What do you want?” he demanded, crimson eyes boring into hers like twin blades.

Vira halted, meeting his gaze with narrowed eyes. The silence between them was a thick, living thing.

Then, with a cruel smile twisting her lips, she began.

“You useless—”

Aric cut her off, voice razor-sharp, slicing through her venom like a guillotine.

“I don’t have time for your petty theatrics. You sent a letter. You summoned me—Malakai Von Sanguine, no less. Now I want to know—who the hell do you think you are to command me?”

Her face twisted in outrage, lips trembling as fury bubbled to the surface.

“You! How dare you! My standing—”

“Standing?” Aric interrupted, voice cold and cutting. “You mean the throne you clawed your way to by crawling into a Pulse’s bed? Everything you claim—your name, your status, your gilded throne—it’s not yours. You didn’t earn a single scrap of it.”

His voice dropped, colder than the grave.

“You’re a hollow shell pretending to matter.”

Vira looked struck, as if slapped by truth itself, but Aric was relentless.

“You don’t summon me. You don’t even speak my name unless you’ve earned the right. And you…” His gaze raked her from head to toe with unmitigated contempt. “You never have.”