Devil's Fruit

Chapter 6: Dinner

Chapter 6: Dinner

Time passed like a shadow through the dark forest, and Aric Blackthorn and Seris crept unseen beneath the bare branches until at length they came out into the gloomy emptiness of a ruined manor.

It was a stoical monument of cold stone and faded glory, and this manor had been bestowed upon Aric when he was twelve years old, the age at which members of his blood were to awaken and take their place.

It was to be his throne, his kingdom, a visible symbol of his position in the Blackthorn history.

But in the absence of friends, in the absence of the unseen hands of the unseen friends, the manor was not a cradle of power but a cage of solitude.

His parents, who had been the makers of his destiny, were long since dead, devoured in the ruthless processes of clan politics.

Isolated, unattached, and in the shadow, Aric was exiled in his own family.

Nobody ventured to risk his fortunes on a boy who promised nothing by evolution, who held out no prospect beyond the stagnant line of failure.

He entered the manor in the hollow silence of the heavy door.

The very presence of Seris was a silent echo, pardoned with a polite excuse, and Aric went back into the great, deserted rooms of his allotted lodgings.

It was a long, narrow room, the walls and ceiling of cold stone, the ceiling very high, and the window looking out on a bare horizon.

But the room was cold and bare, a fine prison deprived of comfort and friendship.

Removing the heavy formal clothing, Aric wore lighter clothing that would allow him to move freely, the fabric rustling against his body as though it was pushing him to move.

He was out of the back door in a moment, and, crossing the manor yard, which was in a state of neglect, he darted away in a gallop as the light was failing.

His feet struck the rough earth with steady rhythm as he raced toward a clearing that cradled his sanctuary: a self-fashioned training ground carved from years of relentless, solitary effort.

Here lay the blueprint of his defiance—an unforgiving gauntlet designed to sculpt every facet of combat: agility honed like sharpened steel, endurance tempered by unyielding will, strength born of brutal repetition, and reflexes sharpened to lightning speed.

The course was rough-hewn, far from pristine, but every splintered log and cracked stone was steeped in sweat and quiet desperation.

Rejected from the clan’s youth training halls for his failure to evolve, Aric had crafted this crucible himself, his determination forging strength from ashes.

He refused to bow to fate.

No matter the cost, no matter the isolation, he would grow stronger.

No moment was wasted.

He plunged headfirst into the grueling regimen.

…

The day bled into night, the sky bleeding deep purples and bruised blues as Aric’s limbs screamed in silent protest.

Seris approached the clearing, standing in shadow like a sentinel, watching without interruption.

Cross-legged on the earthen floor, Aric meditated, the slow rhythmic pulse of his breath mingling with the whisper of the wind.

His mind replayed every brutal clash and fleeting movement from recent battles, dissecting every strike, every lapse, every tiny advantage lost or gained.

This technique, gleaned from ancient, worn battle manuals, had become his crucible of progress.

He was no longer just remembering—he was refining, sharpening his instincts and intellect until they danced as one seamless weapon.

Each breath deepened his understanding; each heartbeat edged his reflexes closer to the razor’s unforgiving edge.

After a long moment, his eyes cracked open, glinting sharply as they locked on Seris, who had been bowing quietly before him.

“Ninth Vein… dinner approaches.”

“Dinner?”

“Yes, Ninth Vein. Three months have passed since the last.”

Aric said nothing, only exhaled heavily, the weight of inevitability pressing down like a stone on his chest.

The quarterly dinner mandated by the Blood Sovereign.

A brutal ritual where direct descendants gathered—an event Aric dreaded with a silence deeper than the void.

Rising, his figure straightened with quiet resolve.

The calm in his eyes betrayed the tempest roiling beneath—he loathed the table, the stares, the invisible chains it wrapped around his spirit.

With a nod, he and Seris left the forest’s protective shadows behind and moved toward the manor.

Inside, a swift change of clothes awaited—formal garments laid with meticulous precision, woven from dark fabrics threaded with the subtle sheen of the clan’s crimson sigil.

Minutes later, clad in the armor of tradition, Aric crossed once more into the wilderness and made his way toward the Sanguine Clan’s main fortress.

Vitaemora stretched before him, a massive bastion of black stone and whispered histories.

Its sheer scale was humbling—the endless walls blotted out the sky, swallowing light whole, the clan’s sigil burning like a brand upon its highest tower.

Despite countless visits, Aric’s breath caught in fleeting admiration before tightening again with the dread knot of his own insignificance.

Their passage through the massive gates was effortless, the Blackthorn crest a silent key opening paths carved through centuries of blood and power.

Inside, the vast halls were deserted—a somber reminder that here, business was the only language spoken.

Aric’s footsteps echoed hollowly as he approached the chamber reserved for these blood-stained dinners.

He stopped before the heavy mahogany door, a wall of polished darkness that promised torment.

Seconds stretched, the silence a tightening noose.

He breathed deeply, the inhale steadying nerves frayed like tattered silk.

“Let’s get this over with.”

With deliberate force, Aric pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The room’s air was thick, oppressive—gravity seemed multiplied, each breath a struggle beneath the weight of countless eyes.

His knees buckled for a heartbeat as he clenched his fists, fighting the invisible crushing pressure.

A second later, he anchored himself and cast a calculated glance around the massive table.

Twenty-one figures sat rigidly in a grand formation that mirrored a battlefield rather than a family gathering.

Seated nearest the empty head of the table, six on each side radiated raw authority and suffocating presence.

These were the Pulses—the mid-tier direct descendants, Aric’s uncles and aunts—lords of cities and governors of settlements whose whispers commanded fates.

Further down sat nine youths, the Veins, the youngest direct descendants and Aric’s own cousins—shining stars in the Blackthorn constellation.

And finally, arranged with careful precision, the wives and husbands of the Pulses—ornaments and weapons alike in the family’s deadly chess game.

Aric’s footsteps rang sharply on the polished floor as he claimed his seat at the far end opposite the head, a place both honor-bound and isolating.

No head turned to acknowledge him—he was already the shadow in the room, the ghost at the feast.

‘Good. The Blood Sovereign is not yet here.’

Relief flickered faintly.

He could not bear the consequence if the sovereign’s gaze found him first.

As he settled into his seat, an undercurrent of hatred and disdain crashed against him like a wave.

Some loathed his audacity to be present.

Others despised the unearned privilege of his position, a throne inherited but never earned.

Though distant from the table’s center, his seat faced the empty throne reserved for the Blood Sovereign—an unspoken reminder of the gulf between them.

Suddenly, the heavy silence cracked like glass under a careless footfall.

One of the wives, adorned in silks dyed with venom and jewels flashing like shards of spite, lifted a manicured hand with theatrical grace.

Her voice dripped with condescension, a poisonous melody that sought to wound.

“Still no evolution, I see. Truly, you do us all a favor by remaining invisible. Someone like you should never darken this table.”

The room rippled with restrained hostility as eyes sharpened, a chorus of silent venom humming in the air.

Aric met her gaze steadily, the fire in his chest kindling anew.

The game had begun.