# CHAPTER 13 – The Blood War, Part 1
The stone room had no neon.
There were no pale flickering lights, no signs advertising purchased pleasures. Only the light of black candles, arranged in a circle upon the round iron table, and the silence, heavy as a shroud. The walls were made of a stone so dark it seemed to absorb the light, and the ceiling, high and vaulted, lost itself in a twilight that was not darkness, but rather the absence of everything.
Olthernyuhu Olth sat at the head of the table. His hair, a white that shone with its own light, fell over his shoulders in perfect waves. His eyes, also white, fixed on those present with the calm of someone who had already seen too much.
"The Rabbit," he said, his voice low but firm. "We have discovered who she is."
The silence that followed was broken only by the crackling of the candles.
"Dantella Uthuryar," Olthernyuhu continued. "The owner of the brothel 'Oriundo Prazer.' The woman who has been leading the council of deep galaxies in the shadows, weaving alliances against the order of Orthid."
Ollum, his son, was leaning against a stone pillar, his arms crossed, his face impassive. His white hair, which shone like his father's, fell over his eyes, and the candlelight reflected on him as if he were made of liquid silver.
"And what do you intend to do, father?" he asked, his voice neutral, devoid of any emotion beyond cold courtesy.
Olthernyuhu looked at his son. His white eyes, motionless, fixed on his with an intensity that would make anyone else recoil.
"You will hunt her," he said. "Today. She is in some brothel in Orthid. Most likely Oriundo Prazer. It doesn't matter. You will find her and bring her here. If you need to make noise, do it. But I want her here, still today!"
Ollum did not move. His face, beautiful and cold as a marble statue, remained impassive.
"I'll take care of it," he said, his voice still neutral. "Without much fanfare. There's no need for a noisy hunt, father. Just a silent execution."
Olthernyuhu raised an eyebrow. Irritation, contained, gleamed in his white eyes.
"A silent execution?" he repeated, his voice sharper. "She is the Rabbit, Ollum. The council leader. She is not a maid who stole a loaf of bread. She is a traitor. And you speak of her as if she were a formality."
"She is a formality," Ollum replied, without changing his tone. "All deaths are formalities, father. Some are just noisier than others."
Olthernyuhu clenched his fists. The iron table, which had once been still, trembled slightly.
"Sometimes," he said, his voice low, dangerous, "I wonder if you still have blood in your veins."
"I do," Ollum replied. "I just don't let it boil."
Silence settled. The candles crackled.
Olthernyuhu stood up. The iron chair scraped against the stone floor.
"Go," he said. "Go hunt the Rabbit. But before that..." He paused, looking at his son with an expression that was not anger, but something older. "Before that, I want you to send knights to convince Zirinos to join us."
Ollum raised an eyebrow. For the first time, something changed in his face—not an emotion, but a glimpse of curiosity.
"Zirinos?" he repeated. "The prince of Z? Do you know where he is?"
"I do," Olthernyuhu replied. "He is in Xérius."
Ollum was silent. His white eyes, which had once been motionless, now gleamed with a different light.
"And why would he join us?" he asked.
"Because he needs allies," Olthernyuhu replied. "And because we need his blood. The blood of Z is the only thing that keeps the universe intact. If we manage to bring him to our side..."
"If we manage to convince him," Ollum corrected.
"If we manage to convince him," Olthernyuhu repeated, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes. "Then the Blood War will be won before it even begins. It's only a matter of time until we kill Ariana."
Ollum didn't respond. He just tilted his head, as if considering his father's words. He felt something that could be considered anger at the fact that his father had let Ariana's army pass through O years ago, only to be betrayed and conquered for a few months.
"And Olheita?" he asked, suddenly. "I want to see her before I leave."
Olthernyuhu sighed. Irritation, once contained, now overflowed.
"Olheita doesn't love you," he said, his voice dry. "She is from the Oquando family. She will never marry you. And you know that."
"I do know," Ollum replied, without changing his tone. "But that doesn't mean I don't want to see her."
Olthernyuhu shook his head. He turned to leave.
"Before you leave," he said, stopping at the door, "Ol'hem became an Original Void last night."
Ollum didn't react. He just nodded.
"I already knew."
"You are a stone, Ollum. Sometimes, I feel like going back to the damn times when you hadn't cut away your capacity for compassion."
"It's too late for that, father. I am an Olth. It's the same as a stone or a drop of water. I exist for a purpose, and I changed with it."
There was a sudden silence, as Othernyuhu realized that all of this was his fault. He didn't even think the boy would accept being trampled by his own son, but before he could utter some harsh words, a seductive voice, coming from the shadows, broke the silence.
"I deserve a prize," she said, her voice sweet and velvety. "For the information, of course."
Olthernyuhu, already at the door, turned his face to the left.
"Wait," he said. "We're not finished yet."
And so, defeated, he left and closed the door with a bang. The voice didn't answer. It just laughed, softly, and the sound echoed off the stone walls.
Ollum was left alone in the room, staring at the void.
+-+
The warehouse smelled of dust and metal.
Ethan was sitting on the floor, with Alerua on his lap, drawing with charcoal on a piece of parchment Wermilyass had left behind. The strokes were clumsy—a house, a tree, a long-legged figure—but the girl was smiling, and that was what mattered.
"Is it a house?" Ethan asked, his voice low, feeling a deep itch in his chest. The image of a house and a simple life, grazing and caring for children, was all he wished for at this moment. But what did he receive instead...
"It's my house," Alerua replied, her eyes visible through the broken mask. "Before I came here. Before..." She didn't finish.
Ethan touched her hair. The gesture was gentle, almost paternal.
"Your house still exists," he said. "Somewhere. Even if you're not there."
Alerua looked at him. Her eyes, curious, fixed on his. It was obvious Alerua was from A, and she had ended up here through dirty means.
"Do you have a house too?" she asked.
Ethan didn't answer. He realized he didn't know the answer. That he didn't have a simple response or even a plausible lie.
The warehouse door opened.
Ether entered, his smooth porcelain mask gleaming with the faint neon light. His beige cloak, impeccable, dragged on the stone floor.
"Prepare yourself," he said, his voice muffled by the mask. "Everything is ready for your First Cut."
Ethan felt his heart tighten, but he said nothing. He just stood up, slowly, and placed Alerua on the ground.
"Stay with Ether," he said to the girl. "I'll be back."
Alerua looked at him, her eyes full of a question she didn't know how to formulate.
Ethan's room was small, with a wooden bed and a nightstand. On the bed, a set of white robes, simple and immaculate.
Ethan put them on slowly. The fabric, light and cool, settled on his body like a second skin.
When he came out, Alerua was waiting, holding Ether's hand. The girl still had the broken mask on her face, and her eyes, curious, fixed on Ethan.
"Will you be okay?" she asked.
Ethan didn't answer. He just touched her hair, one last time.
"I will," he lied. And what a great lie it was.
They walked through the streets of Onité.
The surgical silence of the city enveloped them like a shroud. The people, with porcelain masks and mirrored visors, moved with the precision of puppets. No one looked at them. No one cared.
Ethan observed the sky. The sun, pale and distant, shone on the horizon, but the light didn't reach the streets. It was as if the sun were there only to see itself, to illuminate its own existence.
"Why does the sun never set?" Ethan asked, his voice low. "And why, even when it shines, does it illuminate nothing?"
Ether stopped. The porcelain mask turned to the horizon, where the white tower rose like a needle of marble and platinum.
The tower was immense. Its walls, of a white so pure it seemed to emit its own light, rose to the sky like a spear. The windows, narrow and pointed, shone with a bluish light that didn't come from within but was reflected from some invisible place. At the top, a sphere of pure crystal spun slowly, emitting a low hum that seemed to vibrate in Ethan's bones.
"That tower," Ether said, "prevents the planet from rotating on its axis. The sun never sets because the planet doesn't rotate. And the light doesn't illuminate because..." He paused. "Because it's not supposed to. It's not something you'll understand, even if I spend years explaining it to you."
Ethan felt a chill down his spine. He remembered that there were twenty-seven galaxies, each with its own laws, its own gods, its own forms of suffering. He knew nothing. Nothing. And he could die at any moment, from something he had never seen, from something he didn't even know existed.
The thought was so vast it almost made him stop.
But he kept walking.
The square was empty.
It was the same place where Merá Fulta had been cut. Ethan recognized the black iron post, the flag with the symbol of a hand grasping a broken skull. He recognized the stone floor where she had fallen, empty, her eyes fixed on the void.
He looked up at the top of the "Oriundo Prazer" brothel, where he had been chained. The neon sign, pale and flickering, looked like an open wound in the sky.
Ethan felt... nothing.
There was no fear. No sadness. Just an emptiness where emotions used to be. He felt nothing, and he hadn't even gone through the First Cut yet.
He advanced.
The Cutter was sitting on a stone bench, in the center of the square. His robes, white like Ethan's, dragged on the ground. His mask, also white, had two square openings where the eyes should be, and a black line dividing the face in half. His hands, pale and thin, rested on his lap.
Beside him, on a red velvet cushion, rested the blade—a dagger made of metal so clear it seemed made of condensed light.
Ethan knelt. His knees hit the stone floor with a dry sound.
"What do you want to cut?" asked the Cutter, his voice neutral, devoid of emotion.
Ethan hesitated. Just one second.
"Everything," he said, finally. "Everything except the rage I feel for Zirinos."
The Cutter trembled. His hands, which had once been still, contracted slightly.
"Zirinos?" he repeated, his voice lower. "The prince of Z?"
"Yes," Ethan replied, his voice flat.
"That is almost impossible," said the Cutter. "The blood power of Zirinos... the Julqam-Totalus... is not something you can face with rage. You will lose yourself. You will lose your mind."
Ethan didn't answer. He just waited.
The Cutter sighed. His trembling hands removed the cloth covering the blade. The metal, as clear as virgin sand, shone with a light that seemed to come from within.
Ethan observed the blade. The light reflected in his eyes, creating small flames that danced in his pupils.
"What is the Julqam-Totalus?" he asked. "Why does everyone tremble when they hear that name?"
The Cutter tilted his head. The porcelain mask, motionless, fixed on Ethan.
"It is Zirinos's power," he said. "The power to destroy worlds. The power to judge gods. The power to break reality with the force of his will."
Ethan felt a tightening in his chest. It wasn't fear. Just... recognition.
"And you want to face him with rage?" asked the Cutter. "Only with rage?"
"Yes," Ethan replied, his voice firm.
The Cutter said nothing more. He just raised the blade.
The metal shone.
And the blade entered Ethan's skull.
There was no pain. Just a strange sensation, as if something were being ripped from inside him, piece by piece.
The ability to love—ripped out.
The ability to feel happiness—ripped out.
The ability to feel sadness—ripped out.
The ability to feel grief, to feel compassion, to feel hope—all ripped out, all erased, as if they had never existed.
The memories remained. But they lost their meaning. He remembered Júlia, but the love he felt for her was like an old photograph, a memory that belonged to no one. He remembered Ana, but the desire he felt for her was like a shadow, a form without substance. He remembered Mira, but the pain he felt for her was like a wound that no longer bled.
Only the rage remained.
The rage for Zirinos.
The rage for all those who had used him, manipulated him, lied to him. What he felt for Ether, which was once a mix of anger and love, became pure rage.
The sun shone.
The light, once pale and distant, exploded in an intensity that blinded the passersby. The bystanders, motionless, shielded their eyes with their hands. The porcelain masks reflected the light, creating small rainbows that danced in the air.
Then, the sun returned to its normal state. Pale. Distant. Indifferent.
Ethan was on his knees, trembling.
The rage, sharp and cutting, burned in his chest. He wanted to break everything that was yellow or red. He wanted to scream, to crush, to destroy.
But suddenly, the rage was gone too.
Only the emptiness remained.
The Cutter, who had stood up, put the blade back on the velvet cushion. He didn't say a word. He just turned and walked away, disappearing into the darkness of the streets of Onité.
Ether advanced. The porcelain mask, motionless, fixed on Ethan. In his right hand, he held an orb—a small glass sphere that shone with a bluish light.
"Swallow this," he said, his voice muffled by the mask.
Ethan looked at the orb. His eyes, once full of emotion, were now empty.
"Why?" he asked, his voice flat.
"Because it will help you," Ether replied. "It will give you self-control. It will stop you from losing your mind."
Ethan took the orb. The blue light reflected in his eyes.
"Tell me one thing," he said, his voice still flat. "I lost the ability to feel. But the memories are still here. And if I buy memories from other people... can I feel what they felt?"
Ether hesitated. The porcelain mask, motionless, showed no expression.
"Yes," he said, finally. "You can. But you won't feel like before. You'll feel like a thief feels his prey. Empty. Cold. Distant."
Ethan didn't respond. He just swallowed the orb.
Calm came like a wave. The rage, which once burned in his chest, dissipated, replaced by an icy serenity.
"Where can I buy memories and essences?" he asked, his voice flat.
Ether looked at him. For a moment, the porcelain mask seemed more fragile, as if it were about to break.
"Follow me," he said, turning. "I'll show you. But I warn you: what you'll find there won't bring back what you lost."
"I don't want what I lost," Ethan replied, his voice still flat. "I want what will help me kill him."
Ether didn't reply. He just began to walk, his steps slow and measured.
Ethan followed him.
Alerua, who was beside Ether, looked at Ethan. Her eyes, visible through the broken mask, were fixed on him.
"What did you lose?" she asked, her voice small.
Ethan looked at her. His eyes, empty, fixed on hers.
"Everything," he replied.
Ether murmured, so low that Ethan barely heard:
"Everything will fall into its proper place. And one day, perhaps, you will achieve what you desire, Ethan..."
Ethan didn't respond. He just kept walking, the emptiness growing inside him like a stone flower. But there was something more... as if his very being fought to recover what he had lost. But what is lost is lost, and it will never be easy to recover.
The streets of Onité stretched out before him, dark and silent.
The sun, pale and distant, shone on the horizon, illuminating a sky that never fully lit up.