Chapter 68: Fate of the Misfortuned (2)
’Why won’t they just leave me alone?’ I wondered. ’All of this is pointless so why the hell am I being moved around instead of them putting an end to my misery?’
I could feel my whole body being flooded with extremely pure healing energy, the extreme pain subsiding to a more comfortable degree, but somehow my eyes didn’t show any signs of healing, and my vocal cords stopped working after my first plea for release.
’I miss the old days. When I could crack my dry jokes while getting my bones broken by some crazy psychopath.’
I could hear the mutterings of what I presumed would be the elven folk as my body was being transported continuously.
’But this fate I’m forced to face is just too much for me to bear. Miriam was supposed to come to Vossier today; I wonder if I’ll feel the same way I felt before I left.’
My body was placed on a soft object—most likely a bed—and I could hear voices that had to belong to old men.
"What happened to this young man, Andor?"
"Elder, the Valyns didn’t tell me what exactly happened to him, and the situation was too urgent to ask for all the details, but I’ll do my research after this."
"...Very well, his state is extremely dire, but we’ll try our best."
’I don’t want to be healed. Why won’t they understand that? Do they think they’re doing me some kind of favour?’
Healing energy flooded my body once more, but yet again, my eyes were refused healing. My torn limbs showed no signs of regrowth, and my senses were heightened.
Their words blurred as fast as the healing magic flowed through what remained of my veins.
But then, one word scraped by my ear.
"He has to be infused with the blood of a Crimson Blade prisoner. His level of resistance to our regeneration is unbelievable."
’...Did he just say what I think he said?
My heart rate increased by a beat, but I chose to be calm and confirm what I heard.
"There is no other way; it has to be done."
’What?! There are other ways! Anything but that! Let me die! Let me be a cripple with half a body! Anything but that!’
The words crawled through my throat, but they all died out before they could leave my lips.
’Why won’t these words come out?! Stop talking and listen to me!’
Their lips moved continually, but I was too loud in my head to hear them.
But no matter how loud I was, there was no way in hell I would’ve missed the next words.
"I’ll bring the prisoner."
My ears shut out any other form of sound; a loud ringing replaced it. The words that sounded like a death sentence continually played on repeat.
’She’ll bring the prisoner...She’ll bring the prisoner.... She’ll bring the prisoner.... The prisoner is a Crimson Blade member...the same people who were responsible for my state of mind and body...their blood is going to flow in my veins...the prisoner will be brought here and his blood is going to flow through my veins...’
’DON’T PUT ME THROUGH THAT! DON’T DO THAT TO ME! DON’T DO IT! DON’T DO IT! DON’T DO IT! DON’T—DON’T—DON’T...’
I thrashed against whatever held me—twisting, shaking, jerking—doing everything I could think of. Nothing worked; I had no control, no strength, no way out.
The clicking of the door echoed in my head, the sound louder than it should have, and everything inside me went completely still.
Then everything came flooding out at once.
Rage. Panic. Desperation. It wasn’t even thoughts anymore—it was just raw noise inside my head, tearing me apart from the inside.
The healing energy surged through me again—faster this time, less controlled, almost desperate. But I refused to let it take root.
With every shred of will I had left, I pushed it out. I rejected it so violently it felt like my very soul was tearing apart. The thought of Crimson Blade blood being forced into my veins only sharpened that defiance, fanning it into something wild, something burning.
My eyes snapped open. Five elders stood around me, their faces etched with shock—but none of that mattered. What mattered was stopping them. Stopping this.
I forced my mouth open. The joints cracked like dry wood, each shift of my jaw sending sharp jolts through my skull. My tongue felt like a slab of lead, glued to the roof of my mouth, and my throat burned with every scrape of air.
When I finally managed to push out a sound, it wasn’t a word. It was a broken rasp, thin and shredded.
"...d.....don’t..."
I coughed, the effort tearing at my chest, my lungs heaving uselessly for air. The taste of iron clung to my tongue. Somehow, I forced the rest out, each syllable dragging across my throat like shards of glass.
"Don’t.....do it..."
’Did they hear me? Why aren’t they saying anything? Why are they looking at me like that?’
I swallowed a mouthful of blood, the metallic taste coating my tongue as I forced air back into my lungs. My throat burned as I prepared to push the words out again—
—but then, a withered hand pressed firmly against my chest.
The hand of one of the old men.
His palm was warm, too warm, as if his veins carried fire instead of blood. The glow of healing mana pulsed through his skin, sinking into me despite my resistance.
"Rest," he said softly, but his voice carried a sense of pity, but it was hidden by the overwhelming sense of authority.
’No...don’t send me back to the darkness again...I’ve been there for far too long...no...’
"...What just happened?" One of the elders spoke after a brief silence.
"...He regained consciousness through sheer will power?" Another replied, his white eyebrows twitching unnoticeably.
Kaelith spoke, his hands still on Clark’s chest, "This man knows more about the Crimson Blade than we expected," Raising one of his fists and clicking it softly, a younger elf came into the dimly lit room with his head bowed, "Tell Andor to come back. She has to hear of this and relay it to the Valyns if necessary."
The younger elf had no change in expression and left the room wordlessly.
The elders sat in a circular position, their expressions solemn, before one of them spoke, "Kael, I think we should send the spies placed in Vossier to investigate what caused this man’s... condition"
The others nodded in response.
Kael closed his eyes, his palms stroking his white beard slowly. "Veydris has indeed spoken well. If we haven’t heard news of something of this scale by natural means, it could only mean the Regulators are interfering."
"I believe the matter at hand is far more important than information," A green robed elder spoke, his voice even, "My skill won’t last long with how much he’s fighting it."
Another elder replied, his expression disgruntled, "Thalorien, we can’t do anything even if a dragon’s core was placed in front of us."
Thalorien remained silent and infused more energy into Clark.
"There may be... another path," Elder Veydris finally spoke, his voice low but deliberate. "If the young ones attempt the Elysian Graft, there is a chance—small though it may be—that he survives."
Elder Kaelthir’s brow furrowed, the deep lines on his face shadowed by the rune-light. "Veydris, you would entrust a human life to children still fumbling with half-formed theories? They know nothing of the true weight of our history, or the dangers that come with tampering in forbidden grafting. It is reckless—at best."
Unmoved, Veydris folded his arms. "Reckless, perhaps. But what choice do we have? The Crimson Blade infusion was rejected outright. His mind and spirit are in revolt against it. If we do nothing, he remains broken. And remember—we cannot ignore the approaching tournament in the human domain. Seven months is all we have. This boy may yet prove... valuable."
The elders fell into silence, their gazes heavy, the thought of the Graft lingering in their minds.
The doors creaked open, and Lady Andor entered with urgency clear in her eyes. "Elders—what happened?"
Elder Kaelthir exhaled slowly. "The boy’s spirit rejected our healing... violently. He woke for but a moment, and what we saw was no ordinary resistance. His hatred of the Crimson Blades runs deep—it nearly tore him apart when the option of infusion was raised."
Andor’s eyes widened. "He regained consciousness? But... we bound the healing to his heart and the bare minimum required to keep him tethered. His will should not have been able to interfere."
Veydris inclined his head slightly, his voice calm but sharp. "That is precisely why we cannot ignore him. His spirit fights with a strength that defies logic. I have proposed that your peers attempt the Elysian Graft—the technique they have been developing in secret."
Andor froze, her expression caught between disbelief and dread. "The Elysian Graft? That’s still... experimental. Unstable. You would let them use him as their first subject?"
Veydris’s gaze hardened, the weight of centuries behind his words. "Either he remains as he is... or we gamble with the only chance he has left. Those are the choices before us."