Blood of Immortals

Dante Aelric walked aimlessly through the bustling city streets, the neon signs casting long shadows as they flickered in the evening light. The world around him seemed foreign now, a maze of towering buildings and crowded streets, none of which he had ever paid attention to before. Until now, he had always been within the walls of his family's estate, protected by wealth and the reputation of the Aelric name. But now, all of that was gone. He had been cast out, left to fend for himself in a world that had no place for him.

He had no clear destination, no real plan. He had simply left, not knowing where to go or what to do. His emotions were a swirling mess of anger, confusion, and fear. The weight of his father's betrayal still sat heavy on his chest, suffocating him. But despite the crushing weight, Dante knew one thing: he couldn't return. There was nothing left for him at home. He had been abandoned, and he had to survive on his own.

His first priority was to find somewhere to stay. He had a small amount of money left from his family's allowance, but it wasn't enough to sustain him for long. The city was expensive, especially for someone like him, a failure in a world that revered Evolvers. But after walking for hours, he found a modest apartment on the outskirts of the city. The landlord had looked him over with a critical eye but had accepted his money without question, a small glimmer of hope in a world that had offered none.

The apartment was small, a single room with bare walls and a single bed in the corner. It was nothing like the lavish rooms of the Aelric estate, but it was a roof over his head. It was his first taste of independence, and the harsh reality of it left him hollow.

For three days, Dante stayed in that apartment, trying to adjust to his new life. He spent most of the time pacing the room, his mind racing with thoughts of revenge, thoughts of the future, and thoughts of power. He needed something. He needed to prove to himself that he was more than the failure his father had labeled him. He wasn't going to live a meaningless life, not like this. He had to find a way to become stronger, to evolve.

But with his limited funds, Dante knew he couldn't afford any sort of formal training. He didn't even have enough money to buy decent food for himself. The world outside the apartment was a blur, filled with strangers who didn't care about him, who didn't know the story of Dante Aelric, the son of the great Aelric Drakorn. To them, he was just another nameless, faceless person trying to survive.

It was on the third day, as the hunger gnawed at his stomach, that Dante finally decided to leave his apartment. He needed to buy food, and he figured he could try and find a part-time job along the way. But as he stepped out into the city, the world around him seemed even more oppressive. The streets were crowded, filled with people going about their business, oblivious to the turmoil that was raging inside him.

Dante pushed through the crowd, his hands shoved into the pockets of his coat, his head down to avoid eye contact with anyone. He didn't have the energy for conversation, for pleasantries. All he wanted was food, and maybe a glimpse of something that could offer him a way out of this life of failure.

It was then that he saw him.

An old man sat at the edge of the street, his small stall barely noticeable among the bustling market stands. At first, Dante almost walked past, too lost in his thoughts to pay attention. But something about the old man caught his eye. The man had a strange, almost otherworldly presence, a sense of mystery that seemed to radiate from him. His clothes were ragged, his face weathered by time, but his eyes glimmered with a knowing gleam.

Dante's curiosity piqued, and he walked closer, his footsteps slow as he examined the strange assortment of items spread out on the old man's stall. There were all sorts of trinkets and baubles—old necklaces, peculiar stones, and small wooden carvings—but it was the bottles that caught Dante's attention.

The old man had several glass bottles lined up on the table. Each bottle was filled with a deep, crimson liquid that seemed to shimmer in the light. At first, Dante thought they were simply some kind of juice or wine, but as he moved closer, he noticed the labels. The names on the bottles were like something out of a dream.

"Dragon Blood," one label read.

"Phoenix Essence," another.

"Vampire's Vitae," a third.

Dante stared at the bottles in disbelief. His heart skipped a beat. These were no ordinary drinks. These were the blood of mythical creatures—dragons, phoenixes, vampires—beings that could give unimaginable power to those who consumed them. In this world, the blood of such creatures was invaluable, worth a fortune, more than most people could ever hope to possess.

He looked closer at the bottles, and then at the price tag. The numbers printed on the small cards next to the bottles made no sense. They were absurdly low, far lower than anything he could have imagined. These bottles of blood, these mythical essences that should have cost a fortune, were being sold for next to nothing. Dante's mind raced.

"This can't be real," he muttered to himself.

He took a step back, his instincts telling him that this was too good to be true. It was a scam, a cheap trick to lure in gullible buyers. The prices were absurd, and the idea that such powerful blood could be sold so cheaply was ludicrous. A part of him wanted to turn and walk away, to leave the old man and his shady stall behind. But something inside him stopped him. Maybe it was desperation, maybe it was curiosity, but he couldn't shake the feeling that this was his chance, his opportunity to take control of his fate.

As he started to turn away, the old man's voice called out to him, raspy and urgent.

"Young man, you seek power, don't you?" the old man asked, his voice carrying a strange, hypnotic quality.

Dante froze in his tracks. The words hit him like a thunderbolt. Power. He did want power, more than anything else in the world. Power to change his fate, power to prove to his father that he was not worthless, power to take back what was stolen from him.

The old man continued, his voice low but filled with an almost unnerving certainty. "This is your chance. This blood is not only real—it will give you the power you crave. And the price... it's so low that even a man with no money, like yourself, can afford it. Don't let this chance slip away. Drink it, and you will become something greater than you ever imagined."

Dante hesitated. His mind screamed at him to walk away, to avoid falling for whatever trick this old man was trying to pull. But then, he remembered his father's cruel words. He remembered being cast aside, forgotten, abandoned. And in that moment, he realized something.

Maybe it was a scam. Maybe it wasn't. But if there was even the smallest chance that this could make him stronger, he couldn't afford to pass it up. He had nothing left to lose.

With a deep breath, Dante turned back toward the old man's stall. He looked at the bottles once more. The names of the mythical creatures taunted him, promising the power he had always dreamed of.

He pointed at three bottles—the dragon blood, the phoenix essence, and the vampire vitae. They were the strongest, the ones that would give him the most power.

"I'll take these," he said, his voice shaking slightly.

The old man's eyes gleamed as he wrapped the bottles in cloth, handing them over to Dante with a smile that sent a chill down his spine. "Wise choice, young man. Drink them, and your path will change forever."

Dante nodded, his heart pounding in his chest as he handed over the small amount of money he had left. The old man took it without a word, and Dante walked away, clutching the bottles tightly in his hands. He couldn't believe what he had just done, but the thought of the power waiting for him kept him moving forward.

When he returned to his apartment, Dante didn't hesitate. He opened the bottles one by one and drank the contents, the blood of dragons, phoenixes, and vampires. Each drink sent a shiver through his body, the warmth of the liquid flowing through his veins like fire.

But when he set the bottles down, nothing happened. There was no surge of power, no change in his body, no transformation.

Dante stood there for a long moment, staring at his reflection in the small mirror above the sink. His breath came in shallow gasps, his heart pounding in his chest.

"Nothing?" he whispered to himself. "Nothing at all?"

He cursed under his breath, his anger rising. He had been tricked. He had fallen for the old man's scam. He had wasted his money, his hope.

With a growl of frustration, Dante collapsed onto his bed. His body was heavy, his mind clouded with disappointment and rage. He closed his eyes, trying to shut out the pain, but it lingered, gnawing at him. He had been a fool.

And yet, even as sleep claimed him, a small, flickering thought began to grow in the back of his mind.

As Dante drifted into an uneasy sleep, the world outside continued its endless march forward, unaware of the young man lying alone in his apartment, staring into the darkness of his own fate.