No one knew what happened inside the warehouse. The cart driver, growing impatient, assumed Ritchie was slacking and debated dragging him out.
Then, terrified screams erupted from the warehouse, followed by loud thuds. The door burst open, and two figures stumbled out. One was a wreck with both legs broken at the knees. The other fled, shrieking.
Suddenly, something shot through the warehouse's wooden wall, striking the fleeing boy's back with such force it snapped his ribs. When it tore through his chest and hit the ground, it was just a small vial, shattered into pieces.
Chaos erupted in the medical ward. Young nurses screamed and scattered. Wounded soldiers, bolder, scanned for makeshift weapons.
Moments later, Ritchie staggered out, blood-soaked and unsteady, like a toddler learning to walk.
Most soldiers recognized him. Battle-hardened, they didn't flinch despite the eerie scene.
One particularly brave soldier grabbed a crutch and poked Ritchie, trying to snap him out of it.
Ritchie's reaction was lightning-fast. The moment the crutch touched him, his hand shot out.
Crack. The crutch snapped in two.
The soldier stared at the broken half in his hand, a chill running through him.
Ritchie's appearance was uncanny, but familiar to the soldiers. They'd seen this on the battlefield. Many knights have entered a frenzied state, unstoppable.
The poke stirred Ritchie's awareness. He glanced at his hands, bloodied, flecks of flesh caught in his fingers. Nausea hit, and he retched, the warehouse slaughter flashing before his eyes.
Moments ago, he'd been possessed, tearing through his attackers. A swipe ripped open a chest like paper. A swing crushed a skull like tofu. In an instant, those who'd harmed him were dead.
Vengeance brought no joy, only terror.
Then a realization struck: he'd killed.
On a normal day, he could claim self-defense, maybe face a lesser charge. But in wartime, there was no such mercy. If caught, he'd be shot.
Clutching his head, Ritchie let out an anguished scream, feeling like the unluckiest person alive. Realizing his predicament, he bolted.
In his panic, he didn't notice how fast he ran or that neither the wounded soldiers nor the patrol guards dared approach him.
Ritchie knew the old district's alleys like the back of his hand. He darted through sparsely populated lanes, desperate to get home, though he hadn't thought about what he'd do once there.
As he ran, a figure appeared ahead. She was a tall woman in a red uniform.
Ritchie prepared to leap past, but his heart suddenly pounded wildly, a sensation he'd never felt before.
Instinctively, he stopped.
Instinct also told him this woman was no ordinary person.
The alley's buildings blocked most of the rain, but stray droplets still fell. Yet the woman stood untouched, as if an invisible barrier a foot around her repelled the rain.
She studied Ritchie, then said calmly, "I came thinking there was an intruder. Turns out, it's a bloodline awakening. I don't know if that's good or bad for you. In peacetime, your future would be bright. But in war.…"
"I want to go home," Ritchie blurted, his mind blank, unable to grasp her words.
"You need to calm down."
With that, the woman moved. They were ten meters apart, but in a flash, she was before him.
Before Ritchie could react, a sharp pain exploded in his abdomen. Her fist struck his solar plexus. He wanted to vomit but couldn't, his head spinning with unbearable discomfort.
...
A white light shone on a medical table where Ritchie lay, cleaned of blood, naked except for a towel over his waist.
Above, a frame held a book-sized lens emitting faint light, sliding back and forth. A doctor in a white coat scanned Ritchie, his flesh and bones vividly displayed on the lens. Nearby, others recorded data on charts.
In the room's corner stood four figures in white coats, but their military bearing betrayed they weren't doctors.
Their leader, a lean middle-aged man with sunken eyes, a sharp gaze, and a small hooked nose, looked severe.
As the doctor recited scan results, the man quietly asked his companions, "Have you investigated the boy's parents?"
"Yes, sir," one replied. "His father's a reserve soldier in the 75th Regiment. His mother's a civilian. We tested their blood under quarantine protocol… no trace of knight bloodline. We also checked the boy's birth records. No female knights on record gave birth that day, not in our nation or allied countries."
The man frowned, grappling with the strangest case he'd encountered.
"What do you think?" he asked, eager for his team's insights.
The three hesitated, but the one who'd spoken earlier mustered courage. "We've considered possibilities. The most likely is.…" He paused, reluctant to voice the harsh theory, then pressed on. "The boy's father might not be his real father, likely someone with a dormant knight bloodline. Sir, you know records of knight bloodlines only became comprehensive after 1665. Before that, only awakened knights were documented."
Though just a theory, he believed it the only plausible one.
The other possibilities were slim. They'd first suspected a mix-up at birth, but records disproved it. Knight bloodlines were tightly monitored as uncontrolled knights could wreak havoc. Pregnant female knights were closely watched, making concealment or mix-ups nearly impossible.
The other theory, that Ritchie's father was a knight, was unlikely. Normal women rarely survived the hemolytic reaction caused by a knight's bloodline during pregnancy. The odds of a successful birth were two in a thousand.
As he spoke, the examination concluded.
The doctor approached with the recorded data. "Colonel, the boy's check is complete. He's indeed undergoing a preliminary knight bloodline awakening, but it's incomplete. His metrics are generally weak."
This was expected. Late-awakened knights rarely amounted to much.
"Can we trace the bloodline's origin?" the colonel asked.
The doctor hesitated, unsure how to explain, but one of the colonel's men interjected. "Sir, incomplete bloodlines are often mutations. Tracing them is nearly impossible."
The colonel nodded, taking the report.
...