Trafficked: Reborn Heir's Revenge-Chapter 33: Bloodline Types, and secrets

All these made him feel really good.

But then he felt something else. Something wrong.

His fingers touched a wet, sticky texture on his body. It was not a wound. His heart skipped, and Oliver looked down.

Drawn boldly across the center of his chest was a mark. It was made entirely of dried blood.

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It was a crooked star, encased within a circle. It was jagged, Sharp, and Intentional.

Oliver froze.

He knew this symbol.

It was one of the sacred rune marks of the Church of Light. Not the most common, but unmistakable. He had seen it etched into their cathedrals. Burned onto the robes of inquisitors. Preached as a sign of divine order.

The Church of Light was a very famous bunch. It was probably the most famous Church of a 'god' out there.

Their influence ran deep, across kingdoms, and even empires. This Church was strong enough that they even had significant influence in the somara empire.

Because they were a religious group, they managed to sink deep into society, capturing faith of people.

But to say that their believes were not crooked would be a lie.

According to them, they worshipped the true light blessed to man. They believed that king solomon was not just a king, but he was a God–the true god–hiding amongst human.

They also believed that he would come again, to bath the world in his divine light and lead the people to a land of peace, and harmony.

Now, while that sounded nice, it was not. Because they were extremists.

They believed the growing thin Aether in the world was punishment for man, and a way for them to prepare for his coming. And that true believers should sacrifice their Bloodline to purge themselves of sins.

Human and blood sacrifices, was the least. Oliver remembered that he had read records of insane experiments they had done and reprimanded for. These were experiments with the soul–extracting and morphing it, in an attempt to recreate the Solomon’s greatest creations. Some resulted into abominable catastrophes.

Again, even though they were caught many times by the Enforcers of the empire, they were only reprimanded. Surely, this was enough to tell of how deep their power sank within great nations.

Oliver even heard that there was a nation to the north that had the church of light, not just their primary religion, but also a religious state.

With the heavily sick things he had seen them do in the records, he was sure they were demons in disguise.

The only advantage was that they happened to have some kind of power that tamed demons. In fact, it was the most effective anyone had ever seen. Even the dungeons conformed to it.

For this reason, people actually believed in them even more.

Oliver was shocked for a while.

What was this mark doing on his body?

He looked around, heart racing. Velma? But she was nowhere close. A quick glance told him she was just returning—most likely from relieving herself in that barely-usable pit they called a toilet.

She hadn't done this… right?

He stared at the mark again. No… it didn’t make sense. But if it was not her, and someone else, she would’ve noticed as she should have been with him through out the night trial.

Another possibility bloomed in his head. Could it have come from the Nightmare Sigil, maybe a byproduct of the bloodline? Was it part of some deeper transformation?

If so, he couldn’t afford to expose it.

Especially not to Velma.

Not when she was this on edge from all that had happened. She’d flip the whole cage if she saw the bloody rune to look for who did it.

There were also the sting marks from the night trial. She would think someone mads holes in her brother's body.

Even a nursing one horned Rhino beast could be as over protective as his sister. And right now, they couldn’t afford another quarrel—not in here.

Oliver quickly wiped at the mark, trying to smear it away, but the blood had dried. It wasn’t coming off that easily. Still, he folded his arms across his chest, curling forward as Velma neared.

“You okay?” she asked, steadying herself against the shaking wall. “You slept like a rock through that storm.”

Oliver forced a chuckle. “Yeah… guess I needed it.”

She smiled faintly, but worry still lined her face. The ship swayed again, and distant thunder rumbled like the growl of some deep-sea beast. Chains clinked, and prisoners clutched at the iron bars, bracing themselves.

From the previous day, the storm outside had gotten worse.

Velma leaned in closer, about to sit beside him—

Then a shadow loomed at the edge of their cage.

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Oliver stiffened.

Garron.

That ever-smiling, ever-watching wretch.

The man walked with his usual lazy grace, hands behind his back like a noble at court. His eyes—always half-lidded, always unreadable—landed directly on Oliver.

“Well, well,” Garron said smoothly, “I hope you enjoyed your beauty sleep. Something tells me today will be… interesting.”

His voice was light, almost pleasant. But something about it clawed at Oliver’s nerves.

Garron leaned slightly closer, as if to share a secret. “All that’s left now is for you to build some strength. Then maybe… you’ll surprise us.” Then he rolled his eyes, "However, with what I have heard about you," He gave a look that stated that he had investigated Oliver from the other nobles in the other cages. "...The only true surprise would be how plain royal bloodline will be when it's flowing down the floor."

Oliver didn’t respond. What could he even say to that?

But Garron didn’t wait for an answer. He flashed a closed-lip smile and turned just as a harsh clang rang through the corridor.

"Ah... it seems food is finallyhere."

Metal on bucket.

The food call.

Slaves stirred at once.

Two days. It had been two days since their last feeding. And like starving dogs trained to respond to the dinner bell, even the proudest among them stirred to attention.

The conditioning was working wonders. Those nobles who once held to their pride were no different.

Oliver moved before he even thought. The moment their tray approached, he dove—fast, too fast. He snatched three pieces of black bread out of mid-air before the tray even hit the floor. He landed, rolled, and was already offering one piece to Velma before many could blink.

Even he was surprised by his speed.

Right, he thought, +2 points from the night trial. He offered the other bread to the broken man. This guy still said nothing, but quickly took the bread, going back to his corner to eat.

There were eyes on Oliver, though. He could feel them. Greedy. Jealous. Angry.

He didn’t care. Not now.

He kept his head down. One piece for him. One for Velma, then the broken man. No more. Unlike last time, he did not take much. This was not because he did not want to. But because things were already tense as there were.

Then again, that didn’t stop the chaos in the other cages.

People scrambled, elbowed, and clawed for their share. As expected, all the cages got fewer pieces than they had people.

Royalty, Nobles, commoners—it didn’t matter anymore. Pride didn’t feed empty stomachs.

And then—there was Garron.

When he received his share—a modest hunk of stale black bread—he didn’t eat it.

Instead, he turned, smiling as always, and offered it to a frail old man in the corner of their cage.

“I don’t mind sharing,” Garron said, his voice full of calm generosity. “There’s always someone hungrier than me.”

A few heads turned.

Moved by the gesture, others came forward, offering pieces of their bread to him.

By the time it ended, Garron sat cross-legged against the wall with six full pieces in his hand, made from scraps.

To the others, it looked like kindness returned. After all, Garron had shared his food on the first day, after taking justice for them, and today was no different.

To Oliver, it looked like manipulation. 'Such terrifying control of human emotion. Even in such terrible times.' Oliver thought to himself.

Garron had basically sacrificed like two loafs to get six. These people were just feeding from his hands.

They went against their hunger–hunger that made nobles curve– just to please him–Truly a terrifying man.

Oliver didn’t trust that smile.

Not for a second.

Oliver sat cross-legged near the corner of the cage, savoring the stale blackened bread in silence. The crust cracked with each bite, but he welcomed the distraction. One hand rested beside Velma’s knee, while the other grazed the thin cloth‐blanket covering the broken man lying on his other side. The three of them formed a little pocket of calm in a world long gone mad.

But peace was never meant to last.

Eyes. So many eyes.

They were on him—burning holes into his back, his side, his face. Hungry eyes, bitter eyes, calculating eyes. It wasn’t just envy. It was expectation.

Even Velma noticed.

Though she chewed in slow, deliberate bites, her gaze swept across the room like a knife—sharp, unyielding, daring anyone to make the first move. Her one good eye glinted under the dim torchlight, and the bruised one remained swollen shut, a blotch of angry red and purple. She still hadn’t fully recovered.

Her Aether was sealed. But that did not mean that she was not dangerous when she needed to be. Also, her headache had lessened.

Still Oliver did not want her fighting.

Subconsciously everyone knew.

After the meal comes the fight.

That was the deal yesterday after Garron intervened in the battle.

Royalty vs Commoner.

Oliver’s fingers clenched the crust of his last bite a little tighter. His jaw tensed. His heart? Still beating. Rapid. Heavy.

He wasn’t foolish enough to lie to himself. He was afraid. But fear was a poor excuse for inaction.

'Barka is human,' Oliver reminded himself. 'He’s not the bloody-scorpion freaks of the Night Trials. Even if, like them–hs can still fall.

Still…

There was something off.

Velma must’ve felt it too. Her body leaned subtly forward, tense like a coiled spring. She glanced at him, concern barely hidden in her stare.

Oliver chewed the final bite, swallowed dry, and stood.

The ship swayed beneath his feet, the floor slick with condensation. Outside, the storm had grown worse. Thunder howled across the ocean, and waves slammed the sides of the hull with bone-rattling fury.

He staggered slightly but steadied himself with a hand on the wall. No need to act brave. Not yet. He took a deep breath, then crossed the cage toward the water tray—an old wooden basin near the bars, cracked at the edge but still holding enough for them to drink.

Oliver knelt and leaned forward.

The cool mulky water touched his lips. His throat gulped greedily.

But he didn’t let his guard down.

And just then, his slave instincts screamed.

A presence.

Footsteps, silent but heavy, crept behind him. A shadow loomed.

And then—crack!

A blur of motion. A hand descending from above.

Oliver’s body moved before thought could catch up.

He dove to the side, chest slamming into the ground, shoulder scraping the cage bars as he rolled out of the way.

Smash!

Barka’s hand struck the tray like a war hammer. The basin splintered into a dozen pieces, water exploding outward in a flash-flood of droplets. The floor became slick with a shallow stream, washing toward the broken man in the corner. Bits of splinters clattered around Oliver like a warning.

If that had hit…

He didn’t need to imagine it. He’d seen it. The cracked metal handle, now bent. The jagged boards torn like paper.

Oliver cursed under his breath. “Didn’t even let me breathe, you dumb ox.”

He pushed to his feet, eyes narrowing.

Barka loomed above him, teeth bared, eyes wild. His fists curled, knuckles cracked, and for the first time, Oliver noticed something else.

That strength…

It definitely was not normal.

Barka was not just big. He moved with force that rattled wood. That could shatter bone with a single punch.

Oliver already knew that Barka was strong. Yesterday, it was obvious. If not for feeding the big man's head with nightmare, Velma would have been dead.

But today, that ppwer was all focused. In fact, it was focused on him. This was not just muscle force. This was something else.

Oliver’s mind raced.

Did he… awaken a bloodline?

It sounded absurd at first. Mostly because of the weakened aether in the world—a commoner unlocking a bloodline. But it wasn’t impossible. Bloodlines existed in every human being. It was just that nobles and royals had purer ones—richer, faster, more refined, and definitely more in tuned.

Commoners had them too. But the rate of Aether absorption was abysmal. It took years—decades even—for some to awaken it. Climbing the bloodline ranks was a different matter.

Of course, this was with the exemption of those with access to the dungeons.

Barka was already in his thirties. Oliver realized that maybe by chance or encounter, this man could’ve awakened years ago. Maybe even in his teens.

And now… that raw, inhuman force? The way his limbs snapped with unnatural precision?

It all pointed to one truth.

Barka’s body was strengthened by his bloodline.

Oliver’s gaze flicked—briefly, but instinctively—toward the far end of the cage.

And there he was.

Garron.

Leaning against the bars, smiling that same damn smile, eyes half-lidded with twisted glee.

He knew.

Of course he did.

He planned this.

The puppet master, amused by the chaos unfolding. Oliver grit his teeth. That smile confirmed his theory.

Barka wasn’t an ordinary brute. He was one of those rare bloodline awakened commoners.

Awakening bloodline came with certain gifts. These gifts differ from person to person depending on one's bloodline ability.

For some, it enhanced their Absorption and control of Aether in the world, and for some others, Aether strengthened their bodies. Giving them unbelievable, inhumane strength, and other physical abilities.

The Somaran nobles who aided Seraphina in crushing his father’s 20th wedding–Viscount Cedric Elman with his blood claws, and Viscount Hadrian Voss that had his blood harden into a second skin were examples of people that had their bodies strengthened as a result of their Bloodline Abilities.

Of course, this did not mean that it was limited to just blood. Body strengthening came in many ways. Some could even be their bones.

Oliver remembered that there was even an Enforcer of the Somara empire that could turn his skin a shade of iron.

Now, both came with advantages and disadvantages. For example, those that had high Absorption and control of Aether in nature, could bend and manipulate it to form what many even called Magic.

Given the opportunity, and power level, they could cause terrifying destruction. Oliver remembered that Seraphina fell in this category. Her bloodline allowed her to be a terrifying mage.

Funny enough, Velma also fell in this category. It was her manipulation of Aether that allowed her the ability to heal Oliver's wounds back home.

But the pros and cons of both sides were easy to see.

For those that manipulated nature with Aether as a result of their bloodlines, even though some could cause earthquakes or flip mountains and cause chaos on a very large scale, their bodies were usually weak, and when their Aether control was suppressed, they became very little to no threats at all.

While those that used Aether through their bloodlines on their bodies could not cause such wide chaos, but even in chains, they were still very dangerous...