Chapter Ninety: Blood as Name
Section One: Line Holders
After the fifth process board insertion, the process ceased to be a system crowds could accept.
It became a symbol that could kill.
In the northeast corner of C-3's main street, a process board's wreckage hung on a rusted car hood by old chains, its code charred, guard plate shattered, half gone.
Rust Street sent no one to retrieve it.
It was a "failed process board."
Pulled before blood could ground it, its code vanished, the process chain broke, logged by ARGUS as a "process death node."
That patch of ground became untouchable.
No one dared tread a "dead process" site.
Like sitting in a chair where someone was killed.
Jason sat in the control room, reviewing the latest report:
[C-3 West Segment · Grassroots Process Points x2 Naturally Terminated]
[Local Crowd Verbal Abandonment Rate: 84.1%]
[No Reported Conflict, Cause: "Process Unguarded"]
This was Iron Valley's new process logic:
No one stands, it's not a process.
Process boards weren't votes—they were gravestones.
Whoever guards is the "process executor."
Whoever leaves, their process "dies."
Zhao Mingxuan scanned ARGUS's version analysis, looking up, "Are we really letting processes choose people?"
"Before, processes were issued by organizations."
"Now, they're 'people stepping up, standing firm, earning execution.'"
"Do we—still have a process management system?"
Maria stayed silent.
She skimmed C-3 crowd feedback:
"Request to link process code HX-S2-EX-A · Note: My brother stood five hours last week; I want to keep the process running."
"Our team lost two, can we still use HX to hold our ground? Will the process recognize us?"
Fuxi issued a brief judgment:
[Cauldron] → [Constancy]
"Born of blood, irreplaceable; named, unchangeable."
Prompt:
"Process codes now bound by flesh, no longer subject to attribution allocation."
"Recommend establishing 'Process Line Holder' system—non-writers can become the next execution node."
Jason ordered:
"Activate the process line mechanism."
"Open a line holder registry, one condition—name the last person who bled for that process."
"Process isn't what you write."
"It's what you claim, continue, stand for."
System broadcast:
[Process Line Registry · HX Code Series]
Required:
- Executor's days of process-standing (guarding/boarding/stabilizing)
- Relation to prior executor: kin, subordinate, comrade, witness
- Participation in process conflicts or maintenance
- Pledge to not retreat if process is attacked (binding clause)
Process stopped being assigned.
It became a relay of life and death—whoever dared take it, could bear it, claimed it.
That day, new terms emerged in S-7 and C-3:
Line Holder: One who continues an old process, standing at new nodes.
Bloodline Directive: A code imprint from an executor's casualty site, used to qualify for line holding.
Board Oath: An unsigned vow between executor and process—"If the board stands, I don't leave."
But not all could hold the line.
Not all processes survived.
In C-3's south, a line holder tried continuing his brother's process but fled after five hours.
The board was smashed by crowds the moment he ran.
Process death logged:
"Executor abandoned post · No combat bloodshed · Deemed process desertion."
The ground reverted to dead process status.
Marquez, Free Engineers' Corps representative, read the feedback and said only, "They're not executing process."
"They're forging gods with it."
"If we don't kill the process executors—no one will trust our process."
He issued no order.
But he wrote one directive:
"Track Tarn's line holders, locate the next code spreader, cut the line."
Process was no longer just a code.
It was Iron Valley's mark of power—etched by those who bled, stood nights, buried boards.
No matter how precise the code, how well-written, it couldn't match:
"This ground is where that bloodied process team buried someone."
That process owned it.
That ground wasn't anyone's.
It was blood's.
It was the process's.
Section Two: Line Cutting
Line holder stopped being a "process inheritor" label, becoming a target more sensitive than a military rank.
When someone declared they'd continue a process, they didn't take a job—they bound their face, blood, ground, and neighbors to that board.
Like planting a flag in a chaos zone.
Plant it, and someone comes to pull.
If they can't, the ground's yours.
If they do, you're dust.
In C-3's north signal hub, the line holder for "HX-S2-EX-A" was Channing Lev, nineteen.
Not a soldier, not a registered executor, but Tarn's temp logging assistant during C-3's board planting.
His sole act: shoving a broken process board into Tarn's armor seam.
That act auto-entered him into "observer execution registry."
Later, he applied to hold the line, saying, "I saw the process nearly die. I want to see if it can live with me."
No one stopped him.
No one guarded him.
Three days later, Channing became the first "line-cut" target.
The Free Engineers' hired "Process Anonymous Correction Team" infiltrated the signal tower's west side at night, goal clear:
Not to kill, but to break the code.
They carried "process overwriters" and "disruption kits," aiming to pull the board and plant a "neutral composite process framework" in its place.
They didn't care about the code.
They wanted the process forgotten as someone's legacy.
They didn't expect Channing sleeping by the board.
No armor, no guards.
Just the board at his feet.
As the first man lifted the iron door to pull, Channing woke.
He swung a wrench, shattering the man's jaw.
He didn't shout, didn't claim executor or name.
He grabbed the board, yanked it back, clutched it.
Then a second man stabbed through his lung from behind.
The board fell.
But blood coated the code.
ARGUS auto-detected a line holder attack, activating "line-shared fate binding system":
"Executor Channing Lev critically wounded · Process Code HX-S2-EX-A contaminated"
"Binding validity check: Valid."
"Executor's final act: Guarded board"
"Process retained · Status shifted: Blood-Legacy Execution · 120-hour survival period"
Fuxi linked:
[Constancy] → [Stripping]
"Blood still warm, directive unbroken; man dies, name endures."
System granted Channing "death-line extension eligibility."
For 120 hours, anyone could continue the process by standing at the site and swearing to inherit, no original directive or code needed—process auto-rebound.
The first time a process extended through death.
Jason, on receiving the notice, went to C-3's signal tower himself.
The board was cleaned, blood lingering in code cracks.
He said nothing, pressing his right hand to it.
Blood splattered cold metal.
System recognition:
"Main system administrator touched broken board · Binding rights intact"
"Extend directive?"
"Continue this code's execution?"
He said only, "Make it live."
An hour later, a new line holder stood by the code.
A woman, fifty-plus. Channing's mother, Andra Lev.
She said nothing.
She sat, re-nailed the board's back, pulled Channing's half-written execution log.
One line:
"I don't know how to write process."
"But my son guarded it, so I'll hold it."
System registered:
"Process Code HX-S2-EX-A Line Extended · Line Holder: Andra Lev"
"Execution Level: Shared-Fate Binding · Auto-shifted to non-inherited process continuity"
"Process attribution held · Crowd trust +18%"
The news shook the city.
Not for another taking the process.
But—process could kill, yet not die.
This became the process's deadliest spread:
Process became a monument.
Process boards became faith's root.
You die, you *are* the process.
You live, you're next to hold it.
Section Three: Forgetting Who Writes
Process was no longer code and frame.
It was who bled, who claimed ground.
Who died, who earned the executor's name.
But for some, the unease wasn't process becoming faith—it was:
No one cared who wrote it anymore.
Blackvine's Iron Valley monitoring station.
A recorder reported quietly at the console, "HX-S2 series has seventeen line extensions."
"Eight are crowd-reported bindings; three are expansion modules from original code sites."
"Worst—crowds don't ask who authorized the process."
"They ask: did someone bleed for this code?"
Rei Isard stared at the codes.
A process purist, he believed processes needed authorization, registration, structure, derivation, archiving.
This war shattered that.
Not process expansion, but "wilding."
Like a virus.
Whoever could hold it, it stayed in them.
Those who couldn't—the process moved, finding the next willing to die.
"They forgot who writes," Rei said slowly. "Process was ours to define."
"We wrote it."
"Now—no one recognizes us."
He closed the terminal, looking to a silent elder at the comms desk.
No process uniform, no code badge. A main society shadow operative, kept for "process collapse" contingencies.
No one dared name him.
They called him "Executor Under the Blade."
Hearing it all, he asked, "You want me to kill the process?"
Rei shook his head.
"Not the process."
"The people guarding it."
"Those keeping it alive."
"Kill them once isn't enough—kill until crowds stop seeing them as the process."
The elder nodded.
"Give me names."
Rei exhaled two words, "Tarn."
In Rust Street's process control room, Maria analyzed ARGUS data:
Crowd process recognition ranking shift:
1. Did the executor bleed?
2. Did they stand a board locally?
3. Did someone die for its code?
4. Are there execution logs?
5. Is it registered, archived, formatted?
Zhao Mingxuan gave a bitter laugh, "Fifth is process orthodoxy."
Maria said quietly, "Crowds only see the top three."
"A well-written process doesn't earn trust."
"No matter how perfect, without death, it won't spread past the second block."
Jason stood before the map board, pulling the process zone chart.
S-7, C-3, N-4 were bound as HX process fragments, expanded twenty-three times, forming a "process archipelago."
Linked not by beacons or bridges, but people—who died, stood, bled, guarded.
Process lived like an independent organism.
No death, it didn't know you.
You died, it remembered you.
Fuxi output a prompt:
[Stripping] → [Resonance] → [Following]
"After blood, someone stands; directive endures. Crowds follow not books."
Jason was silent.
He knew: process wasn't his to write anymore.
It was something he released, nurtured, but it grew its own heart.
Each expansion didn't wait for his signal.
It depended on:
Who bled for it, extending its life.
Who dared guard, it claimed.
Who feared death, it left.
Section Four: Board Stands, Man Stands
Three a.m., a signal intercepted from C-3's signal substation.
Not a broadcast or process report, but a seemingly routine transfer request: a process field maintenance worker sought reassignment to S-7's outpost for "line structure inspection."
Process Code: Blank.
Execution Privilege: Special Approval.
Source: Blackvine Main Society Backend Port.
Jason read it, saying only, "He's not here for process."
"He's here to kill process."
Not metaphor.
Not codes, modules, or beacons.
He came to kill—the people bound to it.
Name: Unknown.
ID Marker: None.
System Code: BV-null-0
Alias: Executor Under the Blade.
Not a hired killer or soldier.
A specialized liquidator, kept for severing "flesh-bound process structures" when codes became "faith-bound" or "unerasable."
He didn't target organizations.
He killed "living" processes.
Each executor he killed severed a code in crowd perception.
Target: Tarn.
Status: HX-S2 primary executor, now heavily injured, erratic activity, often patrols new process lines alone.
Killability: High.
The Executor arrived without sound.
No armor, just a titanium chain-fold blade, poisoned bone-spike ring, silenced hydraulic neck-breaker.
He avoided process teams, didn't touch boards.
He killed.
Making no one dare claim the process.
S-7 outskirts, Tarn checked a board-edge marker at the third beacon point alone.
The code, freshly generated, seventy-two hours old, unstable.
A line holder had just left, shift delayed.
The board stood lone in the ruins, rain peeling its surface.
Tarn approached to reinforce the port.
A faint air ripple behind.
He barely reacted, dodging by instinct.
The blade missed his neck, slashing his shoulder's old wound.
Blood sprayed his face.
He swung back, parrying the second strike with the knife's hilt, but slipped, crashing by the board.
The man said nothing, no process name.
Just slash after slash, aiming for board and chest together.
Not to kill Tarn, but to break man and code as one.
As Tarn fell, the board was kicked loose.
Code flickered:
"Loss Risk: High"
"Enter Disconnect Countdown?"
A frail figure burst from a scrap wall.
The delayed line holder, no fighter, just a temp node clerk.
She charged, clutching the board, rolling with it into the mud.
The Executor's third slash hit the board's corner she shielded.
Her armor shattered, code pressed beneath her gut.
She bled.
System flickered:
"Code HX-S2-EX-R9 faced physical severance attack"
"Bound executor injured · Action deemed protective?"
With her last breath, she screamed, "Board stands… process—still lives!"
System confirmed:
"Shared-fate binding established."
"Process status: Executing."
The Executor failed to cut the process for the first time.
He frowned.
Not for plan failure.
But because someone else stepped up.
Weak, untrained, worthless—but fast enough to keep the process unbroken.
That night, S-7 and C-3's processes auto-triggered "collective guard mode."
Line holders were ordered never to act alone.
ARGUS added a rule:
"Board lost over 30 seconds deemed process soft death."
"To prevent, any process execution halt requires three-person signed confirmation."
"Process no longer belongs to one. It belongs—to those who hold it."
Tarn, waking, first retrieved the board, planting it where the girl fell.
He stood, silent.
Blood still flowed.
Code lit:
"Process reconnected."
Fuxi gave no prompt.
It marked the structure:
"Directive Guard Battle · Established."
No longer process implantation.
It was process defense.
Process wasn't just planted.
Once planted, you guarded it to death.
Until you died. Or others did.
Section Five: City Beneath the Board
Tarn stood two hours by the board.
The girl's blood mixed with his, seeping from code grooves, as if feeding the board life.
She didn't make it, no tears, no screams, only one line:
"Don't let the process die."
No name, no code affiliation.
Her line holder registration hadn't even cleared.
But she blocked that blade, saved the process.
ARGUS logged the scene, auto-registering an un-coded executor with "honorary holder binding," noting:
"Process Code HX-S2-EX-R9 established city-shared death chain."
"Code can be inherited by public executors for three years at the site, board retaining street code engraving."
Process entered city planning for the first time.
Not hung on walls or stored in data towers.
Embedded in streets, flowing into ground.
The board wasn't pulled.
Tarn sealed it into a scrap manhole cover with molten steel.
Code carved into concrete.
Process became a place name.
Crowds said:
"That's R9's spot."
"Where someone died guarding the code."
ARGUS reported:
"Crowd geographic recognition shifted."
"Process codes replacing traditional street naming rights."
"Seven 'process zones' emerged, crowds defaulting codes as legitimate markers."
Rust Street's control team worried, "This way, we can't control process growth points."
"If crowds treat processes as turf, can we still manage codes?"
Jason said only, "You don't need to write codes."
"You need to make process—plant and hold."
"City names are only written by those who've died."
Fuxi prompted:
[Constancy] → [Cauldron] → [Inner Truth]
"Trust not from words, but blood traces. Names don't stand—cities grant them."
Jason ordered:
If a process board is bound in conflict and preserved by a death, it can apply for "process ground code status."
The code will be permanently kept, naming the street.
Process stopped being process.
It became city.
Codes weren't numbers—they were monuments, roads, seals, contracts between the dead and the land.
News spread, crowds acted.
Some volunteered to guard boards.
Others built walls, shelters, carved words around them.
Some brought food, medicine, kept "night watch" for boards.
Line holders weren't death-seekers anymore.
They became the first generation of Iron Valley's process zone name-makers.
Blackvine's internal control reeled.
The Executor Under the Blade sent a warning:
"Process code execution entered faith-growth state."
"Physical strikes ineffective."
"Request main society consider: activate 'execution group system erasure program.'"
Main society replied:
"No."
"Process lives because it has people."
"Erase the process, who erases the people?"
Even Blackvine realized:
Killing boards was trivial.
Killing the unmoving person behind it—that cost the most.
Strike again, and it wasn't a process war.
It was city war.
Each process name—carrying blood and place—declared war.