From a distance, Leo observed the group gathered in the center of the ruined courtyard. There was a strong chance at least one of them was a vampire, maybe more. If he got too close, their Vampire Gaze would expose him instantly. Caution was his only option.
He moved through the shattered ruins, slipping between broken walls and crumbled archways, until he found a half-collapsed tower. Climbing it quietly, he reached a high vantage point enclosed by fractured stone—perfect for concealment. With both Moonlit Gaze and Vampire Gaze active, he peered through the walls, eyes locked on the group below. Two of them were clearly werewolves. The others, judging by their aura and posture, were likely vampires. One of the werewolves, the same who had fled from him earlier, was speaking to a tall figure in a dark cloak. The vampire raised his hand, gesturing calmly—giving orders. Then, as if sensing something, his head tilted slightly. His gaze lifted and locked onto Leo's hidden position.
A chill surged down Leo's spine. Before he could even move, the vampire vanished. He barely had a second to react when he heard it: the slow, rhythmic thump… thump… of a heartbeat behind him.
"Looking for me?" a smooth voice asked.
Leo spun around. A tall man in a perfectly tailored black suit stood behind him, unnaturally still, like a shadow carved into flesh. Before Leo could retreat, the vampire seized his collar—and the world blinked.
When Leo's vision cleared, he was no longer on the tower. He stood in the center of the group he'd been watching, surrounded on all sides. The vampire who had grabbed him now sat casually in a throne-like chair made of twisting shadows, conjured from nothing.
"Now," the man said with a cool smile, "tell me—what are you? You smell like a vampire, but not quite. There's something human in you, too."
He paused, then offered a mockingly polite nod. "Where are my manners? I'm Carl Dimont—one of the original nobles of vampire kind."
Leo froze. one of the original nobles of vampire was in front of him. There would be no escaping this. Not against someone like him.
Carl raised a brow. "Well? Did a cat eat your tongue?"
"I… I'm a mage," Leo managed after a long pause.
"You know I can hear your heartbeat, right?" Carl leaned forward slightly, eyes narrowing. "I can tell when someone's lying."
"My heart's racing because I'm sitting in front of a vampire noble," Leo replied, doing his best to sound both nervous and honest.
Surprise flickered across Carl's face, followed by amusement. "Touché. Still—how does a little mage use vampire abilities?"
Leo couldn't reveal the truth. He went with the first lie that formed. "We've been researching vampires. Studying their abilities in magical labs. Some spells can be mimicked."
Carl's eyes glowed with cold, blue light. Leo recognized the spell immediately—Mind Compulsion. A vampire's mental command.
But before the magic could take hold, he felt the familiar presence of Selvanna's domain—its protection weaving around his mind like a shield. Ever since gaining her domain, Leo had learned that most mind-affecting spells were ineffective against him. Especially as an illusionist. He let the spell settle over him and pretended to succumb.
"I'm not lying," he said, dulling his tone just enough to sound compelled.
Carl studied him for a long moment, then continued. "Fine. What's your purpose here?"
"We heard there was vampire activity in these ruins. We came to investigate."
"You mean… you don't know what's buried here?"
Leo hesitated. "There was a rumor. About an artifact."
Carl burst into laughter, loud and sharp. "An artifact? No, little mage. It's not just an artifact. It's the Thorn—the S-ranked blade itself."
One of the werewolves growled, glancing at Carl. "Is it wise to tell him that?"
Carl shrugged. "He'll be dead in a few minutes. What harm is there?"
Leo barely heard them. His eyes had shifted to a nearby wall. Behind it, faint but clear through Moonlit Gaze, he saw it—something long and thin, glowing faintly with residual heat. A sword. Hidden perfectly to any normal eye.
"Did you find it?" Leo asked, keeping up the illusion of mind control.
Carl sighed. "We've scoured this ruin a hundred times over the years. We know it's here, but it won't show itself. Not to us."
Leo said nothing, but a realization bloomed in his chest. They couldn't see it. Without Moonlit Gaze, even a vampire noble couldn't detect the sword's heat signature. But he could. And if he could reach it… maybe, just maybe, he had a chance.
On the wall, just beneath a dense patch of moss, Leo spotted the faint outline of a handprint—clearly carved but worn by time. Above it, symbols were etched into the stone, their shapes shimmering faintly with residual heat, barely visible even under his Moonlit Gaze. The letters pulsed with subtle magic, remnants of a spell meant to conceal them from unworthy eyes.
Leo narrowed his gaze and leaned in. The script was ancient Elvish—older and more intricate than the standard dialects he'd been studying. Over the past few months, he had gained decent fluency in both Elvish and Dwarvish, but this archaic form still tested his limits.
"How many more of you are out there?" Carl's voice cut through the silence behind him.
Leo remained still, pretending to be under the effect of the mind control spell. He used the pretense to stay focused, eyes locked on the wall as he replied in a flat tone, "A group of ten is en route."
"And their strongest?"
The symbols began to come into focus. Leo could now make out full words.
"An A3-rank mage," he said absently, translating in his mind as he read.
Carl sat back in his throne of shadow, gesturing to his followers. "Prepare yourselves. If that's true, we may have a problem."
Leo's attention, however, was fully on the text. 'Only… a true… acceptance… may… enter.'
He blinked. 'Only a true acceptance may enter?' The phrasing was strange. Did it refer to a "true vampire"? He glanced at Carl and the other vampires. No. They weren't truly accepted. They'd stolen vampire secrets—they weren't chosen.
Then a thought struck him like a lightning bolt. 'Lilith accepted me. She gave me her secret, her legacy. Her power flows through me willingly.'
He looked down at the handprint and his instincts told him the answer. Blood. Always blood.
Suddenly, a distant explosion rumbled through the ruins. The air trembled, dust falling from cracks in the ceiling.
"What the hell was that?" barked the smaller werewolf—the same one who had fled from Leo earlier.
As the others turned to look, Leo vanished, leaving a blood phantom in his place, and sprinted toward the wall.
"Go check it out," Carl ordered the larger werewolf, then turned back with a bored expression. "Well, I suppose we don't need him anymore…"
With a lazy flick of his finger, the blood phantom exploded in a messy burst of red vapor.
The larger werewolf winced. "You couldn't just stab him?"
Carl's eyes narrowed, ignoring the comment. "He used illusion on me?"
But Leo was already moving. He reached the wall, sliced his palm open, and with his blood trailing down his fingers, he flung a fireball to burn away the moss. Smoke hissed as it revealed the rest of the carving. He slapped his bloody palm into the hand-shaped groove.
Carl felt it instantly. His head snapped toward the wall, fury distorting his features. Magic swelled around him as blood curled up his arm like a living whip, coiling into a crimson torrent that surged toward Leo.
Just before the wave struck, a black portal blinked open behind Leo and yanked him inside.
He landed in silence. The shift in atmosphere was immediate and suffocating. The chamber he now stood in was cut off from the outside world. No sound seeped in. His magical senses were muffled. Even Carl's life energy, so vibrant just moments ago, was now nothing more than a dim, flickering haze behind the stone wall.
But in the center of the room, floating slightly above a stone pedestal, hovered the sword.
It looked like a piece of history forged into a weapon: a double-edged blade of immaculate steel, polished to a mirror sheen and tapering into a deadly point. Golden engravings wove along the ricasso and crossguard, forming swirling runes and sunburst patterns. A circular golden frame ringed the base of the blade, as though reinforcing the magic bound within. Dark leather crisscrossed around the grip, worn but tightly wrapped, and a crimson gemstone glittered at the center of the crossguard—small, but alive with restrained energy.
Leo's lips curved into a grim smile. "I was kind of hoping you were stuck in a rock or something."
At the base of the pedestal sat a cracked stone tablet. Leo crouched and began to read, eyes scanning quickly.
"Only the worthy may lay hand upon Thorn, Heart of Nemesis. The unworthy shall be given unto the blade."
Leo looked down. Bones littered the floor—piles of skeletons left to rot for centuries. Some were fresh. Most were not.
He scoffed. "Looks like the noble family were the only ones not clever enough to find the real entrance."
He continued reading:
"The worthy's blood shall overwrite the old. The Blood of Nemesis shall rise and lay waste to all thy foes."
His smile faded. 'So… if the sword accepts me, it becomes mine. If not… I die.'
He stood slowly, eyes locked on the blade.
"There's no going back empty-handed. If I do, I die anyway."
With a resigned breath, he stepped toward it. He reached out and wrapped his hand around the hilt.
For one, breathless second—nothing. Then the pain struck. His entire body locked in place as if time itself had stopped. Blood ripped from his veins—not spilled, dragged—into the sword. The blade drank it greedily. Leo dropped to one knee, teeth clenched so hard they threatened to crack, his right hand still locked around the hilt, immovable.
It was agony. Searing, soul-wrenching agony that tore through Leo's body as if his very blood was being unmade and rewritten. His fingers locked around the hilt of the floating sword—Thorn, Heart of Nemesis—as if letting go would sever more than just his grip. His knees buckled under the weight of the pain, but the sword would not release him. It was drinking him in, siphoning his lifeblood through the contact point as if drawing out the essence of who he was.
The air pressed in around him, dense and heavy, vibrating faintly as the sword fed. The ancient runes etched along its hilt pulsed to life with crimson light, veins of molten red threading through steel like awakening arteries. The chamber had gone utterly silent, as if even sound feared to interrupt the ritual. Leo's breathing grew ragged, each inhale a desperate fight against the sensation of being hollowed out.
His skin paled, sweat clinging to him in chilled beads. His vision swam with static, edges of the world trembling with a faint red hue. And just when he was certain it would kill him—when he truly believed the sword was not choosing him but sacrificing him—it stopped.
The sword lifted slightly, almost reverently, as if recognizing its wielder at last. The pulsating aura around it softened into a gentle mist of red that hovered like fog, wrapping the weapon in an ethereal veil. Leo, trembling and gasping for breath, rose shakily to one knee. His muscles screamed with fatigue, his body refusing to move, but his pride—his unrelenting will—forced him upright again.
Shaking, panting, he rose. Blood clung to his palm where he had gripped the sword, the mark of acceptance—or of survival.
He stared at the weapon hovering before him. Its blade gleamed faintly in the chamber's dim red glow, and he could feel something pulsing inside it, almost like a heartbeat.
"Does this mean you accepted me?" he asked, his voice hoarse, barely more than a whisper in the sacred silence.
But the sword was not done. Without warning, a sudden surge of liquid red erupted from the blade—strands of blood, like tendrils or whips, lashed out from the weapon and began to coil in the air. They danced in intricate patterns, swirling around Leo's body in a display both terrifying and awe-inspiring. The energy was sentient. It examined him, tasted the air, etched symbols into the space itself before being drawn back into the weapon.
Then, the sword began to glow. A deep, furious red engulfed it, growing brighter and denser until it hurt to look at. The air crackled with ancient power as the ground beneath Leo's feet began to tremble. The pressure of centuries of dormant magic screamed awake all at once. The light became unbearable.
Then came the explosion.
A deafening boom tore through the chamber, and the red light consumed everything. Leo instinctively raised his arm to shield his eyes, but it made no difference. The brilliance was everywhere, inside and out. For one heartbeat, he felt nothing. No pain. No fear. No weight.
And then—darkness. Total, absolute darkness.