The headquarters of the Initiated Cross.
The early morning mist clung to the edges of the building like a shroud, pale and cold as dawn barely crept over the horizon. Inside, the atmosphere was still and tense. The elite members—those who had worked through the night carrying out the mission—were gathered silently in the hall, fatigue evident in their expressions but not a single complaint among them.
After all, the last time they had been summoned together like this, it had been for the Blood Granting Ritual.
And now… it was happening again.
Eyes burning with zeal, they waited in reverent silence, hearts pounding with anticipation. These thirteen weren't just the most competent—they were the most devoted, hand-picked for their unwavering belief in the "Devil." Aside from the high officers—Ivins, Jack Arnold, and Marilyn—these thirteen represented the soul of the cult.
They were ready to receive the holy blood.
And none dared speak or show impatience, though their bodies were practically humming with restrained fervor.
By the tall window, Ivins stood motionless, watching the fog outside curl like ghostly fingers along the edges of the glass. When he finally turned to face the others, his expression was like stone—harsh, grim, and set with a cold purpose.
"I have received a divine revelation," he said, voice carrying with unnatural clarity through the chamber. "Today will mark the second Blood Granting."
He paused—long enough for the silence to deepen, for the cultists to absorb the words and recognize their weight.
But then came the twist.
"However," Ivins said slowly, "this time… the ritual will not be conducted by me."
Confusion rippled through the room like a wave.
What? Not the Blood Priest?
It didn't make sense. Ivins had been appointed directly by their "Lord" to perform the sacred rite. If not him—then who?
Unless…
A few among them widened their eyes, guessing what came next.
Ivins let the silence settle just long enough before delivering the answer.
"This time, the Great Devil Himself—the Lord of Sacred Blood, the Ruler of Night, the One to whom we offer everything—will descend among us… in person."
Silence.
And then a pulse of something hotter than fire and colder than fear.
Gasps broke out. Thirteen elite members straightened almost imperceptibly in unison, eyes wide, faces pale with awe, not fear.
He's coming?
No… He's already here?
Meanwhile, in one of the dormitories for lower-ranking members...
"Get moving, Constantine," a fellow cultist muttered as he tugged on his cloak. "The Blood Priest is calling everyone. You're not gonna be late, are you?"
"I'll be there," Constantine replied casually from the balcony, waving him off. "Just got something to finish up."
His companion didn't press him further. As soon as he left, Constantine's easygoing expression faded. He leaned on the cold stone rail, eyes narrowed.
"Summoning everyone at this hour? Must've gone down last night... something big. But whatever it is, they're keeping us grunts in the dark. Typical."
He fished around in his pocket, cursing under his breath. No cigarettes. Again.
"Damn cult doesn't even allow smoking. Ten days without a drag... I'm going insane."
He sighed, rubbed his temples, then pushed off the rail.
"Alright, fine. Let's see what this is about."
By the time Constantine arrived at the gathering hall, over three-quarters of the cult had already assembled. The remaining few trickled in behind him, hurrying to take their places. Ivins stood tall on the raised platform at the front of the room, arms folded, expression carved from iron. He said nothing. Simply waited.
Within minutes, every seat was filled. The hierarchy was crystal clear—thirteen elite members at the front, seated like judges, and twenty-four ordinary cultists behind them. The dozens of outer-rank initiates weren't even permitted inside.
The hall itself was a relic of the past—a refurbished theater stage once used for classical dramas, now repurposed for something far more arcane.
Constantine kept his head down, slid into a seat toward the corner, and took stock of the room. Familiar faces. Quiet whispers. Nervous anticipation.
On the platform, Ivins finally spoke.
"Last night," he said, voice sharp and unwavering, "I received a message from the divine. Our Lord has declared that today shall be known as the Day of Initiation."
The words cracked across the room like thunder.
A few of the newer members exchanged looks. Some whispered. Most stared.
Constantine scanned the crowd. The thirteen elites didn't so much as blink. Devotion oozed off them like heat from stone.
Fanatics. Every one of them.
Then Ivins continued.
"You may not yet understand the full magnitude of what it means to follow our Lord—the Master of Sacred Blood, the Great Devil, the Fallen Light. But today, you will."
His voice rose as the power behind his words swelled, pulsing with fervor.
"He is the Lord of Hosts. He is the King of Victory."
Ivins raised his arms, his transformation beginning. Crimson light flickered across his face. His bones cracked as they shifted. Fangs lengthened. Eyes bled red.
"Today," he cried, "the King of Vampires descends upon His nation-to-be! He brings the sacred blood and the laws of the dark to bind us all."
He was changing—his body contorting into something no longer human. For some, it was the first time they had seen a vampire in its true form. Fear rooted many to their seats. Shock widened every eye.
Constantine's blood ran cold.
This isn't an act. It's real.
And he wasn't the only one. Every ordinary member in the room sat stiff and silent now, transfixed by what was unfolding.
Then—it happened.
Red mist spilled through the air like smoke from a sacrificial pyre. A presence stepped through the haze, casting shadow like a thunderhead. Darkness crawled across the walls, drawn toward Him.
He didn't speak.
He didn't need to.
He stood on the stage, tall and terrible, eyes burning like twin embers, the crimson mist parting to reveal His form. Lorian had arrived.
And everyone knew it.
The thirteen elites bowed their heads. The rest of the room fell into paralyzed awe.
Only after a full minute passed in heavy silence did Lorian finally speak.
His voice was low. Measured. Devoid of emotion.
"There is… a traitor among you."
The air snapped taut like a wire pulled to breaking.
Somewhere in the crowd, Constantine's breath caught.
Oh no.
He knows.
He knows I'm from Scotland Yard.
…