Angel stirred from sleep as the first rays of dawn crept through the frosted windows of the dormitory. Wednesdays were marked as respite days in the academy—a rare occasion where students were allowed to explore social life, attend club meetings, or simply rest from the relentless demands of their disciplines. Yet for Angel, respite meant only one thing: training.
Inside the hunter class training room, the air was heavy with the metallic scent of sweat and faint traces of blood, remnants from countless mock battles. The morning silence was broken by the swift movement of Angel's blood spear slicing through the air.
"Haaah!" he shouted, focusing his qi into the crimson weapon.
The spear extended from his palm like a flowing limb, manifesting instinctively from the blood that surged within his veins. Each swing followed the mental image he held in his mind, trying to match the memory of techniques he had seen in battle.
"Hah… hah…" he panted, sweat dripping from his chin as he staggered back into position.
"What exactly are you trying to do?"
A voice, cool and amused, echoed across the chamber.
Angel turned toward it, startled. "Moira?"
Standing at the doorway, arms crossed and a smug expression on her pale face, was Moira—known across the academy for her biting sarcasm, goth-styled demeanor, and frightening agility.
"The way you wield that spear…" she began with a mocking smirk, "you look like an anime-obsessed otaku trying to re-enact a flashy fight scene."
"Tch… this goth girl. She's sharp," Angel muttered under his breath, mildly annoyed.
"What are you trying to accomplish by training with that spear anyway?" she asked, her tone more curious than mocking now.
"That's none of your business," Angel replied curtly, turning his back on her.
But in a blink, Moira was suddenly in front of him again. Her movement was silent and blindingly fast.
"What the—!?" Angel gasped, instinctively stepping back.
"How did you…?"
"If you really want to learn how to use a weapon, Angel," she said with a mischievous smile, "it's best you do it against a real opponent."
Before he could protest, Moira drew two short daggers from the sides of her combat shorts and lunged at him with sudden speed.
"F-fast!" Angel thought, alarmed.
"You might die if you don't block this," she said coldly, her expression hardening. Her left dagger aimed for his neck, the right one poised for his torso.
Angel's instincts kicked in, but his body failed to keep up. He raised his arm to shield his throat—knowing even then it wouldn't be enough.
And then, just as the daggers approached, she stopped.
The blades hovered a breath away from his skin. Angel froze, eyes wide.
"Pathetic," she said, pulling back. "I expected more."
Sheathing her daggers, Moira turned away.
"I'll get going now. That was a nice warmup for the morning." Her voice was flat, almost disappointed.
The blood spear slipped from Angel's hand, falling into a dark crimson puddle that formed beneath it. He dropped to his knees, breathing heavily. Shame gnawed at him.
"Even after receiving this power… nothing has changed. I'm still weak!" Angel shouted in frustration.
Soft footsteps echoed across the chamber floor.
"It's okay to feel defeated," came a calm voice, "as long as you stand back up afterward."
Angel looked up to see Malachi standing beside him, offering his hand. Without hesitation, Angel accepted, allowing himself to be pulled back to his feet.
"I'm still the same loser I was in Japan," Angel muttered. "If I hadn't been given this power, I'd still be nothing more than a bullied kid, hiding in corners."
Malachi nodded, expression thoughtful. "I used to feel the same, especially when my brother was still around. No one could match his strength, his intellect. That's why they call him the greatest vampire of all time."
Angel's ears perked up at the mention of Cain.
"But he wasn't always that way," Malachi continued. "He was born with a terminal illness. Fragile, sickly… he was always confined indoors. He devoured books—obsessed with finding a cure for his impending death. That desperation led him to delve into forbidden magic."
"Forbidden magic?" Angel echoed.
Malachi's gaze darkened. "Also known as demonic energy. It's the power that allows us to manipulate the blood of mankind."
"But isn't that banned by the mage faction?" Angel asked, alarmed.
"It is," Malachi admitted. "But it's not so simple. Just as some are born with magic flowing in their veins, we are born with the blood of Cain. For us, demonic energy isn't a choice—it's part of our survival."
He placed a hand on Angel's shoulder.
"You weren't born like my brother—desperate for change. You were given his blood, yes, but that alone won't make you strong. Cain didn't become powerful just by being chosen… he clawed his way up from the grave."
Malachi stepped back, his tone turning firm.
"I'll give you a goal. In one month, the academy will host an event—a trial where students will prove their strength. Win that event. Earn the glory that Cain's name deserves."
And with that, Malachi turned and walked away.
"Wait! You haven't taught me anything yet!" Angel called after him—but Malachi didn't stop.
Angel clenched his fists. "That memory… the vision I saw during the fight with that winged guard. Was it from Cain? How was I able to see that?"
Sleep abandoned him. For the rest of the day and into the night, Angel continued his spear training—determined to carve out strength, no matter the cost.
By morning, his hands were blistered and his body sluggish. Latisha, a classmate with lavender eyes and a sharp tongue, glanced at him during roll call.
"Do you not sleep?" she asked, eyeing his pale face.
"Shut up…" Angel muttered, rubbing his eyes.
The class was gathered at the outdoor training grounds—a vast space lined with archery targets, obstacle courses, and circular sparring zones embedded in the dirt. Students wore hunter uniforms, militaristic in style: fitted black armor with utility belts, gauntlets, and thigh straps for weapons.
At the front stood Captain Ulric Ivanov, a towering figure with a hardened jaw and grizzled hair. A former naval hunter, he'd earned renown for his battlefield leadership during the Global War.
"Listen up, recruits!" he barked. "Today's lesson is on tactical formations. It's the foundation of teamwork in the field—your first line of survival. Whether you stalk the shadows like a vampire, wield spells like a mage, or tear through enemies like a werewolf, you will need this."
At his gesture, the assistant mage projected a magical screen into the air.
Gasps spread through the crowd.
Angel's breath caught as he stared at the horrific image displayed—a massive, malformed creature with limbs like coiled steel and eyes that burned like suns.
"After the fall of the Blood Lord Cain in -2997, nearly three millennia passed before the first recorded incursion from another realm," Ulric explained. "And when they came, the world changed forever."
"These are not beasts born of this realm. They are not vampires, nor werewolves, nor mages corrupted by power. They are entities—otherworldly beings of destruction and intelligence."
He paused to let the weight of his words settle.
"Their bodies are nearly indestructible. Their minds are cruel and cunning. And their very existence threatens human extinction."
Silence blanketed the grounds.
"To fight them, strategy and unity are vital. Many died discovering the tactics we'll teach you. Hunters, mages, even highborn vampires. Learn or die."
He turned toward the recruits.
"You will be divided into squads. These groups will remain together for the next month until your first major evaluation."
"Am I clear!?"
"Sir, yes sir!" the class shouted in unison.
And so began a new chapter in Angel's life—one of harsh lessons, bitter memories, and the distant glimmer of glory. The hunter class had begun.