"Understanding the enemy—and the principles of coordinated action—is vital," Captain Ulric's voice rang with steel conviction across the wide training field. "But theory without practice is useless when you're staring down the maw of a blood-hungry ogre."
He paused, letting his gaze sweep over the assembled recruits, a mixture of nobles and commoners, humans and supernatural beings. The mismatched group stood rigid under the midday sun, its heat adding weight to Ulric's words.
"This session," he continued, "will be dedicated to putting tactical formations into action."
He gestured to the different sections of the field with his gloved hand. "We'll run through scenarios designed to test your ability to move as a unit, leverage your individual strengths within a formation, and react to simulated threats under duress."
A scoff broke the silence.
Noah, a haughty noble with silver hair and a mouth too fast for his own good, stepped forward, his lip curled in contempt. "Tch. We are nobles! Why must we lower ourselves to a human's task? We are superior in every way—those monsters are merely—"
Bang.
A sharp crack split the air. A bullet hissed past Noah's head, grazing the edge of his ear. Blood trickled down his neck as he flinched in pain and shock.
"A word of reminder," Captain Ulric said coldly, slipping his pistol back into the holster. "Even your so-called nobles have fallen to the hands of us Hunters. You bleed the same as any man or beast."
Noah staggered back, seething but silent. Latisha, another noble standing nearby, crossed her arms and sighed, shaking her head.
"That idiot's putting the noble name to shame with his childish arrogance."
Captain Ulric continued, unfazed. "The marked lanes," he barked, "will be used to drill the wedge formation—maintaining cohesion while advancing under pressure. The open grasslands will host skirmish line drills, emphasizing spacing, flexibility, and covering fire."
He pointed toward the central ring of flattened earth. "Here, you'll practice defensive perimeter tactics against multiple attackers. And the obstacle course behind the southern gate will simulate a tactical retreat—using the echelon formation."
His gaze turned razor-sharp as he addressed the mixed factions directly.
"Vampires—you will learn to fight alongside werewolves. Your blood-fueled strength and demonic energy are invaluable for close-quarters and mid-range combat. Mages—your arcane prowess must weave with the rhythm of your allies' physical movements. Werewolves—your primal instincts must not override formation discipline. Channel them within structure."
He took a breath.
"And Hunters—you are the thread. Augment your stronger allies with keen awareness and specialized weaponry. Be their eyes. Be their reach."
His voice rose like a drumbeat. "Am I clear?"
"Sir, yes sir!" the crowd shouted in unison, the air thrumming with tension and anticipation.
And thus, the first day of their hellish training began.
---
Angel's legs trembled beneath him as he stumbled through the final lap. Sweat poured from his brow. His breath came in ragged, desperate gasps.
"Hah… hah…"
His vision swam, colors blurring and darkening at the edges. Around him, his classmates sprinted ahead, moving like wolves on the hunt. He tried to push forward, but his knees buckled.
"I… I can't feel my legs…" he gasped, teeth clenched. But even as his body screamed in protest, Angel forced himself up, dragging one foot after another, unwilling to stop. Even if he was left behind.
From the edge of the field, Captain Ulric watched in silence.
"That kid is persistent," he murmured.
The sun dipped low, casting long shadows across the training grounds. The whistle finally blew, signaling the end of the session.
---
Angel collapsed onto his bed, soaked in sweat and panting heavily. Every muscle in his body ached, and even the act of breathing felt like a battle.
"I can't… anymore..."
He stared up at the ceiling, the day's trials crashing down on him like a tide. His mind wandered to the words in the old diary he had read.
"There were no monsters written inside the diary..." he whispered. "Creatures that only existed in novels and games… have become real."
He raised his hand. The crimson ring on his finger pulsed faintly.
With a flick of thought, he summoned blood spikes from thin air. The crimson shards whirled in formation above him before shooting toward a pile of discarded objects—splinters of wood, an old chair, a cracked mirror. Each object shattered on impact.
"Return," Angel commanded.
The blood, now pooled on the floor, slithered back toward him like living ink. It re-entered the wound on his finger before the skin sealed itself, unmarred.
"Demonic energy," he muttered. "A power that we vampires possess. I need to understand it. I want to master it."
He rose slowly, muscles still aching, and began scouring the Moriarty family's private library. But the shelves betrayed him—rows of ancient tomes, all speaking of blood manipulation, noble etiquette, or worldly knowledge. Nothing on demonic energy. Nothing useful.
The door creaked open.
A tall figure stepped inside, casting a shadow across the room. It was Malachi.
"Sir Malachi," Angel said, straightening.
Malachi's sharp eyes scanned the room before settling on Angel. "To think you'd come to possess my brother's old chamber. In the past, that alone would've earned you execution."
He chuckled at Angel's grim expression. "Relax. Times have changed."
Angel forced a breath. "What brings you here, sir Malachi?"
"You seemed… curious." Malachi's gaze drifted to the mess of books on the table. "I thought I might be of some assistance."
Angel met his eyes. "I want to learn about demonic energy. Not just blood manipulation. I want to become stronger—truly stronger."
Malachi's expression sobered.
"I understand your will," he said. "But demonic energy is not a simple tool. It's a force that corrupts—an entity in itself. It whispers, tempts, possesses."
He stepped closer.
"Tell me, Angel—have you ever heard voices? Felt an overwhelming urge to kill? To devour the person in front of you?"
Angel's breath caught. The memory hit him like a wave—the night in the park. The man who tried to kill him. The voice in his head, echoing with venom and hunger.
"I did hear something… a voice. It told me to devour him. To tear him apart. But it vanished—just as suddenly."
Malachi gave a slow nod. "My brother heard it too. He suppressed his thirst for blood, but he couldn't silence the demon clawing at his mind. Demonic energy comes at a cost, Angel. You must subdue the demon within before you even think of wielding it."
He bent down and picked up the fallen books, placing them neatly back on the shelves.
"If you truly wish to walk this path, then prove your will. Face your inner darkness. Subdue it. Only then will I teach you the demonic arts of the Moriarty Clan."
Angel clenched his fists.
"I will," he said. "No matter what it takes."