The New Chinese Federation—born from the ashes of the Third World War, a colossal union forged by intertwining the fates of neighboring Asian nations. Its purpose was clear: a bulwark against the USA and the EU. The global order, shattered by nuclear fire and ideological warfare, had devolved into a merciless tableau where nations wielded daggers in the dark, each refusing to yield an inch. Technological marvels and the cultivation of superpowered elites had become the era's twin obsessions.
None of it mattered to Lu Qiu.
He exhaled sharply, stepping from his rooftop shack—a ramshackle structure cobbled together atop a decaying apartment block in Wenhan City's forgotten slums. Here, the Federation's poverty festered, a stark contrast to the neon-glittering downtown districts. He hid not by choice, but necessity: in an age of fanatical Church exorcists, a vampire like him was forever the hunted.
The bounty on his head? Seven hundred thousand New Federal Credits. Even the most notorious war criminals paled in comparison. Lu Qiu knew the ritualistic agony that awaited captured bloodkind—he'd seen it firsthand, powerless to save his sister as holy fire consumed her.
No more hiding.
He rolled the crimson vial in his palm, its contents sloshing like liquid rubies. His scarlet pupils glimmered in the pitch-black night, a predator's gaze honed by loss. Revenge is within reach.
"Freezing," he muttered, breath crystallizing into mist as he stared at the distant skyline. Midwinter, yet he wore only a threadbare white tee and frayed jeans—partly from destitution, partly because warmth was a human luxury. His blood, cursed and cold, flowed like stagnant sludge through veins augmented by the System. Strength, speed—triple that of a mortal.
Gazing down at the three-story drop, he leaped without a second thought. The 龟裂的 (cracked) asphalt shrieked beneath him, spiderwebbing outward in a starburst of fractures. "Not bad," he murmured, flexing his fists. Even a Class D exorcist would struggle now.
The Church's vendetta could wait. His new mission burned brighter: amass Despair Points by drowning the world in hopelessness.
Wenhan clung to the river's edge, its lifeline a massive dam upstream. Contaminating its waters would turn the city into a plague-ridden tomb. He headed north, the slum's labyrinthine streets silent as a grave. Few dared venture out after dark; even if his rooftop landing had echoed, no one would risk drawing attention.
In a pitch-black alley, he stumbled upon a scene as predictable as it was grotesque: three youths, 刀刃 (blades) gleaming, circled a young woman in tattered office attire. Her blouse hung open, skin pale under the moon—a victim of more than robbery. A primal hunger gnawed at Lu Qiu, sharper than his fangs.
"Got a death wish, creep?" The bald ringleader brandished a switchblade, its edge catching what little light seeped in. "Move along."
Lu Qiu paused, then advanced in silence, head bowed.
"Oh, look—Mr. Hero's here to save the damsel!" sneered another, a jagged scar running from eyebrow to jaw. "Let's teach him how things work in the real world."
They didn't see his smile—the cold, humorless curl of lips that bared needle-sharp teeth. "Heroes," Lu Qiu said, voice low, "are overrated."
The first kick landed with a sickening crunch, the attacker doubling over as ribs cracked. The second and third followed in rapid succession, each strike a brutal blur of inhuman strength. Bodies slammed into brick walls, screams cut short by agony.
The bald man, quicker than his peers, lunged with his blade aimed at Lu Qiu's throat. He never saw the counterattack—an upward kick that shattered his wrist, then a second that caved in his sternum. The man slid to the ground, gurgling, legs splayed at grotesque angles.
Lu Qiu turned to the woman, now huddled against the wall, trembling. Her terror lingered, but so did a flicker of fascination—his pallid features, sharp cheekbones, and those eyes… they captivated even as they horrified.
"Thank you," she whispered, fumbling to fasten her blouse. "I—Is there anything I can—"
"Indeed." His voice dropped to a growl, fingers closing around her throat like a vice. Her scream died in her throat as fangs pierced skin, warm blood flooding his mouth. She struggled, briefly, then went limp, pupils dilating into empty pools.
He released her with a disdainful toss, wiping blood from his chin. "Bitter," he spat, kicking aside a chunk of molar. Not a virgin, then.
As her body slumped, a robotic voice pinged in his mind: Despair Points +1.
He frowned, scanning the alley. The thugs lay motionless, necks broken by his blows—no time for despair there. But the woman… her final expression had been one of disbelief, eyes wide with the horror of betrayal. So that's what despair tastes like, he realized. Not the quick death of a thug, but the slow, icy dread of realizing salvation is a lie.
A smile curled his lips. If he could drown the world in such despair, he'd surpass even the Purebloods—the ancient vampire lords revered as gods. He'd become something more.
Leaving the bodies to the rats, Lu Qiu vanished into the night, heading for the dam. The cold no longer bothered him.
After all, winter was coming—and this time, it would bring eternal night.