The southern city of Dorothea lay quietly upon the plains, a settlement cradled between the shadows of perilous forests and the looming silhouettes of jagged mountains. Though it was known for its warm days, the nights here could turn treacherous, and tonight was one such night.
The wind was howling—not the gentle whisper of a passing breeze, but a sharp, almost mournful wail that curled through the narrow streets and rattled loose shutters.
Street lamps flickered to life along the cobblestone paths, their amber glow spilling across the pavements, chasing away the tendrils of darkness and keeping at bay the biting cold that crept in with the night. The faint hiss of the wind against metal poles accompanied the distant sound of creaking signs swaying in the wind.
On the quieter side of the city, an old two-story apartment building stood with its brick walls weathered by time. The windows were dark on the ground floor, but one on the second floor glowed softly—a warm square of light in the otherwise dim street.
Inside, the illumination came not from an overhead lamp, but from a lone table lamp, its golden light pooling across scattered papers, casting long shadows that swayed with the faint drafts slipping through the gaps in the window frame.
Seated at the desk was a young man.
His hair was short, black as ink, with strands that caught the lamplight in muted highlights. His eyes—blood-red, deep and reflective—held a quiet, chilling intensity, the kind that could unsettle anyone who dared to meet his gaze for too long.
The sharp lines of his face were refined, handsome to the point of seeming unreal, but it was his skin—snow white, almost luminous under the warm light—that made him look like a figure drawn from an old fairy tale. His tall frame, around six foot five, carried an unspoken presence even in stillness.
A black cloak hung from his shoulders, the high collar rising just enough to obscure half of his face, leaving only those piercing crimson eyes and the bridge of his straight nose visible. His right hand held a pen poised above a sheet of paper, the ink tip occasionally pausing mid-word, while his left hand turned a page with slow deliberation.
The scratching of the pen against paper was the only sound in the small room, aside from the low hum of the wind outside.
"As I thought… no matter how much I build theories, I can't find the solution."
His gaze lingered on the page before him, but his eyes were no longer reading. The thought echoed in his mind with a dull heaviness. He leaned back slightly, shaking his head, a faint grimace pulling at the corner of his mouth.
Lifting one pale hand, he pressed his fingers against his temples and began to massage them, as though hoping to knead the frustration away. A long, slow sigh escaped his lips—one not just of weariness, but of restrained irritation.
Vampires like him were bound by their nature—trapped within the limits of the Blood Ability that was etched into their very existence. No matter how many paths he tried to explore, there seemed to be no escaping the inevitable truth.
His name in this world was Blood.
It had been a month since he had awakened in this body, a month since he had mysteriously been pulled from his old life into the existence of a young vampire in this place called Mojo.
And as far as the records of this body's life went, Blood was an Inferior Blood—one of the lowest rungs of his kind, too insignificant to bear a surname.
His parents had been killed by Hunters years ago, and now, there was no family left. He was alone.
Perhaps the only stroke of fortune was that he had not yet used any Ability Star to gain Star Power. That choice—or perhaps luck—left him with possibilities, slim as they might be. Had he already chosen, had he bound himself to a Blood Star like every vampire before him, then breaking free from this cursed path would have been nearly impossible.
"No matter what I do… only Blood Stars are suitable for a vampire. But I want something else. I want my first Star Ability to be something other than a Blood Star."
His jaw tightened as the thought burned through him. He gritted his teeth, and his sharp fangs caught the lamplight for an instant, the pale points glimmering like cold steel. From the corner of his vision, he could see the moonlight spilling faintly through the window, its reflection dancing faintly on the smooth enamel of those fangs.
A sudden spark of thought crossed his mind. His expression shifted—just slightly—as he lowered his hand from his temple and raised his left wrist.
The faint, metallic glint of a wristwatch caught the lamplight. He angled it toward himself.
11:48 p.m.
The corners of his mouth curved—just a fraction, not quite a smile, more the settling of a decision. Night was his ally.
Daylight was a risk he could not take; the sun's touch was not a mere inconvenience for him—it was a threat. Even a brief exposure could leave his pale skin blistered and smoking. But under the shroud of night, he could move freely. And tonight, he needed to hunt.
The hunger had been stirring inside him all evening, coiling and twisting like a serpent in the pit of his stomach. If he allowed it to grow unchecked, it would strip him of reason and send him into a frenzy.
For an Inferior Blood like him, hunger was not just discomfort—it was weakness. And weakness could mean death.
Blood's crimson gaze lingered on the papers for a moment longer before he began to move. The legs of the wooden chair scraped faintly against the floor as he pushed it back and stood, his tall shadow stretching across the room in the lamplight.
One by one, he gathered the scattered sheets on the table, stacking them neatly until not a single page was out of place.
The pen was laid precisely on top. He slid the pile into the drawer, closing it with a muted click. The order in his movements carried the weight of habit, as though chaos had no place in his surroundings—especially before a hunt.
From there, he crossed the small room to the closet. The hinges creaked faintly as he pulled the doors open, revealing the garments within. His hand reached for his hunting uniform—a long black cloak, the inner lining stitched with the faint emblem of vampire fangs. The cloth was smooth beneath his fingers, heavy yet supple, its weight carrying the presence of its enchantments.
Next came the mask. At a glance, it appeared featureless—no openings for eyes, no slit for the mouth—yet when worn, it allowed its user to see the world as clearly as if the night were lit by day.
The craftsmanship was fine, the enchantment subtle and precise. It had cost him ten golds, an amount that could have sustained a family for months.
The cloak, far more costly, had demanded fifty golds from his coffers—enough to feed six families for ten months. These were not luxuries bought through honest trade; they were spoils, earned from nights of hunting humans beneath the moonlight.
His hand reached deeper into the closet and returned with a long, sheathed sword, black from hilt to tip. He hung it at his waist, the familiar weight settling against his hip.
This blade had cost him twenty golds, and in the month since his arrival in this body, it had already claimed the lives of over fifty humans. The leather grip was worn smooth where his fingers naturally curled, the guard faintly nicked from clashes past.
Once fully dressed, he reached for the cloak's concealed clasp and activated its first enchantment.
In an instant, his form shimmered and dissolved into nothing—the air where he stood now empty, save for the faint displacement of the room's warmth. Invisibility.
The garment carried two more enchantments—Durability to withstand the rigors of combat and the elements, and Sub-space for storing what could not be carried openly.
These enchantments alone had cost him three hundred golds, not counting the cloak's inherent ability: Disguise.
Every coin he had earned, whether from hunting humans or other targets, had gone into these tools. They were not mere equipment; they were survival itself.
Crossing back to the desk, the invisible vampire reached out, and the golden glow in the room dimmed as he turned off the table lamp. Shadows claimed the space in full. He moved to the window, the faint rustle of fabric the only sound as he perched on the sill.
From here, Dorothea stretched before him—its roofs, chimneys, and lamp-lit streets lying under a pale wash of moonlight. The cold air curled against him, sharp in his lungs. His voice, deepened and altered by the mask's Voice Concealment enchantment, rumbled low and steady:
"May the blood protect me."
And with that, he leapt.
His boots met the tiled roof of the neighboring building with barely a whisper of sound. He landed not with supernatural grace, but with the precision of one well-practiced—light on his feet, but bound by the same laws of flesh as any man.
Straightening, he took a moment to scan the streets below.
Inhale.
Exhale.
A long, controlled sigh slipped past his concealed lips. Then he began to move—first in a measured stride, then in a steady run. At the roof's edge, his legs coiled and released, sending him sailing through the cold air to the next building.
The tiles beneath him shifted slightly under his weight, but he moved on without pause.
Below, the city's patrols marched in teams of three, their metal armor catching the faint glow of streetlamps. Their voices carried in low murmurs, boots striking in unison on the cobblestones.
Blood's movements remained silent. He traversed rooftop after rooftop, his crimson eyes scanning the streets and alleyways below for prey.
Hunger gnawed at him—a slow, steady ache in his chest and stomach—and he knew better than to let it grow.
Finally, he stopped.
Below, in the narrow cut of an alleyway, four men stood in a loose circle, speaking in the easy manner of those who thought themselves safe.
A faint, humorless smile tugged at the edge of his lips beneath the mask " If I recall correctly… these men are the local ruffians"
They were his preferred prey—criminals, those whose absence would not trouble the innocent. His hunts rarely ended in death; he took blood and, at times, valuables, but he avoided needless killing.
If caught, this meant the difference between being labeled a must-kill criminal and a must-arrest one.
And the latter, at least, left room to survive.
The voices from below rose clearly to his ears.
"—I'm telling you," said Liam, a middle-aged man with a thick, coarse voice and a grin that split his unshaven face, "Oliver's girl—Lily—she's got a body that's just begging to be taken. I'd have her all day and all night if I could."
One of the others, Noah, chuckled, leaning lazily against the alley wall. "Why stop at wanting? We should just grab her and take turns. She wouldn't be the first."
Mateo, shaking his head with a mocking laugh, interjected, "Bah, you boys are blind. Forget the daughter—Oliver's wife, Emma, now she's a prize. Older, yes, but far more… refined. That's a woman worth breaking in."
From the far side of the circle, Henry lifted his brows, his expression lighting with sudden excitement. "Why not take both? Mother and daughter, together. Let them serve the four of us. Imagine it!"
For a brief moment, the alley echoed with their laughter—low, crude, and without a shred of guilt.
From his perch above, Blood tilted his head slightly, watching the four men below with quiet amusement. A faint curve touched his lips beneath the mask—not a warm smile, but one born from cold observation.
"Young men these days" he thought, his crimson eyes narrowing " Even wild animals carry themselves with more dignity than this "
The ruffians laughed crudely, speaking without restraint about their intended prey—mother and daughter, as if discussing spoils of the hunt. Their voices echoed against the stone walls, foul words staining the night air.
Blood's gloved hand reached into the folds of his cloak and withdrew a small, round object no larger than a fingertip. It was matte black, its surface etched with faint markings only visible under moonlight—a smoke pellet. Without hesitation, he flicked his wrist, sending it arcing down toward them.
The object struck the cobblestone between the men with a muted tap.
Poof—
Instead of a fiery blast, a sudden bloom of thick, dark smoke erupted, curling upward and swallowing the group in seconds. The air filled with the acrid scent of alchemical powder.
"What—?! What is going on?!" one of them shouted, his voice tinged with confusion and growing fear.
"I can't see anything!" another barked, stumbling back.
"Who is it?!" roared Liam, rage cutting through his panic. "Who is it?! Reveal yourself, you coward!"
Blood did not answer. His body was already in motion.
He leapt from the rooftop in a smooth, controlled arc, boots striking the ground with a heavy thud. His hand gripped the hilt of his sword, but he did not draw the blade. Instead, he swung the sheathed weapon in a vicious downward strike.
The blow crashed into Liam's right shoulder.
Bam!
The bone gave way beneath the impact with a sickening crack.
"Aughh!!" Liam's cry was ragged and raw. His knees buckled, and he collapsed to the ground, clutching his arm with trembling hands. His face contorted in agony—teeth clenched so hard they threatened to shatter, eyes bloodshot and spilling tears from both pain and rage.
Blood moved before the sound had even faded. He turned, pivoting his weight, and lashed out horizontally. The sheathed sword caught Noah across the face with brutal force.
Thud!
Noah's body spun away, rolling several meters before coming to a halt. His head swam, vision blurring, the metallic taste of blood flooding his mouth.
Coughs wracked his chest, and with them, a few loose teeth fell onto the stone. Tears welled up unbidden, streaking down his face.
"You—!" Henry roared, fists clenching as he lunged forward.
Blood did not let him finish. In one fluid motion, he reversed his grip, pointing the sheathed tip of the sword behind him. His arm snapped back with the force of a released bowstring.
The impact drove deep into Henry's stomach. The force was enough to lift him from his feet and send him flying backward. He rolled across the cobblestones until his back struck the alley wall with a dull thud. The air burst from his lungs in a painful gasp.
Only Mateo remained.
The man's eyes were wide, his breath shallow. His legs seemed to lose all strength as the realization set in—he had no chance.
Warm liquid seeped down the inside of his trousers, spreading rapidly. The stench of urine mixed with the lingering smoke, thick and acrid in the air.
Blood turned his masked face toward him, the faintest trace of a smile hidden from view.
Power… truly, it changes everything.
The hunger stirred within him, sharp and primal. His tongue ran briefly over the edge of one fang before instinct clawed at his mind.
No.
His gloved fist shot up—not toward Mateo, but into his own jaw. The jolt of pain snapped his thoughts back into focus. A single moment of weakness could cost him control entirely. That was the curse of his kind.
Without hesitation, he closed the distance. His fist struck Mateo's face with enough force to snap his head to the side and send him crumpling to the ground, unconscious.
The fight was over.
Blood knelt, moving with practiced efficiency as he searched each of the four.
Pouches were pulled open, pockets turned inside out. In total, thirty gold coins clinked together in his palm—likely taken from the local market under the guise of "protection fees."
With a flick of his wrist, the coins vanished into the Sub-space enchantment of his cloak.
Hunger now fully in command, he leaned down over the first man. The scent of blood was thick, warm, intoxicating. He drank—controlled but deliberate—before moving to the next, and the next.
When he reached Liam, his fangs sank in, but midway through, his body froze.
There, at the mouth of the alley, stood a figure.
A young woman, dressed in a gown of deep midnight blue, embroidered with threads that caught the moonlight like tiny constellations. Fine jewels adorned her neck and wrists, glimmering faintly with every slight movement. Her dark hair framed a pale, noble face, and her eyes—calm, yet holding urgency—were locked on him.
Blood's instincts flared instantly. Without hesitation, he pulled back and turned to leave. Entanglement with humans was dangerous—deadly—for a vampire.
He had barely taken a step when her voice reached him.
Soft yet Urgent.
"Please… don't leave."