Nothing is more beautiful than that word after millennia trapped in darkness. I soared above America at ten thousand meters, every cell in my body singing with exhilaration. The wings on my back—a new gift from experiments with Gilgamesh's blood—sliced through the air, carrying me eastward at a speed that would make any jet envious.
The wind battered my face, cold and pure. At this altitude, the air was thin, but my lungs didn't need constant breath. I inhaled slowly, savoring each gulp of freshness that washed away the city's stench of smoke and blood. Below, lights twinkled—endless constellations of human civilization scattered across the continent like gems on black velvet.
What a magnificent world they'd built while I slept. Cities sprawling hundreds of kilometers, roads encircling continents, skyscrapers touching the heavens. And all those millions of beating hearts, pumping warm blood…
I laughed, the sound lost in the howling wind. Even at this height, I caught faint traces of life below. Children slept, lovers dreamed, night shifts toiled, some died, others were born. A grand symphony of human existence, and I was its unseen conductor.
But freedom demanded exploration. A thousand years ago, I couldn't have dreamed of flight, yet now… what if I pushed higher? Tested the limits of my new powers?
I surged upward, wings beating stronger, heart pounding with anticipation. Fifteen thousand meters, twenty, twenty-five… The air grew thinner, colder. At thirty thousand, frost coated my skin, more curious than painful.
Forty thousand. Fifty. Sixty kilometers above Earth, I reached the edge—where the planet's atmosphere met the void of space.
And there, I realized my mistake.
Space greeted me with absolute cold and silence. The temperature plummeted to minus two hundred degrees in seconds, and even my inhuman body felt it. Skin cracked from the chill; breathing became impossible—not because I needed air, but because there was none.
Worse was the radiation. Solar wind, cosmic rays—the lethal energy Earth's atmosphere shielded—hit me full force. Even my regeneration faltered; cells died faster than they could heal. Strength drained, wings weakened.
Space was beautiful—endless stars, Earth's blue orb below, the silence of eternity. But it was deadly, even for me. A boundary I shouldn't have crossed unprepared.
I folded my wings into a cocoon, encasing myself, and let gravity take hold.
Falling.
What a thrilling sensation—plummeting through the stratosphere like a meteor, air growing denser, warmer, scorching my skin from friction. I didn't resist, reveling in the freefall until the atmosphere thickened enough to unfurl my wings.
At twenty kilometers, I leveled out and resumed my eastward flight. My body healed from cosmic frostbite and radiation—within five minutes, no trace remained. Lesson learned: even my new powers had limits.
But what a glorious lesson.
The flight to New York took two hours of leisurely gliding. I cruised at a comfortable eight kilometers, savoring the night air and views. Colorado's mountains, Kansas's vast plains, the Missouri and Mississippi rivers glinting silver in moonlight. This continent was stunning—wild, immense, brimming with life. Brimming with blood.
Gradually, the East Coast's lights appeared—small towns, then larger cities, and finally, an ocean of light that could only be one place.
New York.
The city that never sleeps. A metropolis pulsing with the modern world's heartbeat. I'd seen much in victims' memories, the internet, books. I slowed, circling Manhattan, admiring skyscrapers, bridges, endless streams of cars. Even at three a.m., the city thrived—windows aglow, people on sidewalks, vehicles flowing.
And the scents… What a cocktail rose from this hive of human activity. Food, sweat, exhaust, perfume, garbage, sex, fear, joy—a heady blend of human emotions and needs.
But amid this bouquet, something caught my attention. I banked sharply, veering toward the city's edge.
Blood. Lots of blood. Fresh blood. Unusual blood.
I followed the scent to an industrial district in Queens. Amid warehouses and abandoned factories, activity stirred. One large warehouse stood out—its windows glowed, the blood's aroma emanating from within.
Landing on a nearby building, I crept onto the warehouse's roof. Part of it was glass—once a factory needing natural light. Now, those panels gave me a perfect view of the chaos below.
And what I saw made me smile.
A massacre. A beautiful, professional massacre.
In the warehouse's center stood a Black man in his thirties, clad in a long black leather coat and dark jeans. In his right hand, a straight katana—not curved, unusual. His back and belt bristled with weapons: pistols, knives, grenades, vials of liquid.
But the real intrigue was his opponents.
Vampires. True vampires, as described in local lore. I counted a dozen—men and women, various ages, all with glowing red eyes and bared fangs. They moved with inhuman speed, attacking from all sides. Fascinating. I wasn't wrong—someone had survived. But these vampires seemed… different.
And he was methodically slaughtering them.
The katana whistled, severing heads and limbs. When enemies closed in, he drew pistols, firing silver bullets—I smelled the metal. When a group tried to surround him, he tossed a grenade laced with garlic extract and ultraviolet light.
A professional. A true vampire hunter, unlike any I'd seen. In my time, such didn't exist. Nor did vampires as a species.
I grew curious. Retracting my wings, letting them dissolve into my back, I lay on the roof, propped on one hand, settling in to watch the show.
A tall blond vampire in a fine suit tried to ambush him from behind. But the hunter sensed it, spinning and cleaving him in half with one katana stroke. The halves collapsed, not turning to dust as in films, but lying in pooling blood, faintly smoking.
Intriguing. These vampires weren't like my creations. Perhaps a different origin, different rules.
A redheaded female vampire used her speed, zigzagging. The hunter waited, then fired a crossbow. A silver bolt pierced her chest, and she fell, writhing in agony.
"Where is he?" the hunter shouted, pressing a boot to her throat. "Where's Deacon Frost?"
So, he was hunting someone. The name rang vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place it.
"Go… to hell…" she rasped. He decapitated her in one motion.
The remaining vampires launched a coordinated attack—three from the right, two from the left, one from above, leaping from a second-floor balcony. The hunter met them with cold precision. Katana, pistols, kicks—he moved like a dancer of death, every action lethal.
Five minutes later, it was over. The warehouse was a slaughterhouse—bodies, blood, smoke from burning remains. The hunter stood amid the chaos, not even winded. He wiped his katana on a dead vampire's coat and sheathed it.
"They'll find you, Blade," the last survivor rasped into the void. "Frost will find you. And your masters too."
Blade. Fitting name for a hunter. But I doubted a half-vampire, half-human like him had masters. His rage, his hatred—it was personal.
He searched the bodies, likely for clues. His movements were swift, practiced—this wasn't his first time.
I watched from the roof, intrigued. This world held not just genius inventors in iron suits but professional monster hunters. Curious. Where were my old savages, who birthed a race in my absence? How did they survive? I thought I'd killed them all.
Perhaps it was time to meet Mr. Blade.
I rose, brushing glass shards from my suit, and approached the roof's edge. Below, thirty meters down, stretched an asphalt lot littered with metal scraps and debris. A mortal would break every bone in such a fall.
But I was no mortal.
I stepped into the void.
Thirty meters passed in an instant. My feet hit the asphalt with a dull thud, echoing between buildings. The concrete cracked beneath me, but I felt no impact. Straightening, I tucked my hands into my dark suit's pockets and strolled toward the warehouse entrance.
The door was formidable—steel, industrial, three tons. Built for high-value cargo. Thick metal, reinforced frame, multiple locks. Impassable for a mortal.
I raised a foot and gave it a light kick.
The metal exploded inward with a deafening crash. The three-ton slab tore from its hinges, flew several meters, and slammed into the concrete floor, raising dust and debris. It sounded like a truck had rammed the building.
I stepped over the mangled doorway and entered.
The blood's scent was stronger here—thick, coppery, intoxicating. I circled the carnage, studying details. Katana cuts were clean, precise—Blade knew his blade. Bullet holes clustered in vital areas—heart, head, throat. No stray shots, no chaos. Professional work.
Chemical traces intrigued me most. Some bodies smoked, reeking of garlic and ozone. Ultraviolet burns marred vampire skin. This man used every known anti-vampire tactic. Fascinating—was this regression or a unique evolution? I had no weakness to light or silver.
"Impressive," I said aloud, looking up.
Blade stood at the far wall, poised for combat. Katana drawn, silver pistol in his left hand. His stance was perfect—center of gravity forward, muscles taut, ready to strike. Red shades hid his eyes, but I felt his gaze.
He sniffed, catching my scent. What he detected tensed him further.
"Who are you?" he asked, voice low.
No fear, just wariness and readiness. Interesting. Most humans panicked or froze facing something like me. This hunter stayed cool, accustomed to the unnatural.
I smiled but didn't answer. Instead, I raised my right hand, pointing at him.
"Let's talk, Mr. Blade," I said, willing the power of blood to surge.
The Clouds restaurant sat on the fifty-second floor of a Manhattan skyscraper. Panoramic windows offered a breathtaking view of the night city—lights twinkling to the horizon. The place was upscale, pretentious, perfect for discreet meetings. Humans loved to show off.
I sat at a window table, twirling a glass of fine wine—Château Margaux 1947, one of the last bottles in existence. Its taste recalled a past when such wines were new. So long ago, and not as delicious.
But wine wasn't my focus.
At a nearby table, a young couple discussed their upcoming wedding, fretting over money. Her parents disapproved, his supported. Typical human drama. Killing them would be easy, but I was too lazy.
Further off, a middle-aged man sat with a much younger woman. Lovers. He was married; she knew but hoped he'd leave his wife. He wouldn't. Her heart raced when she looked at him—love. His stayed steady—mere amusement. Disposable flesh.
By the window, an elderly man with a gray beard sat alone, reading a newspaper, sipping coffee. He checked his watch every few minutes, waiting for someone who wouldn't come. A son, perhaps. Or daughter. A years-long family feud. Or maybe his wife. Who knew?
Humans and their petty dramas. Once, they intrigued me, but after a millennium, they'd lost their novelty. Same passions, same follies, same tragedies. Cycle after cycle, generation after generation. Centuries of human stupidity had made them predictable.
Boredom crept in until I recalled Blade.
Now that was an interesting specimen. Truly. A half-breed. Born to a woman bitten by a vampire during pregnancy. Vanessa Brooks, his mother, died in childbirth but passed on traits from her attacker. Strength, speed, heightened senses. Bloodlust, but no weakness to sunlight. A Daywalker.
The perfect hunter. All the advantages of a modern vampire, none of the drawbacks.
Fascinating. In my time, such a thing was impossible. My creations killed outright, no exceptions. They tore bodies, devoured organs, bathed in blood. No half-breeds, no in-betweens. But these modern vampires followed different rules.
I pondered who created them, resting my head in my hands. Not me—my progeny were dust. Someone else, someone later. Perhaps they studied my methods and refined them. Or simplified them to primitiveness.
Or had someone survived? Intriguing.
Blade was compelling because he was susceptible to suggestion. Even such an unnatural being wasn't immune to mental influence. His mind was an open book. Orphanage childhood, training with a mentor named Whistler, years hunting vampires. Revenge for his mother. Obsessed with justice. So cliché.
His story was curious but not thrilling. To me, these vampires and their feuds were like roadside pebbles. Their existence—or lack thereof—was irrelevant. I had a greater purpose.
Blade, whom I'd subdued without memory of our encounter, and these vampires, drinking blood like me but fearing sunlight like rats, were nothing. Wiping them out would take days.
Irrelevant.
I sought those who entombed me for a millennium. I sought ways to wield my powers. I sought answers to questions haunting me since awakening.
Blade's war with vampires was a mere curiosity. Perhaps through him, I'd find other creatures who knew of the past. Maybe some recalled when I ruled the night.
Or they'd all prove as pathetic as those littering the warehouse.
Time would tell.
I sipped my wine and glanced at my watch. My informant was twenty minutes late. Punctuality's disrespect always irked me. If he didn't show in ten minutes, I'd find information another way. And make him dance on his family's corpses.
But I didn't wait long.
A young man, about twenty-five, approached my table, dressed in a decent but worn jacket and pants. Nervous, eyes darting. A typical informant—trading rumors for quick cash.
"You Mr. Smith?" he asked, sitting across from me.
"Harry, I presume," I replied, not looking up from my glass.
"Yes, sir. Harry… well, I work for Mr. Ambal. He said you're interested in certain information."
I met his gaze. Young, but marked by the streets. A petty crook with potential to be more—if he survived. In my time, such men were used briefly, then killed. I doubted much had changed.
"Depends on what you can offer," I said softly.
Harry swallowed, leaning forward.
"Mr. Ambal knows everything in the city's underworld. Drugs, weapons, people… and something else. Things regular cops ignore."
"Go on."
"What exactly are you looking for, Mr. Smith?"
I smiled, leaning back.
"Information on unusual people, Harry. Those who can do things no ordinary human can. Those hiding in the shadows."
He nodded, as if understanding.
"Plenty of those stories, sir. But they cost."
"Money's no issue," I said. "The issue is the quality of your information."
And with that, our meeting began.
Modern banking systems—dollars, euros, yuan, and so on. So many names, so much effort. Fascinating how a few thousand people control the planet. Money holds no value, no meaning, yet it works.
I strolled through dark park alleys near downtown, savoring the night's coolness and pondering human civilization. Over millennia, they'd built a complex control system. Gold became paper, paper became digital numbers. And everyone agreed to play by rules set by those few thousand.
Human history is so full of contradictions and nonsense, it's a wonder I awoke in a world of technology, not a barren wasteland.
"Isn't that so?" I asked the man limping ahead, leaving a faint blood trail on the asphalt.
Mr. Johnson, a bank clerk at Chase Manhattan, processed loans, calculated interest, lived a dull middle-class life. Until tonight, when he cut through the park.
Poor choice.
I'd followed him for twenty minutes, relishing his fear and pain. He tried running, but a broken leg stopped him. He screamed until I damaged his vocal cords. Now he could only wheeze and cough blood, strength fading.
"Though you can't even speak anymore," I mused. "Time to end this."
I stopped, raised my hands, and an invisible force lifted Johnson several meters. He dangled, flailing helplessly, choking out rasps.
I clenched my fist.
His neck snapped, head lolling unnaturally. I released him, and his corpse crumpled at my feet.
Kneeling, I sank my fangs into his neck, drinking deeply. The blood was warm, salty, laced with adrenaline and fear. Not exquisite, but nourishing. After centuries of confinement, I craved the simple human emotions in blood.
When finished, Johnson was a husk. I tossed him into the bushes—by morning, they'd find him, blame a maniac. Police would investigate, question relatives, propose theories. In a month, the case would join thousands of unsolved murders in the archives.
Humans loved believing they understood their world.
Having fed, it was time to seek intrigue. Hopefully, Harry wouldn't deceive me.
I wiped my lips with a handkerchief and headed for the park's exit. Harry promised to meet in an hour at a downtown bar. Modern deals required preparation—money, and so forth. My money was others' money, but no matter. Those papers didn't interest me.
The bar wasn't pleasant—dirty, noisy, full of petty crooks and junkies. But such places were perfect for information exchanges. No one asked questions. As Harry said, it'd be a trade—my cash for his intel on the Eternals.
En route, I pondered what I might learn. Harry hinted at others in the city—mutants, he called them. People with unique abilities, hiding from the government and civilians. Heroes, whatever that meant. Interesting. In my time, such didn't exist.
Perhaps the world had changed more than I thought. Over a millennium, new life forms, new possibilities might have emerged. It could explain Blade and other strange beings.
Or someone else had been experimenting while I slept.
Either way, the information was worth the time. And if Harry tried to scam me… he'd join my collection of husks.
I paused at the sidewalk's edge, closing my eyes to focus on the blood in my veins. Warm, thick, brimming with power—it answered my call. Something stirred under my skin, like waking serpents. My shoulder blades burned pleasantly.
Blood seeped through my pores, forming crimson streams down my back, pooling into two symmetrical flows. It thickened, darkening, taking on a tar-like consistency. I felt it shape, each drop finding its place in a complex structure.
Wings sprouted from my flesh, like dark flowers blooming in fast-forward. Small at first, they grew, stretching, lengthening, forming. The blood solidified into a framework of cartilage and tendons, with a thin, resilient membrane stretched between.
Fully formed, the wings spanned nearly four meters. Dark red, like congealed blood, they shimmered with faint veins pulsing with my power. Under streetlights, they gleamed dully, like polished leather.
I spread them wide, feeling the air flow over each curve. New muscles in my back tensed in anticipation. Novel nerves relayed unfamiliar yet natural sensations—air pressure, wind direction, thermal currents over warm asphalt.
I bent my knees and pushed off.
The first wingbeat was unsteady—my wings unaccustomed to the strain. The air resisted, trying to pull me down. But the second beat was stronger, surer. I felt the current lift me, my body breaking free from gravity.
The ground fell away.
At first, I rose clumsily, like relearning to walk. But each beat grew smoother. My wings found their rhythm, muscles memorizing the sequence. The air became an ally, not an enemy.
Ten meters, twenty, fifty…
At a hundred meters, I leveled out, savoring true flight. Wings spread wide, catching warm updrafts from the city. I glided, making slight adjustments with the membranes.
Below, New York glowed in nocturnal splendor. Streets became luminous arteries, cars flowing in orderly streams of red and white lights.
I climbed higher, toward the clouds. The air grew thinner, colder. My wings worked harder, each beat demanding more effort but yielding greater results. The city shrank to a scattering of stars.
At a kilometer, I paused, circling slowly. Manhattan looked toy-like—neat building blocks, tiny bridges, ribbon-like rivers. People were invisible specks, their dramas trivial.
The wind was strong, but I learned to use it. My wings adjusted instinctively, compensating for gusts. I sensed every pressure shift, every temperature change. Flight was no longer a battle with gravity.
I folded my wings and dove.
The ground rushed up at terrifying speed. The wind became a roaring hurricane, clawing at my clothes. Speed surged—100 kilometers per hour, 200, 300. The air felt dense, almost solid.
But I controlled the fall. Wings tucked but not fully, leaving room to maneuver. My body cut the air like an arrow, aimed precisely.
Seconds from crashing into a skyscraper's roof, I flared my wings. The air slammed into the membranes, straining every tendon. The deceleration was so sharp a mortal would've shattered from the g-forces.
I leveled out, landing lightly on the roof, barely touching it with my boots.
My pulse raced—not from exhaustion, but exhilaration. Every cell sang with adrenaline and absolute freedom. This wasn't mere movement—it was liberation from humanity's basic constraints.
I spread my wings again, taking off for a calmer flight. Gliding between buildings, I rode updrafts and thermal columns. The city lived below, oblivious to the predator above.
The flight to the bar took minutes instead of a taxi's half-hour. I landed in a dark alley a block away, letting my wings dissolve back into blood, absorbed into my skin without a trace. I fixed my suit and hair, stepping onto the lit street like any passerby.
But the thrill of flight lingered—absolute command over space, defiance of gravity, unity with the night sky. Above all. Intoxicating, divine.
This was freedom in its purest form.