Raphael leaned forward ever so slightly, his hunter's eyes gleaming with an unsettling light. His voice was calm, but each word carried a sharpened edge.
"Tell me, boy… what brings you here? And what gives you the audacity to know my name?"
The air was suffocating, heavy with his aura, but Naro did not flinch. His expression was cool, almost unreadable, his words deliberate.
"I came to do business with you."
Slowly, he pulled out his academy badge and placed it before Raphael.
For a moment, the vampire lord's eyes flickered with intrigue. A spark of calculation lit within them, his thoughts whispering beneath the surface: This one… could be useful.
Naro continued, his tone steady but edged with confidence, as though he had already rehearsed this moment a hundred times.
"You recognize this, don't you? I'm a trainee within their walls. That gives me access… access you lack. I can be your eyes. Your whisper inside the academy. A spy."
The words lingered like poison in the air, bold enough to tempt yet dangerous enough to draw blood.
And then, deliberately, Naro spoke the impossible:
"But for me to serve you, I want to meet Dracula."
The silence that followed was crushing. The temperature in the room seemed to drop, Raphael's gaze sharpening into a blade. His aura pressed down like a predator poised to strike, his tone now laced with menace.
"Careful, human." His voice was no louder than before, but every word was venom. "Do not overestimate yourself. Even if your usefulness is… considerable, you will never stand before Dracula. If you wish for power, for reward—" Raphael's smile was cold, cruel, "you come to me."
It was a threat, a boundary, and a test all at once. But to Naro, it was exactly the reaction he had wanted. He knew, that no way in hell would he be granted his wish to meet Dracula, it was a psychological game. Asking for something big and letting the other person refuse it.. that would increase his chances of gaining the smaller benefits. He let the silence hang, then adjusted with practiced ease.
"Very well," he replied smoothly, as though conceding a negotiation. "To begin our business, I'll prove myself worthy of your trust. How about this—" his eyes glinted like steel, "I supply you with human livestock, daily. In return, for every week of work, you grant me a rank 3 blood-path nyx."
Raphael's eyes narrowed, his thoughts unreadable. This boy knows far too much. Far more than he should. And yet… there was merit in his words. A human like this, inside the academy, could tilt the balance. If used correctly, he could carve open the kingdom's greatest strength from within.
The room was silent, Raphael measured a deep breath. This could work, he thought. Yes… this could bring redemption. Perhaps even vengeance.
Just as Raphael's lips parted to accept, Naro's voice cut through again, sharp and deliberate.
"One more thing."
Raphael's eyes darkened, his aura flexing.
"After all our trades are finished," Naro said, his tone calm but layered with dangerous intent, "I want to drink your blood. To ascend… to a high-blood vampire."
The tension in the room snapped like a whip. Raphael's voice, suddenly sharp with fury, echoed like thunder.
"Are you a fool? Your entire value lies in your humanity. Once you're turned, you lose that leverage. You would become nothing but prey to the academy—and a liability to me."
But Naro only chuckled under the weight of Raphael's killing intent. His laugh was quiet, unsettling, calculated.
"I am not so reckless as to drink it now. It is simply an exchange of faith—your blood stored for later use. My loyalty will be sealed, and when the time is right, I will claim what I'm owed."
The request was absurd, blasphemous even. Yet Naro's tone left no cracks, no hesitation.
Raphael's expression shifted, annoyance tightening his brow, but beneath the irritation was something else—curiosity. This human's ambition was unlike the others he had crushed. It reeked of danger, of schemes, of long games that even he could not yet see the end of.
Finally, after a long pause, Raphael leaned back in his chair, his lips curving into a sharp, menacing smile.
"Very well. I will grant your… abnormal requests." His voice dripped with amusement and malice both. "But remember this—betray me, and your body will decorate these halls for centuries."
The deal was sealed, tension still occupying the air like a storm barely held at bay.
Naro wasted no time putting his scheme into motion. His steps carried him to a broken run down village, where hunger had hollowed out the faces of its people. Children with ribs like cages, mothers with hollow eyes, men with arms like sticks—they were the living remnants of despair.
When Naro appeared, he cloaked himself in the mask of salvation. He arrived not as a stranger, but as if he were a blessing sent from heaven. With a warm smile and gentle voice, he handed out food—real bread, dried meat, clean water. The starving fell upon it with tears in their eyes, thanking him, blessing him.
"My friends," he said brightly, his tone honey-sweet, "I only ask for a little help in return. I have a mansion in the forest nearby. A lonely home… and I would welcome hands to help me keep it alive. You will be paid, fed, and safe under my care."
They clung to his every word. To people crushed by hunger and desperation, the promise of food and shelter was more than an offer—it was salvation. Desperation drowned out their doubts, and so, without question, they followed him.
The group moved into the shadows of the forest. Along the way, Naro made sure to play his role perfectly: he spoke with laughter, carried the weak when they stumbled, reassured the mothers when children grew tired. He offered small comforts—an extra ration here, a kind smile there.
At one point, an elderly woman, her face lined with years of suffering, asked softly, her voice trembling with both hope and worry:
"Sir… forgive me, but where is this mansion of yours? We've walked so long already…"
Naro turned to her, his expression tender, his voice a gentle caress.
"We're almost there, dear. Just a little longer. I promise, all of this will be worth it."
His words were soothing, wrapping them in false comfort like a lullaby. They believed him. They wanted to believe him.
And then—they reached the place.
The trees thinned, revealing the clearing where he had arranged everything. It was quiet, too quiet. Then, like shadows peeling away from the dark, the vampires descended. Their eyes gleamed with hunger, their smiles stretched wide with anticipation.
The air was filled with screams. Mothers held their children who were ripped from their arms. Men tried to fight but were overpowered, their bones snapping like twigs. The weak, the old, the young—none escaped the horror.
Blood splattered the roots of the trees, staining the forest floor. The people cried out in terror, their voices breaking with betrayal. They had followed him with trust, with hope, and now they were nothing but livestock.
Naro stood apart, untouched by the chaos. His face remained calm, even faintly pleased, watching as the first batch of humans was dragged into chains. To the villagers' wide, terrified eyes, his smile—the same smile that had seemed so kind—now looked monstrous.
Among the cries, a young boy screamed, "Why?! You promised us—!" only to be silenced as cold hands pulled him into the darkness.
When news reached Raphael, that the human had kept his word, that he had delivered the first offering—Raphael let out a long, heavy sigh. It was not relief, not truly. It was something darker, an exhale that carried with it the comfort of a predator who had just been handed prey.
Naro's plan had worked. And in the forest where trust had turned to terror, the echoes of the betrayed lingered like a curse.
The mask of kindness Naro had worn for the villagers never faltered, but beneath it his schemes dark and evil like black burnt oil. By the end of the first week, Raphael granted him the reward he had demanded: a rank 3 blood path nyx—the one Naro had asked for personally.
Blood Mask.
A treasure of deceit, a nyx that allowed its wielder to wear another face, to walk the world as a stranger. But its use came at a price—the user's face had to be reshaped in the most excruciating way. This nyx would help with his gathering for human livestock, but at the price of his own pain.
Naro welcomed the pain.
In the solitude of a dark cavern, he drew his Dark Spiral dagger. Its blade hummed faintly. Without hesitation, Naro pressed it against his own cheek and carved. Slowly. Precisely.
The dagger slid beneath his skin, separating it from muscle like butchers peeling hide from deer. Blood ran in a thin stream down his neck, steaming in the cold air. He did not scream, did not falter—only the faintest twitch of his brow betrayed the searing agony.
Piece by piece, he tore away his own face, the sound wet and tearing, like leather ripped apart. His features hung loose in his hands, dripping blood, until what stared back from the reflective pool of blood was a man raw and faceless. All the muscles can be seen. With every hint of air brushing on his face—pain erupted.
And yet, he stood still, in his eyes, there was no horror. Only the steady, calm gleam of someone who had long embraced monstrosity.
In the back of his mind, a thought whispered unbidden, almost weary: If Elara or Markus saw me now… if those bright-eyed fools at the academy witnessed this… what would they think?
For the briefest moment, he thought. He let out a silent, inward sigh—then cut the thought apart and buried it.
The Blood Mask fused into him, stitching illusion over torn flesh, reshaping him entirely. When he emerged from the cavern, it was not Naro who stepped into the night, but a man no one would recognize.
From that day, his work became smoother, faster.
For twelve weeks straight, Naro lured in desperate souls—always with the same angelic smile, always with false promises of shelter, food, or work. Twelve weeks of betrayal. Twelve weeks of screams carried into the forest, silenced by fangs.
And with every week, another rank 3 blood path nyx was placed into his hands. Twelve in total. His arsenal grew as the blood of innocents piled beneath his schemes.
When the twelfth week ended, Raphael summoned him.
The vampire lord was waiting in the ruins of an ancient church, its broken glass windows bleeding the moonlight across the stone floor. He rose as Naro entered, his gaze like two pits of burning coal.
"You've exceeded my expectations," Raphael said, his voice proud. "Twelve weeks. Twelve gifts of flesh and blood. Even among my kin, few show such… devotion."
He stepped closer, and for the first time his lips curled—not in malice, but in something akin to respect. "You wear wickedness like a second skin, boy. I see now why fate dragged you to me. Continue this path, and even Dracula himself may hear your name whispered in reverence."
Naro lowered his head. "I am only doing what is necessary. For both of us."
But inside, where no one could hear, he laughed—a sound cruel and hollow, echoing in the pit of his soul.
Time was running low. The academy break was nearing its end. Soon, he would have to return to his mask of being a trainee. But now he returned armed with twelve rank 3 blood path nyx, and the memory of twelve villages' worth of betrayal carved into his hands like stains that would never wash away.
At last, Naro made his final request.
The end prize—the one thing that could turn every ounce of his cruelty into unmatched strength.
Raphael's blood.
Not just any blood, but the blood of a high-quality vampire, thick with power and lineage. With it, Naro could ascend beyond the limits of his kind. Every blood-path nyx in his possession could be refined, forced upward into rank 4.
Other than that, right now Naro could step into the rank 3 realm—he had a sufficient amount of rank 3 nyx. But Naro was patient. He could not reveal such advancement yet, not while the academy still watched him closely. To return as anything more than a rank 2 would ignite suspicion and ruin his carefully made mask. So the blood—and the twelve blood-nyx he just attained—would wait, hidden, until his plan reached its true time to ascend.
Raphael studied him for a long, silent moment, then finally moved. Slowly, deliberately, the vampire lord raised a dagger of blackened steel and dragged it across his palm. Blood flowed, blood far richer than any mortal's worth. It glimmered under the candlelight with an unholy luster, thick, heavy, almost alive.
"Here" Raphael said, his voice low, "this is the reward you've earned."
He allowed the blood to pour into a rank 3 vessel nyx—a cup of bone and silver that pulsed faintly as if it, too, hungered. The cup sealed itself once filled, binding the blood within. Then Raphael extended it toward Naro.
"Take it," he said. "Your payment is done."
Naro accepted the cup with both hands. His expression betrayed only calm approval, but behind his eyes burned a storm of triumph. This was more than a reward—it was the cornerstone of his schemes, the final piece he needed to carve his own ascension.
"Pleasure doing business with you," Raphael added, a faint smile curling across his lips.
Naro inclined his head, gaze unwavering, his smirk hidden deep beneath the mask of composure.
"Likewise," he replied.