The hum faded, replaced by a sharp hiss as the sarcophagus—Michael Sunna's pod—initiated its revival sequence. Needles, hidden in the obsidian lining, pierced his veins with mechanical precision, injecting a surge of preserved blood. The liquid, thick and crimson, coursed through his desiccated body, igniting his ancient systems like fire in dry tinder. Michael's crimson eyes snapped open, but his body remained stiff, corpse-like, every muscle rigid from the century of enforced stasis. His limbs creaked as he willed them to move, joints protesting like rusted hinges. The long sleep had taken its toll; even an immortal like him felt the weight of time's indifference.
He pushed against the lid, the pod's mechanisms grinding in protest before yielding. The crypt air rushed in, stale and heavy with the scent of rot and dust. Michael sat up slowly, his white hair matted against his pale skin, his black coat clinging to his frame like a shroud. The chamber was a graveyard of neglect. Long-decayed bones littered the floor—skulls cracked and yellowed, ribs scattered like forgotten relics, remnants of intruders or perhaps his own clan, felled in some forgotten battle. Bullet holes pockmarked the walls, clusters of them riddling the stone and twisted metal, as if a desperate firefight had raged here long ago. Shards of shattered hologlass crunched under his boots as he swung his legs over the edge, his senses sharpening despite the fog in his mind.
A hundred years. He had commanded a mere century of rest, yet this felt… wrong. Deeper. Eternal. His gaze fell to the floor around the pod, where faint etchings glowed dimly in the gloom—a circle of power, runes carved into the stone with precision and malice. It encircled the sarcophagus completely, a barrier woven from arcane symbols that pulsed with residual energy. This was no simple ward; it was a spell of eternal sleep, crafted by someone of immense power. A rival vampire lord? A werewolf shaman? Or worse, a betrayer from within the Sunna Clan?
Michael's ancient knowledge stirred. All beings—vampires, werewolves, humans—drew sustenance from Gaia's power, the Earth's vital essence flowing through ley lines like blood through veins. It fed their meridians, the invisible channels that channeled life force, strength, and regeneration. This circle had severed that flow, blocking Gaia's energy from reaching him, trapping him in a death-like slumber far beyond his intended rest. The pod's tech had kept his body intact, but without the Earth's power, he would have remained comatose forever, a living corpse in obsidian.
But something had broken the seal. Michael's eyes narrowed as he traced the runes, spotting the disruption: a small, desiccated corpse—a dead rat, its fur matted and bones exposed, sprawled across one of the main ley lines etched into the circle. The creature must have wandered in, drawn by the chamber's residual warmth or some scavenger's instinct, and perished right there. Its decay had eroded the rune, cracking the barrier just enough for Gaia's faint trickle to seep through, triggering the pod's revival. A twist of fate, courtesy of vermin. Michael almost laughed—a rare sound, dry and humorless. The mighty Michael Sunna, felled by sorcery and saved by a rat.
He stood, his body loosening as the injected blood and Gaia's returning flow worked their magic. Strength returned in waves, his meridians awakening with a hum that vibrated through his core. But the crypt's desolation gnawed at him. Where was Seraphine? The Sunna Clan should have awakened him precisely, not left him to this accidental resurrection. The bullet holes suggested violence—ambush, siege, betrayal. Had the Eclipse, that cataclysm he'd glimpsed in fragmented memories, claimed them all?
Venturing into the corridor, Michael stepped over more bones, his boots silent amid the debris. The Ebon Tower, once a pinnacle of pre-apocalyptic splendor, was a hollow shell. Vines with glowing spores snaked through breaches in the walls, and the distant howl of wind—or perhaps wolves—echoed from the wasteland beyond. The world had not waited for him; it had shattered and reformed in his absence.
A faint noise drew his attention—scuttling footsteps, human by the sound. Intruders. Michael's fangs extended instinctively, his hunger sharpening. Whoever had cast this circle would pay, but first, he needed answers. And blood.