James made it back to his apartment safe and sound. That marathon gaming session had taken a heavy toll on his energy, but oh well—he could manage.
Glancing up at the wall clock, the glowing hands pointed to nearly 1:00 AM. That meant he had roughly seven hours left before he needed to haul himself up for morning classes.
It was going to be a rough wake-up, so he decided it was best to just call it a night.
After taking a quick, refreshing shower and changing into a worn pair of pajamas, he collapsed onto his mattress, staring up at the shadowy patterns dancing across the ceiling.
He really needed to sleep now.
Closing his eyes, he let out a long breath and allowed the comforting pull of exhaustion to claim him once more.
Meanwhile, miles away in the shrouded depths of his family's ancient estate, Michael was not fine in the slightest.
Deep within the vast, subterranean training arena carved directly into the stone beneath his ancestral castle, the air hung heavy with the copper tang of blood and damp stone.
Sweat glistened on Michael's pale brow, his chest rising and falling in rhythmic, strained breaths.
He stood alone in the dark, expansive chamber.
His fingernails elongated into jagged, deadly talons, and his eyes burned with a fiery, unholy shade of crimson that cut through the gloom.
"Again," Michael commanded into the echoing silence, his voice a low, raspy growl.
Instantly, mechanical turrets hidden within the high vaulted walls whirred to life. A hail of silver-tipped bullets erupted from every direction, tearing through the air with deafening cracks.
Without flinching, Michael sliced open his own palm with a sharp talon.
A thick stream of crimson blood burst forth, instantly shaping itself into a razor-sharp, glistening blade under the command of his dark magic.
With breathtaking, fluid elegance, he danced through the storm.
Sparks showered into the dark as his blood-formed sword whirred through the air, parrying every incoming projectile with precise, rhythmic strikes.
Before the last shell casing could hit the cold stone floor, a massive shadow loomed over the far side of the arena.
Heavy, rhythmic thuds echoed through the ground, vibrating straight up through the soles of Michael's boots as a colossal entity surged out of the darkness.
It was an earth golem—a towering titan of dense rock, ancient clay, and shifting soil, crafted specifically to shatter bone and test an immortal's absolute limits.
Its sheer mass made the surrounding cavern quake with every thunderous step.
Michael didn't blink. With a flick of his wrist, the blood blade dissolved back into a liquid ribbon, shooting straight back into the open wound on his palm to seal the flesh.
Inside his chest, his ancient vampiric heart began to beat at an alarming, frantic pace.
His blood boiled, driving his body temperature to dangerously high levels as raw physical enhancement flooded his veins.
In a fraction of a millisecond, the physical world seemed to freeze. Michael vanished from his spot entirely, leaving behind a sharp displacement of air.
He reappeared directly in front of the construct, the sheer wind pressure of his movement whipping his dark hair back.
Swinging his clawed hand forward with explosive force, he slashed viciously at the titan's rocky midsection.
CLANG!
The sound of claws striking dense earth rang out like a hammer hitting an anvil, sending a shockwave rippling through the quiet chamber.
In the very next breath, Michael materialized several feet behind the massive creature, skidding to a halt on the smooth stone.
He looked down at his trembling hand, feeling the dull, sharp sting running up his forearm.
Too shallow, he thought, frustration burning in his throat. He had barely managed to leave a faint scratch on the monster's enchanted stone hide.
Before he could readjust his footing, a massive shadow cast over him from above.
Sensing the sheer kinetic weight crashing down, Michael tapped into his super speed once more, blurring backward just as the golem brought its massive stone foot stomping down onto the exact spot he had occupied a microsecond prior—shattering the floor into a shower of flying debris.
Michael frowned, his brows drawing tight in cold irritation. This construct was going to be an annoying waste of effort.
He didn't care.
A thick, blood-red mist began to seep from his very pores, pouring outward in swirling heavy currents.
Within ten seconds, the entire subterranean arena was choked in a dense crimson fog. Visibility dropped to absolute zero.
Not that the golem possessed eyes to begin with.
The construct relied entirely on tracking ambient mana signatures to perceive its target—and right now, Michael had flooded every square inch of the cavern with his own suffocating presence.
No matter where the golem turned its rocky head, it felt as though Michael were standing directly in front of it.
It was completely blind.
CLANG! CLANG! CLANG!
The deafening screech of sharp talons clashing against enchanted stone echoed wildly through the heavy mist.
Michael was relentless. He moved like an erratic shadow, offering the titan not a single second to recover.
He utilized his vast physical superiority to drive the beast backward, carving deep, jagged grooves into its rocky hide again and again.
As his clawed hand dug into the golem's midsection once more, his crimson gaze caught a faint, pulsing light beneath the stone.
"There," Michael whispered.
The golem's core.
The titan raised its massive, boulder-like fist to smash the intruder, but Michael dissolved into the fog before the swing could connect.
The colossal fist crashed down, striking nothing but swirling red vapor.
From the safety of the surrounding mist, Michael watched the glowing red core pulse erratically.
The golem's instinctual magic immediately went to work, pulling dirt and loose gravel from its surroundings to mend the gouged scar covering its heart.
Golems were an absolute nuisance to deal with.
As elemental constructs, they possessed near-total immunity to the very material that formed them, rapidly absorbing ambient earth to repair any structural damage inflicted upon their bodies.
Luckily, their creation was relatively simple—at least for a family as old and wealthy as his, which possessed endless stockpiles of animated cores and raw magical reagents.
To destroy a golem, one had two choices.
The clean method was to extract the core—the beating heart and power source of the construct.
The second the core was removed from its frame, the spell collapsed, and the beast would instantly crumble back into ordinary earth.
The second option was the barbaric route: overwhelming its regenerative capacity through pure, relentless brute force.
If you struck a golem hard and fast enough, its healing cycle would lag, leaving the core exposed for a final, crushing blow.
That method was far too crude for his taste.
Michael raised his right hand, the skin splitting open as dark, concentrated blood welled up and hovered above his palm. He wasn't a barbarian.
With a flick of his wrist, dozens of blood-red daggers materialized out of the mist, shooting through the air like lethal projectiles.
The golem barely had time to react before the sharp crimson blades impaled its chest, sinking deep into its stony hide.
Michael brought two fingers together, snapping them with a sharp, resonant click.
The blood daggers embedded inside the creature detonated simultaneously. The concussive force tore through the golem's torso, blasting away chunks of heavy rock.
To compensate for the catastrophic damage, the construct instinctively drew upon its own mass to repair the wound, shrinking in overall height as dirt reshuffled toward its chest.
Because of that drastic sacrifice, the glowing core was now completely exposed. The golem raised its head, scanning the thick mist in anticipation of an attack from the front—only to find nothing.
CRACK.
The massive stone titan froze. A long, sharp arm coated in hardened blood erupted directly through the back of its chest, its clawed fingers tightly wrapped around the pulsing, red core.
The golem offered no further resistance. Its magic shattered, and the towering stone body collapsed into a harmless mound of dirt and gravel on the cavern floor.
Michael stood behind the pile of debris, holding the glowing core in his pale palm. He stared down at the artifact for a brief moment before flexing his fingers and crushing it into fine dust.
"Not enough," he muttered, his voice trembling with a dark, restless frustration. He was still far too weak. "Bring another."
Before the training protocols could reset, a tall, impeccably dressed figure stepped silently out of the shadowy corridor.
It was Sebastien, the family's head butler. He held a silver tray bearing a pristine, heavy glass flask filled with dark, rich blood.
"My lord," Sebastien said smoothly, offering a deep, perfectly timed bow, "that marks the fifth core you have obliterated this evening. Might I humbly suggest a brief intermission?"
Michael shot his servant a sharp, irritated glare. "It is not enough, Sebastien."
Michael's skin had turned a ghost-like, sickly shade of white. His lips pulled back slightly, revealing elongated, deadly fangs, while his eyes glowed with an unhinged, predatory hunger.
He looked far more animal than noble in this state.
"My lord, you are dangerously draining your vital reserves," Sebastien warned softly, his tone refined yet firm. "Your blood supply is running critically low."
Upon hearing his butler's warning, Michael looked down at his trembling hands.
His skin was deathly pale and freezing to the touch—he looked and felt like a fresh corpse.
He had expended nearly all of his internal blood reserves to fuel his techniques, pushing himself dangerously close to the brink of a feral blood-frenzy.
He tried to retract his elongated talons, but his body refused to cooperate, locked firmly in predator mode until nourished.
Without a word, Michael took the glass flask from the silver tray, brought it to his lips, and drank deeply.
He didn't stop until he had drained every last drop of the preserved blood.
As the life force flooded his system, the dangerous pale hue vanished from his complexion.
His body temperature normalized, his sharp fangs retreated behind his lips, and his fingernails shortened back to normal.
The feral crimson glow in his eyes faded away, returning to their usual, calm sapphire blue.
The wild beast retreated, leaving the elegant noble standing once more.
Still, a heavy weight lingered in his chest. He felt weaker than he should be.
Vampires, much like werewolves, naturally accumulated greater power and physical density as they aged.
But Michael hadn't truly strained his limits or drawn upon his full ancestral power in over fifty years.
His sister, however, was a different story entirely.
While Elira treated her prey like playthings, she had actively hunted for centuries.
Even if humans didn't pose a legitimate threat to a vampire noble, the constant act of hunting kept her instincts razor-sharp and her blood magic fluid.
Granted, she had spent the last few years locked in a deep slumber, so her movements were bound to be somewhat rusty.
When she first entered her rest, Michael had been her superior in pure combat.
Michael clenched his fist tightly. He wasn't stronger than her right now—not anymore.
But Elira still believed he was, and he needed to cultivate enough raw power to maintain that illusion.
The moment she realized the balance of power had shifted...
A vivid, horrifying vision flashed across his mind: Elira's fangs sinking deep into James's neck, draining the hybrid dry out of pure, cruel amusement.
I cannot allow that to happen.
He turned toward the dark corridor, fully intending to order another construct, but Sebastien's earlier warning stayed his hand. His blood reserves were indeed running low, and fighting on fumes would yield diminished results.
Fine. He would rest for tonight.
"My lord," Sebastien spoke up smoothly as he adjusted the silver tray under his arm. "Miss Aaliyah has been attempting to reach your personal line repeatedly throughout the evening. Do you wish for me to draft a response on your behalf?"
Michael blinked, a blank expression crossing his face. "Who?"
"Miss Torres, sir," Sebastien clarified with a slight, polite tilt of his head. "The young university student you have been casually courting."
A faint spark of memory clicked in Michael's mind. Ah, right. My human distraction. She was rapidly becoming a tedious burden he had no time for.
"Shall I initiate the memory erasure protocol to cleanly sever the connection, sir?" Sebastien asked, his tone as casual as if he were asking to clear a dinner plate.
Michael waved his hand dismissively as he turned toward the grand stone staircase leading out of the training grounds.
"No need. That would be an unnecessary expenditure of enchanted resources. I shall simply end the arrangement myself."
Sebastien bowed deeply. "Understood, my lord. I shall prepare your private quarters immediately."
Michael nodded faintly. A long, scalding shower sounded exceptional, followed by a few hours of quiet rest.
While a modern bed offered a comfortable sleep, nothing quite matched the deep, absolute stillness of an ancestral mahogany coffin.
Though, in truth, the distinction was minor—a coffin was merely designed for an eternal sleep, whereas a bed was meant for a temporary one.
Leaving the dark training grounds behind, Michael ascended the grand stone staircase, putting the icy chill of the subterranean level behind him.
The lingering copper scent of old blood still drifted up from the lower corridors.
This estate had been a royal palace centuries ago, and like any proper palace of its era, it housed a sprawling dungeon complex beneath its foundation.
Even now, within the iron-gated cells of the lowest floor, the forgotten bones of those sentenced by his bloodline in centuries past rested in the dark.
He passed them without so much as a backward glance.
At the top of the stairs, he pushed open a heavy oak paneling, stepping out smoothly into the warmth of the grand library—a classic, discreet entrance.
His only goal now was to reach his private quarters, rinse off the grime of training, and sink into quiet isolation.
Then he saw her.
Standing in the center of the polished corridor was the absolute last person he wanted to encounter tonight.
Dressed in a soft powder-blue sweater and a matching skirt, his younger sister looked the picture of youthful elegance.
Yet her complexion was unusually vibrant, her skin flushed with a fresh, healthy warmth. Sniffing the subtle currents of the air, Michael picked up the distinct, heavy undertone clinging to her aura.
She hadn't just fed recently—she had drained someone completely.
The moment her eyes landed on him, her face lit up with a brilliant, sweet smile.
"Welcome back, dear brother!" she cooed, her voice ringing with melodious excitement. She clasped her hands tightly against her chest, gliding toward him with weightless, fluid grace.
"I was beginning to think my wonderful older brother was going to spend the entire night down in that noisy basement," she added, tilting her head innocently.
"So, how was your evening? Did you go back down there just to reminisce about the good old days?"
Michael's expression hardened, his features settling into a cold, impassive mask. He had zero desire to revisit those dark centuries.
Looking down at her, his voice remained completely flat and devoid of emotion. "It was adequate."
He didn't owe her an explanation of his affairs.
Elira puffed out her cheeks into a dramatic, adorable pout, spinning gracefully on her heel to match his stride as he brushed past her down the hallway.
"Aw, come on, big brother! Do you really not have even a tiny sliver of time to spend with your adorable sister?"
Michael's brow furrowed slightly. "Calling yourself 'adorable' is quite a stretch."
Her smile widened, entirely unfazed. "But I am, aren't I?"
"Do not ask questions when you have no desire to hear the answers," Michael replied coldly.
Elira let out an exaggerated huff. "Fine! If you're going to be so terribly mean, I won't tell you a single thing about my delightful afternoon!"
She framed it as though withholding her news was a devastating punishment.
"Good," Michael said, continuing his steady walk toward his room.
Noticing that her brother genuinely didn't care, a subtle flicker of annoyance crossed her eyes before she quickly smoothed it over.
"Well, since you asked so nicely," she chimed in, swaying slightly as she walked alongside him,
"my day was actually wonderful! I met the most delightful new friend today. He was ever so polite... he even walked me all around town when I pretended to be completely lost."
Michael's hand froze as he reached toward his door handle.
A vivid, alarming memory flashed in his mind—a text message sitting on his phone from just a few hours ago:
[ Wildboy ]: Will later, currently showing someone around town.
There are thousands of people in this city, Michael reasoned internally, forcing his heart rate to remain steady. It could easily be a coincidence.
Outwardly, his face revealed nothing. His expression remained utterly unbothered, hiding the sudden storm brewing behind his eyes.
Forcing his posture to stay entirely relaxed, he stepped over to a nearby side table, picking up a crystal decanter and pouring a splash of dark liquid into a glass with effortless, practiced grace.
"A tour around town?" Michael remarked smoothly, taking a slow, nonchalant sip.
"How thrilling for you. I suppose even a simple stroll down a paved street feels like a grand adventure after sleeping in a box for so many years."
Elira's sweet smile twitched for a fraction of a millisecond.
She folded her arms over her chest, letting out a loud, dramatic huff as she stomped her heel lightly against the Persian rug.
"You really are such a meany!" she whined, her voice rising into a high, childish complaint.
"Here I am, trying to share a sweet story with my big brother, and you just brush me off! Why are you always hoarding the absolute best blood for yourself anyway?"
The temperature in the hallway plunged instantly.
Michael turned his head toward her with agonizing slowness.
The calm, sapphire blue of his eyes vanished entirely, swallowed by a blazing, dangerous shade of deep crimson that cut through the dim light like a freshly struck match.
His lips parted just enough to reveal the gleaming, sharp tips of his fangs.
"He is entirely off-limits, Elira," Michael said, his voice dropping into a low, resonant growl that vibrated through the floorboards beneath their feet. "Do not test me on this."
Elira gasped softly, placing a delicate hand over her heart as she looked up at him with wide, glistening green eyes—the picture-perfect image of a startled, innocent girl.
"Not even a teeny-tiny nibble~?" she purred softly, a dark, wicked glint flashing deep within her emerald gaze. "Just a taste of that S-tier sweetness? You know I'm dreadful at sharing treats..."
Michael took a single, weightless step toward her.
The air pressure in the corridor spiked violently, the heavy velvet drapes rustling as raw, ancestral aura flared around his frame like a suffocating shroud.
"If you so much as lay a single fingernail on him," Michael whispered, his voice dangerously quiet,
"I will personally drive an ash stake through your heart and bury you ten feet beneath the salt flats. Am I making myself clear?"
Elira recoiled slightly, her bottom lip trembling as if he had just struck her across the face.
"Wh-What...? You would stake your own sweet sister over a piece of livestock?! You monster!"
Michael didn't bother responding. The crimson fire in his eyes slowly cooled, returning to an unbothered, icy blue.
Turning his back on her without another word, he walked toward the private spiral staircase leading to his personal suite.
He stepped inside, and the heavy mahogany doors shut behind him with a firm, echoing thud.
Down in the dimly lit hallway, Elira stood completely still.
The teary, hurt expression vanished from her face instantly, replaced by a dark, sinister grin that stretched across her pale cheeks.
She smoothed down her skirt, turning her head toward the grand archway with a soft, musical giggle that echoed eerily through the empty castle.
"Such a meany..." she whispered to the quiet shadows, her eyes flashing crimson for a fleeting second before fading away.
"Protecting his little toy so fiercely... Oh, big brother... that only makes breaking it so much more fun."
A/N Another 3k....dam.
This is probably the last chapter till pack back; anyway, did I do a good job at showing how twisted Elira is?
Also, when Michael is speaking with James, there is usually slang or something, or when I am writing James pov, there is slang, but for this one, since it's Michael with his family, I tried using fancy words; did it come out natural or look forced?
Anyway, vote with powerstones.