"God, you must be some kind of witcher sent by Him."
Locke shot Gus a flat look as the man hovered beside him, talking nonstop with a kind of nervous excitement that hadn't faded since the incident. The word "God" lingered in the air for a moment, heavy with belief, and Locke almost laughed at how simple the explanation sounded. If Gus knew what that thing really was, what kind of nightmare had crawled out of the dark, his faith probably wouldn't survive the conversation.
Instead of correcting him, Locke just let it slide and shifted the topic without ceremony. "How's your mom's transfer going?"
Gus scratched the back of his head, his earlier enthusiasm melting into something more sheepish as he tried to hide the obvious gratitude on his face. "Oh, man… thanks to you, everything went through. She's already been moved to Manhattan Central Hospital. They didn't even give me trouble about it."
He hesitated, clearly aware of what that kind of transfer meant in terms of cost, especially in a place like New York. The numbers alone were enough to make most people choke, and the fact that it had been handled so easily only made it more suspicious.
Locke gave a casual nod, accepting the thanks without any sign of modesty. He had no intention of explaining where the money came from, and even less interest in talking about the vault that had quietly been emptied without anyone daring to make noise about it. Some organizations preferred to swallow their losses rather than admit weakness, and he had taken full advantage of that silence.
Still, the fight from earlier lingered in his mind, and a faint trace of regret surfaced. He hadn't expected the Blood Lord to be reckless enough to face ultraviolet light head-on, nor had he anticipated how quickly the creature would be pierced through despite that resistance.
But even with that miscalculation, the gains had been more than worth it.
His gaze unfocused slightly, and a translucent panel—visible only to him—flickered into existence.
LockeInnate Talent: Dimensional Deprivation
Abilities:Immortality (Disabled): Requires possession every 100 years to sustain endless life.Ancestor's Body (Disabled): Enhanced physical attributes and rapid regeneration. Requires blood consumption to replenish energy. Additional functions remain undiscovered.
Compared to before, the duration of deprivation had been shorter, but the refinement of what he'd taken was on an entirely different level. The abilities weren't just copied—they were improved, optimized, sharpened into something cleaner and more efficient.
More importantly, he understood something now.
Unless he completely stripped the Blood Lord down to nothing, these powers would never reach their true peak.
A faint, almost dangerous light flickered in Locke's eyes as the realization settled in. The path ahead had never been clearer, and for the first time, it felt like the end goal wasn't some distant fantasy anymore. It was close. Close enough to touch.
His focus shifted back to one of the abilities, and the corner of his mouth lifted slightly.
The description barely scratched the surface.
Without warning, he bent his knees and pushed off the ground, his body launching upward in a smooth, controlled motion. Under Gus's stunned gaze, Locke landed effortlessly on the trunk of a nearby tree, easily clearing three meters as if gravity had loosened its grip on him.
He steadied himself without any strain, muscles relaxed, breath steady, as though the jump had required almost no effort at all.
"Oh my God…"
Gus stared up at him, his expression frozen somewhere between awe and fear. The shock in his eyes quickly twisted into something sharper, more cautious, as if a realization had just taken root in his mind.
Locke noticed it immediately.
"Relax," he said with a quiet chuckle, dropping back down to the ground with the same ease. "I'm not one of those parasite-ridden monsters."
Gus's face flushed with embarrassment, the tension draining from his shoulders as quickly as it had appeared.
…
On a narrow street lined with aging brick buildings, time had settled into every crack and corner. At the edge of the block stood an old pawn shop, its presence quiet and almost forgotten, as though it had been there longer than anyone cared to remember.
The wooden door at the front had warped over the years, its surface worn smooth by countless hands, and the dim interior light barely managed to illuminate the cluttered displays within. Dust hung in the air, clinging to silver trinkets and relics that looked like they belonged to another century.
A gray-haired old man stepped out slowly, leaning on a cane with a polished silver handle. His movements were steady but deliberate, each step measured as if he carried the weight of far more than age.
He paused just outside the shop, his gaze lifting toward the night sky.
Dark clouds stretched overhead, swallowing what little light remained, and his eyes lingered there, sharp despite their age, as though searching for something only he could see.
After a long silence, he turned and went back inside.
The door shut with a heavy thud, and moments later, a wooden sign reading "Closed" was hung in the front window.
Abraham moved deeper into the shop, slipping through a narrow passage into the back room. The lighting there was even dimmer, but the contents were far more deliberate.
Silver weapons lined the walls—long swords, intricately crafted bows, and an assortment of tools designed for hunting things that didn't belong in the natural world. Each piece carried the quiet weight of use, not decoration.
His attention settled on a glass container displayed at the center of the room.
Inside, a heart pulsed.
Its surface was shriveled and gray, veins twisted and unnatural, and from the gaps in its flesh, countless thin, white worms writhed outward. They twisted and coiled in slow, unsettling motions, their bodies glistening as they shifted against one another.
Despite its condition, the heart continued to beat.
Abraham stared at it, his expression unreadable, before letting out a low murmur.
"So… you've finally arrived."
…
Manhattan Central Hospital stood as one of the largest and most advanced medical facilities in the city, but at that moment, its halls carried a tension that was impossible to ignore. Doctors and nurses moved quickly, their expressions tight, their usual confidence replaced with something far more uncertain.
Bodies were wheeled in one after another.
Each one looked the same—faces drained of color, skin pale to the point of lifelessness, as though something essential had been stripped away.
The doors to the quarantine ward opened, and a man in full protective gear stepped inside with calm precision.
Dr. Ephraim Goodweather, a senior specialist from the CDC, adjusted his gloves as he entered. Waiting for him was Nora, his assistant, already suited up and clearly on edge.
"What's the situation?" he asked, his tone steady.
"They haven't completed full autopsies yet," Nora replied, her voice tight. "Some of them… we can't determine the cause of death. Others have small incisions on their necks."
Her expression darkened slightly as she spoke, the implications hanging unspoken between them.
"They're all miners from the Allen Mine," she continued. "There was a collapse underground, and they were trapped for hours. When rescue teams got them out… they were already like this."
Ephraim frowned and stepped into the isolation room.
Rows of bodies lay still under the harsh white lights, each one identical in its lifelessness. He approached one of the corpses, choosing a man whose appearance showed no obvious external trauma.
Pressing his gloved hand gently against the man's arm, he tested the skin.
His expression shifted.
"There's no elasticity," he said quietly, disbelief creeping into his voice. "These people died less than twenty-four hours ago."
Nora swallowed, her eyes flicking toward the bodies around them. "It's like something drained them completely. Their blood… it's gone."
"Drained?" Ephraim repeated, his brow tightening further as he examined another body, this one bearing faint marks along the neck.
He didn't speak for a moment, but the tension in his posture made his decision clear.
"Take me to the mine," he said.
Nora nodded immediately, and the two of them left without delay, heading for a waiting CDC vehicle.
Not long after they were gone, another figure entered the quarantine ward.
David, also a CDC specialist and a colleague of Ephraim's, had arrived as soon as he heard the situation. Unlike the others, he didn't hesitate.
He approached one of the bodies, his face composed, and began the autopsy.
The scalpel slid cleanly through the pale skin.
But the moment the incision opened, his hand froze.
Instead of red, bloodless flesh, a thick white fluid seeped out, tinged faintly with yellow. It oozed slowly from the wound, unnatural and wrong in a way that made his stomach tighten.
David swallowed hard, his eyes darting down to check his protective gear, scanning for any breach, any tear that might have exposed him.
Finding nothing, he forced himself to continue.
The blade moved again, opening the chest cavity fully.
What he saw inside made his breath hitch.
Suppressing the rising wave of disgust, he reached in and carefully removed the heart, lifting it up for a closer look. It was still beating, weak but unmistakable, its surface crawling with countless tiny white worms.
They writhed across it in slow, deliberate movements.
"Jesus—!"
The curse slipped out as his composure shattered. He flung the heart aside instinctively, ripping off his gloves in panic as the sight burned into his mind.
The worms reacted instantly.
They spread across the discarded gloves and onto his sleeves, their thin bodies moving with disturbing speed as they crawled toward his exposed skin.
David's breath came in sharp bursts as he tried to pull them away, fingers grabbing at the tiny wriggling forms and yanking them free.
But for every one he removed, more followed.
They burrowed into his flesh.
He could feel them pushing beneath his skin, moving along his arms, spreading upward, deeper.
"Fuck—fuck—!"
Sweat poured down his face as blood dripped from his hands, his movements frantic and desperate as he tried to stop the invasion.
Behind him, unnoticed, the bodies on the hospital beds began to move.