The hooded figure stepped through the muddy streets of Laona, his black cloak brushing against the cobblestones. A light drizzle blurred the oil lamps and gave the wooden buildings a reflective sheen. This was the edge of civilization in the Monteri estate—where rules were thin and greed thicker than blood.
Floyd pushed open the door to the tavern. A dull clang of a bell rang overhead, and all eyes turned for a split second before returning to their drinks, their gambling, their quarrels.
The tavern was old, walls covered in monster heads and faded maps. Wooden beams supported a sagging ceiling, and smoke from poorly kept cigars hung like mist. Men in leather armor drank and laughed, steel swords on their backs. Women in corsets and traditional lace skirts walked between tables with trays in hand, occasionally slapped or harassed by the rowdier crowd.
Floyd made his way silently to the counter, keeping his face shrouded in shadows. The barkeep, a thick-necked man with missing teeth, gave him a curious glance but said nothing.
"A glass of whatever keeps them warm."
The barkeep snorted and slid a ceramic cup toward him. It steamed faintly and smelled like fermented root and ash.
Floyd sipped it without flinching.
"Disgusting, but tolerable."
He leaned back against the counter, silent, eyes half-lidded. He looked like just another drifter, a mercenary perhaps. That's what he wanted them to believe. He wasn't here for attention. He was here to pass the time before the hunt.
Then, a voice caught his attention.
"—I'm telling you, if we flank from the southern ridge, we'll catch the hounds off guard."
The speaker was a young man, tall and muscular, his copper armor shining despite the grime.
"You think they won't smell us coming? Idiot!"
Snapped one of the women, her crimson robes identifying her as a blood channeler—a type of vampire mage that manipulates lifeblood into force.
Floyd's eyes narrowed. He listened quietly.
"They're lesser hounds. Fast, stupid, and weak in the spine. One hit there and they're down. We only need few litres for the commission, right?"
"Yes, this is an easy job. So don't fuck up again this time. We lost Andrew because of your stupid strategy previously."
"We should stay three days at most in the forest. We set out at dawn. Stick to pairs. Don't get cocky. The forest eats over a thousand every month."
Floyd stared into his drink, expression unreadable.
'If I run into them out there… they might make excellent bait. Let them draw the beasts out. I'll sweep in, harvest the blood, and leave them to their fate.'
He stood up, pushing a few copper coins across the counter. The barkeep grunted his thanks, and Floyd left without another word.
The forest was different at night.
Dark, vast, and alive.
The moment Floyd passed beyond the outskirts of Laona and into the edge of Leior, a silence descended. Not the peaceful kind. The kind that felt like he was being watched every moment by something.
He discarded his cloak behind a dead tree and readjusted the leather mask covering the lower half of his face. His crimson eyes gleamed faintly beneath the moonlight, marking him for what he truly was.
A vampire.
He crouched beside a shallow stream and dipped his fingers into the water. Cold. Flowing south.
The wind carried the scent of rotting leaves and wet fur.
He walked carefully and silently. He wasn't strong yet and his nails were dull, his body undernourished—barely capable of tearing apart wild dogs. But he didn't need to overpower his prey.
He needed to outthink them.
At one point, he passed the decomposed remains of what might've been a hunter. Bones jutting from torn leather armor. His hand reached toward the pouch still attached to the hip. Empty.
"Died for nothing. What a wasteful life you had."
He continued deeper into the thickets. Trees grew thicker here. Mist curled between roots. The air was heavier. As if nature itself was warning him away.
He remembered the potion's ingredients:
10 litres of lesser hound blood.
Blood of one scorpion monster.
2 litres of his own.
His stomach twisted at the thought of ingesting it. But he had no choice. Power did not come without a price. He had accepted that long ago.
Hours passed.
Then—
He suddenly heard screams.
Floyd's head snapped to the left.
Howls followed. Multiple of this.
'They are most likely hounds.'
Branches snapped. Metal clashed.
He darted forward and climbed a thick tree with practiced ease. Perched atop a branch, he gazed down at a clearing.
There they were.
The same group from the tavern.
Seven lesser hounds, lean and skeletal with translucent skin stretched over twitching muscle. Their eyes glowed pale yellow, and foam dripped from gnarled jaws.
One of the men was already down, blood spraying from a ripped throat.
"Fall back! Form a barrier!"
Two channelers tried to erect a shield, red sigils circling their hands, but they were slow.
One of the hounds slammed into a woman, knocking her into a tree. She screamed as fangs tore into her leg.
"Shit!" another shouted, rushing to help.
It was chaos. But to Floyd… it was opportunity.
He leaned against the bark and watched quietly waiting for an opportunity.