The forest held its breath.
The four figures remained frozen, their knees pressed into the damp earth, their bodies refusing to obey the instinct to flee. The scent of blood—both hound and human—clung to the air, a grim reminder of the carnage that had unfolded moments ago. But it wasn't the corpses that terrified them.
It was the absence of the one who had made them.
Kael's hands trembled, his claws digging into his palms hard enough to draw blood. The metallic tang grounded him, if only slightly.
"What… the hell was that?"
Mira's whisper was fragile, like the first crack in thin ice. Her fingers clutched at her wounded thigh, the bandages already soaked through. She hadn't even realized she was crying until a tear splashed onto the back of her hand.
Liora, usually the pillar of their group, found her voice stripped bare.
"I don't know. Fortunately he was a good person."
Her eyes flicked to the mangled remains of the hounds—seven corpses, each felled with brutal efficiency.
"But he was terrifying."
Dain, ever observant, exhaled slowly. His vampiric senses still burned with the aftershock of that suffocating presence.
"His mere presence screamed authority. Not just strength. Not just skill. The kind of weight that makes you kneel before you even think to resist."
The words settled between them like a death sentence.
Kael could not agree more.
He regrets calling him useless.
A beat of silence.
Liora's laugh was hollow.
"Yeah. He seemed pretty weak initially."
Kael didn't argue. His pride, once unshakable, lay in tatters. He'd seen warriors before—vampire lords who could split boulders with a flick of their wrists, blood mages who could boil a man's veins from fifty paces. But this? This was different.
Never in his life was he this overwhelmed just by a mere presence.
Don't get him wrong, in his 15 years of experience in mercenary he encountered many who could rip him apart in split second.
But none of them unconsciously put him in knees.
No flourish. No wasted movement. Just slaughter, pure and simple. And the way he'd looked at them afterward—like they were insects beneath his boot—sent a fresh wave of dread down Kael's spine.
"We owe him, if we see him again… we help him."
No one disagreed.
(But in the back of their minds, a quieter thought lingered: Would a man like that ever need help from the likes of us?)
________
The training hall of the Monteri estate was a graveyard of splintered wood and shattered stone.
Dan Monteri stood amidst the wreckage, his chest rising and falling with controlled breaths. The air reeked of iron—his blood technique, Crimson Rend, had left jagged scars across the walls, the grooves still smoking faintly.
Robert, his instructor, clapped slowly.
"Impressive. You've mastered it faster than I expected."
Dan smirked.
"Of course. Did you expect anything less from the next patriarch?"
Robert chuckled, but his gaze was sharp and calculating.
"Your brother wouldn't have stood a chance against that."
Dan's smirk twisted.
"My brother wouldn't have even attempted it. That coward couldn't even attack properly the last time I saw him. His stance is all weak and pathetic."
He flexed his fingers, watching the residual glow of his bloodline power dance beneath his skin. "Pathetic," he repeated, as if savoring the word.
Robert tilted his head.
"Still, the coward shrimp might be onto something. I heard he went to hunt in Leior forest."
Dan scoffed.
"Don't worry, it will all be in vain. I don't know how he found his new resolve, but I know for sure—either he comes back crying, or he dies a useless death."
Robert hummed, noncommittal.
"Doesn't matter. In ten years, the succession will be yours. And he won't even be a footnote."
Dan's grin was all teeth.
"Exactly."
But as Robert turned away, his expression darkened.
'Who knows, someday the deer grows tired of fleeing—and with quiet fury, turns to hunt the tiger instead.'
Morning light seeped through the canopy, painting the forest floor in fractured gold.
Floyd sat up slowly, every muscle protesting. The adrenaline from yesterday had long since faded, leaving behind only exhaustion and the dull, persistent ache of his injuries. His stomach growled, a sharp reminder of his mortality.
He dropped from the branch, landing lightly despite the pain. The risk during the morning was low—lesser hounds were nocturnal, and the deeper woods were quieter at dawn.
His claws flexed unconsciously.
'...'
He frowned. It shouldn't have bothered him. They were monsters. They would have torn him apart without hesitation.
So why did he regret it now?
The memories surfaced unbidden—the hounds' dying whimpers, the way their bodies had crumpled under his hands. The blood. So much blood.
'Slowly, I will put an end to this side of mine.'
He shook his head, brushing the thought aside.
'Survival comes first.'
But as he stepped forward, a new weight settled on his shoulders.
Not just the weight of hunger.
Not just the weight of pain.
But the weight of what he decided to become.