The bar, hidden in the darkest alleys of the city, exuded the smell of old cigarettes and spilled liquor, a dense aroma that clung to the throat. A classical tune played in the background, muffled by the murmur of conversations and dragging laughter. The bartender, a skinny man with tired eyes, absentmindedly wiped a glass as the door opened with a soft creak.
Rex entered with calm steps, his hands buried in the pockets of his black trousers. The contrast between him and the environment was immediate: dark, disheveled hair, a cold gaze, and a presence that made the conversations die down. Some customers turned their heads, curious or wary, but Rex ignored them all. He walked to the counter and sat on the creaking wooden stool, letting out a slow sigh as the music pierced his ears like needles.
"Whiskey," he said, his voice low and drawling.
The bartender seemed to hesitate for an instant, but nodded without protest. He turned to grab the amber‑glass bottle, poured the drink, and placed the glass before him. Rex gripped the glass firmly, swirled the golden liquid, and took a sip. The bitter taste burned his throat in a familiar way. He set the glass on the counter, raised his eyebrows, and let out a dry laugh.
"What a funeral vibe," he commented.
"What?" asked the bartender, frowning.
Rex spun the glass between his fingers, his eyes half‑closed.
"That old story is true…" he said with a crooked smile. "Vampires have terrible taste. Always this damn opera or classical music. Never good rock, never decent metal. That's why I hate these bars."
The bartender shifted his gaze to the surrounding customers, and something changed in the air. The ears of some men and women began to lengthen, pointed, while sharp fangs sprouted from their mouths. One of them, a tall man in an overcoat, growled and leapt at Rex with a supernatural jump.
"Predictable," Rex murmured.
In a swift motion, he drew a black pistol from his coat. The grip bore a small silver skull engraved on it. The shot thundered through the enclosed space. The bullet pierced the vampire's skull, and the creature collapsed lifeless to the floor, spreading a metallic scent of fresh blood.
Rex grabbed the whiskey glass and downed the rest in one go, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand as he rose from the stool. His silver eyes scanned the room, meeting every hungry stare now fixed on him.
"I just wanted some information about someone named Morgana…" he said, twirling the empty glass between his fingers. "But just mention your taste in music and you all get all touchy."
The creatures lunged at once, claws bared, fangs glinting under the dim light. Rex let out a resigned sigh. A blade crashed through the ceiling, embedding itself in the floor before him and splitting the wood. The impact made the vampires instinctively recoil.
With a fluid motion, Rex holstered the pistol and grabbed the sword. The blade reflected the yellowish light of the lamps, and he rested its weight on his shoulder, smirking.
"Alright… put on some good rock," he said, spinning the sword deftly between his fingers. "Because the fun is about to start."
Rex moved like a predator unleashed into the night. The sword in his hands sliced through the air with dry hisses as the vampires surged in waves, hungry and desperate. The metallic sound of the blade cutting flesh echoed, mingling with the creatures' guttural screams.
A vampiress approached from behind, swift as a shadow. Rex sensed the shift of air and threw a quick glance over his shoulder. Without even halting his movements, he drew the pistol with his other hand and pulled the trigger. The bullet went straight through the creature's mouth and out the back of her head, spilling dark blood across the wooden floor.
A crooked smile spread across his face. He spun on his heels, the sword carving lethal arcs, and continued the macabre dance like a seasoned swordsman. The bar turned into a bloody battlefield; vampire corpses piled up in every corner, pieces scattered across overturned tables and shattered bottles.
Amid the chaos, the bartender, silent as a rat, began creeping toward the back door. But the sharp crack of a shot cut through the air, and the bullet lodged itself into the doorframe right in front of him.
"Stay right there," Rex said, his voice low and firm, as the sword vanished in a silver flash and reappeared strapped across his back.
"W-what…?" stammered the bartender, his face pale.
Rex walked toward him slowly, the pistol still aimed. The sound of his boots on the grimy floor echoed through the silent bar.
"I want to know about someone named Morgana," he said with a cold half‑smile. "I've heard she's a vampire… so, leech, you must know something."
The bartender's features twisted: his ears lengthened into points and sharp fangs gleamed under the dim light. Rex merely raised na eyebrow, taunting. Creatures could hide from anyone—except a hunter. One look into a hunter's eyes, and the masks would fall. It was like staring death itself in the face.
And the bartender realized it. Realized that with a single motion, Rex could pull the trigger or draw the blade resting on his back.
"S-she… she's from another family," stammered the bartender, stepping back. "There are rumors she's coming to the city… because of the rise in werewolves."
Rex let out a short, humorless laugh.
"You vampires and werewolves… always causing trouble," he muttered.
"W-why are you after her?" the bartender asked, his voice trembling.
"Why do you think a hunter would be after a vampire?" Rex replied, spinning the pistol on his fingers with a crooked grin. "But since you mentioned the fleabags… looks like I'll have to look into that too. Now…" his eyes narrowed, his voice turning colder, "where can I find her?"
The bartender swallowed hard.
"She hides… never shows herself. Orders other vampires to do everything for her… she only comes out when she finds someone worthy to face her."
Rex raised the pistol and pressed the barrel against the vampire's forehead.
"Know of any hideout?"
"I-I do… the cemetery… the old mausoleum," he confessed, almost whispering.
"Thanks. That was helpful." Rex pulled the trigger.
The shot thundered through the empty bar. The vampire's head snapped back and his body collapsed limply to the floor. Rex spun the pistol with a smooth motion and holstered it under his coat.
"Time to pay the cemetery a little visit," he murmured as he turned and vanished through the door, leaving behind the scent of gunpowder and blood.
Outside the bar, Rex drew in a deep breath and almost regretted it.
The smell of cigarette smoke mixed with sulfur burned his nostrils. He brought a hand to his face, frowning as his silver eyes swept the dark street to the left and right.
Then he saw him: a thin man, dressed in immaculate white trousers, a Panama hat tilted low over his face, and a cigarette between his fingers. The man walked slowly, as if in no rush, the smoke curling lazily toward the flickering lampposts.
"Got a light?" the man asked, his voice hoarse, almost amused.
Rex lowered his hand from his nose and let out a crooked smile.
"Nice try, gold mouth," he said lazily, as if dismissing a door-to-door salesman.
The man chuckled softly, na odd sound, and tilted his head.
When the lamplight struck him, the shadow of the hat couldn't hide the golden grin and the rotting, peeling face—like that of na ancient zombie.
"So, did you find what you wanted, hunter?" he asked, taking a slow drag.
Rex stepped to the side, running a hand along his neck as if stretching.
"Do me a favor and stop wandering around here, deadbeat," he said bluntly. "If I see you again…"
"Yeah, yeah, you'll put a bullet in my head?" the man cut in, appearing in front of him in the blink of na eye, as if he had glided through the air. "I like you too, hunter. Always straight to the point."
Rex didn't lose his composure. He pulled a silver lighter from his pocket, spun it between his fingers, and raised his eyebrows.
The Goldmouth tilted his cigarette. Rex lit it with a flick, the flame trembling in the night breeze. For a moment, it looked like a scene between two old acquaintances.
"Mausoleum, huh?" said Goldmouth, exhaling his first puff with a yellowed grin. "Looks like that bastard is coming to the city too."
"What bastard?" Rex narrowed his eyes, the smile still fixed at the corner of his mouth.
"A vampire who doesn't die with common tricks… they call him the Leathered One," answered Goldmouth, slowly exhaling smoke. "Which means pretty soon this city's going to turn into a war zone between werewolves and vampires."
Rex shook his head, shoving his hands into his pockets.
"Great. I was getting bored anyway," he said, starting to walk away.
"Hey, kid!" Goldmouth's voice made him stop. "Ever heard of the Cabra Cabriola?"
Rex turned back, that tired yet sharp look in his eyes, the streetlights reflecting in his silver irises.
"Listen here… I'm a hunter. I know every legend, every boogeyman, every abomination that walks this world," he said, tilting his chin slightly. "Just like I know exactly who you are."
Goldmouth let out a laugh so loud and strange that a dog howled somewhere down the street.
"Hahaha! Perfect! Perfect! Oh, and I heard some bogeymen are heading this way too. Keep na eye out for kids disappearing, hunter."
Rex raised na eyebrow.
"And since when are you a journalist now?"
The man gestured with his free hand.
"Alright, alright… I spooked a ghoul's victim, and he told me a few things."
Rex snorted, his sarcasm plain.
"Just what I needed… folkloric monsters gossiping in the middle of the street."
"Hahahaha!" Goldmouth's laughter echoed through the alley. "Take the tip, hunter!"
Rex let out a long sigh and kept walking, hands in his pockets, while Goldmouth's raspy laughter echoed down the empty street until it was swallowed by the midnight silence.
He turned the corner, following dark streets where only the faint glow of the lampposts traced lines on the damp pavement. Looking up, he noticed the old clock on a nearby tower: the hands pointed exactly to three a.m. The dead hour.
"Lovely…" he muttered, scratching his neck lazily as he walked. "A stroll through the cemetery at three in the morning. Sounds like a bad joke…"
He stopped under a lamppost, the yellow light catching the cold gleam of his eyes, and pulled from his coat's inner pocket a letter with creased edges, yet written in na elegant, meticulous, almost delicate hand. At a glance, it was clear it had been written by feminine hands. No sender, only his name on the recipient line.
The lines spoke of a vampire named Morgana—na ancient, intelligent, and ruthless creature who now roamed the city. A direct warning, almost intimate. Rex hadn't cared much at first… until two days ago, when they found a body drained of blood, with deep fang marks in the neck.
He turned the letter between his fingers, thoughtful, feeling the rough paper against his fingertips.
"And I still don't know who the hell sent this…" he muttered to himself, tucking the letter back into his pocket. "Or how they knew so much about that vampire."
The midnight wind blew, carrying a distant scent of flowers and damp earth. Rex resumed walking, his coat swaying around his legs.
"Whatever… first, the cemetery. Then I figure out the rest," he said, a crooked smile forming on his lips as he vanished into the darkness.
The cemetery lay in the northern part of the city, surrounded by gnarled trees and a low fog that crawled over the ground. Rex stopped before the wrought‑iron gate. The cold of the metal seeped through his gloves as he pushed against the bars, but they didn't budge.
He frowned, leaning closer to see the heavy rusted padlock holding the gate shut.
With na impatient sigh, he stepped back a few paces, rolled his shoulders, and launched a spinning kick straight against the bars. The impact echoed through the silent cemetery, but the gate held firm, as if nailed to the earth itself.
"Stubborn damn gate…" he muttered, drawing his pistols from their holsters.
He was about to force his way in when a female voice, cold as the midnight wind, echoed from within:
"Hey, hey… what do you think you're doing?"
Rex spun the pistols and aimed them toward the gate, his muscles tense. From the shadows among the tombs, a hooded figure slowly emerged, the black cloak brushing against the ground. In her hands, a scythe as tall as she was caught the pale glow of the moon.
When the woman lifted her face, revealing a pale visage bathed in a spectral light, a chill ran down Rex's spine. He had faced many things before, but this… this was Death itself standing before him.
"What are you doing here?" he asked, his voice low but steady.
"Guiding souls to the afterlife," Death replied, her voice echoing like a whisper coming from everywhere at once. "And you, hunter… what do you seek in a cemetery at this hour?"
Rex twirled the pistols on his fingers before holstering them, a crooked smile returning to his face.
"Just doing my job."
Death tilted her head slightly, a faint, unreadable smile on her lips.
"Do not break the lock. Do not complicate the path of others… like you."
The shadows swallowed her back, and the cemetery returned to silence. Rex drew a deep breath, lowered his shoulders, and stepped back. Then he ran, planted a foot on the wall, and vaulted over in a clean flip, landing on the other side with his knees bent.
He straightened, pulling his coat's collar tighter against the cold wind, and began walking among the ancient tombs. The gravestones were covered in moss and cracks, and a low whisper seemed to rise from every corner.
Suddenly, something moved at the edge of his vision: a black silhouette sliding between shadows. Rex reached over his shoulder and drew his sword, the metallic gleam cutting through the darkness as he advanced, alert to every sound.
A scraping, metallic noise broke the stillness of the night, as if a tomb lid were being forced open. The echo rolled through the graveyard, followed by a harsh, prolonged laugh that made the hair on Rex's neck stand on end.
Shuffling steps approached from behind him. Rex spun on his heels, sword poised to strike, and then he saw her: a woman with long, disheveled black hair, her skin marked by scars and deformities that seemed to pulse in the moonlight. In her bony hands she wielded a twisted staff adorned with bones and red ribbons fluttering in the cold wind.
The woman raised the staff slowly, a crooked smile spreading across her ruined face, and a guttural whisper rose from her throat. Around them, the soil of the graves began to stir. Cadaverous hands broke through the earth, followed by lifeless bodies rising in silence, their empty eyes glowing with a sickly green light.
Rex arched na eyebrow, a crooked grin tugging at his lips.
"A necromancer witch…" he muttered, spinning the sword in his hand like a toy. "Just what I needed."
Rex lunged forward, the blade tracing bright arcs as it shredded rotting flesh. Zombies closed in from every side, rotten teeth and bony hands grasping for him, but he sidestepped with quick, precise movements, his boots sure on the damp soil. The air reeked of turned earth, old blood, and the rancid stench of decay.
He needed to reach the necromancer before she summoned more—or hold out until dawn. But with that absurd number of corpses surrounding him, the second option was off the table. And morning would bring another problem: if the rumors were true, many vampires would be at the mausoleum.
"Filthy old hag…" he growled, plunging the sword into a zombie's abdomen and, with a sharp twist, flinging the rotting body against the horde coming from behind.
With every step, Rex carved a path with precise strikes. The necromancer ahead swung her staff covered in faded runes, each gesture dragging more dead from the soil. The cemetery's silence had already been replaced by groans, the grinding of bones, and guttural moans.
Suddenly, something sliced through the air—a swift movement, a deadly flash—and the head of a zombie behind Rex was severed before it could attack. Rex froze for a second, blinking in surprise. The necromancer looked confused as well, her eyes glowing with suspicious hatred.
"Who dares disturb the eternal rest of the dead?" a cold voice echoed from the shadows.
Behind Rex, the figure in the black cloak revealed herself. The woman under the hood gleamed in the moonlight, her scythe still dripping with the shadowy essence of her victim.
"The old hag up ahead," Rex said, pointing with his chin, his voice dripping with sarcasm.
"Cursed witches and occultists…" Death raised the scythe, the blade reflecting the silver light. "They think the dead are toys for their cheap magic."
Rex spun his sword in his hand, a crooked smile spreading across his face as he watched the spectral figure at his side.
"Tell me, darling… planning on pulling shifts with me now?"
"Tell me, hunter…" Death tilted her head slightly, as if studying Rex. "Do you wish to work with me?"
"As long as you don't take me with you…" Rex shrugged, his voice thick with irony. "Working with you must be like working with any other huntress. The difference is… you're far more dangerous."
Death twirled the scythe and planted it on the ground, her shadow stretching long behind her.
"I promise to drag you away only when your time comes," she said calmly. "But unfortunately… hunters like you are hard to kill."
"Lucky us, huh?" Rex flexed his legs, his sword ready for another charge. "Come on, let's give grandma of the dark arts a real show."