Wallachia, year 1455.
Five years had passed since the Great Pact, and deep in a forgotten valley, hidden among rocks and shadows, two cries pierced the night like twin daggers. The cold air trembled under the desperate call of life, and the high, pale moon seemed to watch with pity.
From afar, a man's footsteps halted. Beneath the black hat, his hard gaze cut through the darkness like a blade — a hunter was hiding there. With an almost unearthly movement, he slipped among rocks and roots, his cloak fluttering behind him like a shadow. The mist curled around his legs, swallowing his steps in a heavy silence.
He reached a small clearing, where two fragile newborns cried out to the sky. The moonlight crept timidly, touching their faces. In a world that wanted to forget them, they screamed to be seen.
The man stopped. The large, heavy sword on his back, adorned with vampire fangs, seemed to shiver in its sheath, sensing the nearness of evil. The old cross around his neck, which he had blessed with his own hands, glowed faintly under the moon, and his cold, piercing eyes fixed on the two infants.
With slow steps, he approached and whispered like a vow:
— "What secret do you hide, little ones…?"
Around him, dry trees, aged by time, rustled in the cold wind, making sharp, death-like whispers. The mist danced among roots, and the night birds began their funeral song. The whole valley felt like an open grave.
He lifted the first child, wrapped in a green, glossy fabric — the kind seen only in forbidden rituals. The tiny body smelled faintly of burnt incense, and on the fragile chest, he saw a scar burned into the shape of the number 9. The hunter felt that behind this mark lay an ancient curse.
Then he picked up the other: skin white as milk, wrapped in black, ragged cloth. On the right shoulder, another mark — this time, the number 0, like a void etched in flesh.
Ioh's thoughts raced: "What are these children? Why were they abandoned here?"
But the silence was suddenly torn apart. From the forest shadows, two red pupils burned with hunger and hate. A thirst for blood so strong that even the night seemed to tremble.
Without blinking, Ioh pulled out an old bone whistle. A sharp, broken sound floated through the air — a warning only werewolves could hear. The red shadow vanished for a moment… but danger had not passed.
Calmly, Ioh cut his finger with the tip of his knife, letting a drop of blood fall to the ground. The red of life, the ultimate lure for blood lovers.
And then, the forest stirred. From the darkness, a deep, ancient voice echoed:
— "What kind of hunter dares steal prey from a vampire? I had clear orders to rid the world of these babies."
Ioh raised his chin, his voice sharp:
— "Go on, then… let's see if you can harm these little ones."
From the depths of the forest, an enormous shadow stepped into the clearing: a vampire with shoulders as wide as doors, white skin, long fangs, and blunt claws. Madness burned in his gaze.
— "So, you're the great vampire slayer they whisper about in taverns and inns?" … the vampire spits out the words, wearing a hideous grin.
— "Yes. I am Ioh, the monk who brings death under the shadow of the cross," answered Ioh, and though his eyes were cold, they burned with resolve.
The air tightened, like a bow before the arrow flies. In an instant, the vampire lunged forward, claws aimed at the children's throats. Ioh's cloak whipped around like a torn shadow, and his sword slid from its sheath, leaving behind a shining arc of steel.
Steel and claws clashed with a screech, sparks dancing in the darkness. Ioh spun, using his cloak like a wing, slipped behind the vampire and thrust his sword into its shoulder. A piercing howl shook the forest.
— "Don't rejoice, monk! Your flesh will still be warm under my fangs!" the vampire growled, raising his arms.
The wind howled, leaves rustled like a funeral choir. The vampire struck again, but Ioh dodged, drew from a hidden pocket an oak stake and, with a short, precise move, drove it near the heart.
The vampire froze for a moment, his eyes blazing between hatred and terror.
— "You don't even deserve to be beheaded, filthy beast…" Ioh spat, cold as stone.
With a wild motion, the vampire ripped out the stake, black blood spilling onto the frozen grass. Wounded but not defeated, he charged again, claws slashing the air. Ioh met him with a quick sword slash, the blade hitting bone with a dry crack.
Mad with pain, the vampire turned and bit into Ioh's cloak, tearing away a strip of fabric. Ioh stepped back, breathing deeply, his eyes filling with a cold, almost defiant light.
— "You had your chance, vampire. Now I'll show you how a monster dies."
The vampire launched one final attack, mouth open, fangs ready to tear flesh. But Ioh, calm as an executioner, raised his sword and brought it down hard on the outstretched arms, slicing off a clawed hand. A hiss of air, then a heart-rending groan filled the night.
On one knee, the vampire lifted his gaze, eyes burning with hate and fear all at once. Ioh glanced at him coldly, then, with a swift, decisive move, thrust the stake deeper, until the wood cracked against the creature's chest.
With his last breath, the vampire whispered, almost in desperation:
— "These children… they break the vow of the Four Chains… If I failed, others will come… the twins cannot escape the Order…"
Then his body fell to the grass, and the forest sank back into silence. Only the moon remained as witness, cold and distant.
Ioh looked at the infants, touched their cold foreheads. For the second child, he replaced the ragged cloth with finer fabric, setting him on equal ground with his brother — a small gesture of hope. In his mind, questions burned like fire: "Who was that vampire? What do these marks mean? Who are their parents?"
Yet the answers did not come. With determined steps, Ioh took the twins in his arms and set off through the valley, among shadows and mist.
Above them, a small sparrow, barely keeping itself in the air, followed. A tiny living shadow, witness to the beginning of a story that would tear apart the silence of the night…