The sharp, sterile tang clung to his memories like a ghost. It hadn't been so bad when Michel used it on Simon earlier in the afternoon, but in the dark of night, it brought back a flood of images—the lab, the treatment rooms, the long corridors beneath the vampire castle.
Beneath the sterile floors of Rosencraft's laboratory, the underground prison lay hidden, its presence a haunting reminder.
A shudder crawled up his spine as the scent wormed its way into his nose again, dragging those unwanted recollections to the surface. He instinctively shifted back when Bryent plopped down beside him.
"Hey, boy. Sylene, right? I heard what you did today." His voice was gruff but steady.
"Thanks for helping us."
The mercenary still smiled, an easy, laid-back grin that made anyone who looked at him feel at ease. Sylene, however, only nodded, chewing his dried meat with quiet focus, savoring the tough but flavorful texture.
"Have you trained for combat? Which weapon do you usually use?"
"...I'm trained to survive." His voice was even, but he paused before continuing. "As for the weapon..."
Well, that depends. His hands worked just fine—sharp, reinforced claws that sliced through flesh like blades, though they were a pain to clean. He had tried different tools before, whatever was available at the time. It all came down to creativity, he supposed...But after seeing those VX railguns in action, he couldn't help but want to get his hands on one.
"I want to try the Vampire Exterminator," he admitted, his tone casual but firm.
A slow whistle escaped Bryent as he tore another bite from his dry meat. "Good taste. VX is every man's dream." He chuckled, but his amusement quickly faded, his gaze sharpening like an eagle's as he studied the boy.
"But aren't you… half-vampire?" His voice was still light, but there was a flicker of curiosity beneath it. "Got someone you hate?"
Why would a vampire hybrid want to destroy his own kind?
Sylene remained quiet, his teeth sinking into his bacon with a little more force than necessary. He snorted, refusing to answer.
"Are you familiar with ghouls? Who's your master, boy? A noble?"
Still no response.
Bryent didn't give up. "Is your master a vampire noble?"
The chewing halted—just for a second—before continuing as if nothing had happened.
"Ah," Bryent exhaled, leaning back slightly. "Sorry to hear that, boy. We've got no love for those bloodsuckers either. But they're strong, powerful. Even in the human world, they hold high positions—nobles, local authorities. A few even reside in the human capital. Not many, though. Just one or two, serving as ambassadors for the peace treaty."
Sylene said nothing, just continued eating. Bryent tore off a piece of sourdough bread and handed it to him. The boy accepted it without a word.
The mercenary's gaze shifted to Michel, who sat nearby, looking wary, his eyes flickering toward Sylene with thinly veiled tension.
"Don't blame the kid," Bryent said, his voice quieter. "His village got caught in a small war… ended up as bloodstock for the bloodlust vampire hybrid soldiers."
Michel stiffened slightly but said nothing.
"You know how it is," Bryent continued, taking a slow sip of his drink. "Sometimes they like to stock up on human blood. Small villages get wiped out, sucked dry." He exhaled, white fog escaping his lips into the cold night air.
Then, tilting his head toward the sky, he asked, "Do you drink human blood, kid?"
Sylene set down his bacon. Wordlessly, he picked up his dagger, running the blade through the flames, letting the heat burn away any lingering bacteria or rot from the creatures he'd slain earlier.
"I've never had an interest in it," he said finally, his voice quiet but firm. "Never drank it before."
Silence settled over them. Some felt a sense of relief, but none could lower their guard. A lingering danger hung in the air—unseen, yet palpable.
The human military kept bloodthirsty vampire hybrids as elite squads, but they maintained total control over them, with limiters set to kill instantly if they disobeyed. That was just a rumor, but it still made people wary.
At first, the mercenaries had assumed the young vampire hybrid was just an ordinary, pampered one. Those vampire hybrid pets didn't drink blood; they were called vegetarian pets—safe enough to be kept even by powerful human nobles. Those pets were so weak they seemed sickly and died soon.
But now they realized—this boy was that kind of vampire hybrid. A being likely trained to fight, to kill, under the command of his owner. Usually, hybrids like that were as bloodthirsty as the elite squads.
Some vampire hybrids, those deemed too beautiful, became pampered pets for powerful figures—sheltered from the harsh realities of the world, their claws trimmed, their hands never touching a weapon. Judging by his striking appearance, they assumed Sylene had once been the former.
The realization unsettled them.
Michel clicked his tongue, his expression twisting with something close to regret. He looked… hurt.
"I was such an idiot, trying to distract you. I thought you were scared, but look at me—being dumb."
"I have nothing against you being a vampire...hybrid, but your skill… I just felt like I was lied to. I knew vampires were strong. Maybe the rumors are true—that a vampire hybrid must have power at least half of theirs." His voice grew quieter, tinged with frustration. He felt like a coward.
The boy, younger than him, had moved with ease, skilled enough to kill a ghoul without breaking a sweat, while he—older, supposedly stronger—still paled in the face of those creatures. A sharp pang of jealousy twisted in his chest.
"I wish I could—ugh, never mind. It's my problem."
Sylene understood fear. He had seen it enough times to recognize it, but offering comfort was beyond him. The last time he tried, Michel had only gotten mad.
"I hate the task, so I ran away."
The group looked at him, some with pity, others with understanding. They weren't relaxed, not completely, but the tension in the air eased—just a little. Yet something still gnawed at them.
The contrast was jarring. A boy so soft, so seemingly pampered, his beauty delicate enough to be mistaken for some noble's prized possession—yet he had just killed with terrifying precision.
They were mercenaries. They had seen enough to know Sylene's skill was far beyond what he had shown.