Subtitle: Blood Runs Thicker
The quartet sat side by side around a long table, eating their meal. They were in their usual high spirits. Odasaku and Kafka scrambled up onto the long table and began mimicking the school's most disliked professors. Their acting was so flawless that no one could take their eyes off them. As they performed, they gradually worked their way toward the head of the table.
Seated at the head were the upperclassmen, most of them with their noses high in the air. Some had already uncorked their wine, talking arrogantly about where they were heading tomorrow, while one had left his bottle unopened. This particular upperclassman glanced at Odasaku and Kafka out of the corner of his eye.
Odasaku and Kafka loomed over him like street performers demanding their pay. Though the upperclassman gestured for them to shoo, he succumbed to their flattering words and offered a faint, fleeting smile. He was dressed immaculately, fully fitting the title of the valedictorian.
The top student of the senior class smiled and handed over his wine. Odasaku snatched the bottle from his hand as if he had just struck gold, cradling it affectionately. Kafka, meanwhile, stammered out their thanks. The valedictorian looked as though curiosity had suddenly gripped him. He opened his mouth, speaking in a peculiar tone.
"Nier—I heard Professor Merlin is sending someone from your group on a mission?"
Odasaku took the question as a personal insult. Just as he was about to snap back, Nora stepped in, pulling both Odasaku and the wine away. Kafka, however, stayed behind to answer. He swallowed hard.
"Atheron and I are going."
Nier rose slowly to his feet. His face bore the genuine concern of an older brother.
"Kafka, if you want my advice, do whatever it takes to stay behind."
Kafka seemed completely oblivious to the gravity of the warning. To break the sudden tension, he decided to turn it into a joke.
"Don't worry, we won't end up like Odasaku. If we run into trouble, you can always beat us into shape, just like you beat Odasaku this morning."
Nier swiftly gripped Kafka's shoulders, shaking him.
"Stop playing dumb, Kafka. You know exactly what my lineage entails, yet you still play these games. If a good thrashing could set you lot straight, I would have slapped some sense into you long ago!"
Kafka straightened his uniform with absolute confidence, striking a rigid, defiant pose. He glanced down toward his friends at the far end of the table, his eyes gleaming. He smiled with unwavering self-assurance.
"But there's no rule saying every vision you see has to come true."
"This isn't a risk worth taking," Nier pressed. "And you know the upperclassmen are leaving the academy this year for the taming ritual!"
"Whatever you saw, it won't happen," Kafka countered. "Because we're the ones going."
With that, Kafka stepped off the table with an air of absolute certainty. As he walked back to his friends, he casually kicked a few chairs aside, intentionally breaking the leg of one.
Nier watched Kafka intently. His lips moved, uttering a whisper meant for no one but himself.
"The danger isn't the mission, Kafka... It's you."
When Kafka finally reached the end of the table, he pulled out a chair and kicked his legs up onto the surface. Odasaku was practically perched on his own chair, mindlessly gnawing on a spoon.
"What happened?" Odasaku asked. "What's their problem?"
"Our resident prophet has been seeing crazy things again," Kafka replied casually.
"Oh, really?" Odasaku snorted. "Man, if I ever get the chance to beat him up, I swear I'll knock some sense into that head of his."
Nora looked intrigued. As she uncorked the wine, she tried to pry more information out of Kafka, narrowing her eyes and twisting her mouth to drop heavy hints.
"Oh, is that so? What did he say, then?"
"Nothing," Kafka shrugged. "Not worth paying attention to."
Nora and Odasaku gave up, knowing that if Kafka didn't want to talk, wild horses couldn't drag it out of him. They turned away, beginning to pour the wine into glasses. Beneath the table, Nora nudged Atheron, whispering without moving her lips:
"Why don't you ask him, darling?"
"Actually, I'm curious too!" Atheron chimed in.
Kafka sighed. "Apparently, something terrible is going to happen on our mission. And since the upperclassmen won't be at the academy, he told us not to go."
Nora and Odasaku froze instantly. Odasaku glared intensely at Kafka, while Nora's eyes locked onto Atheron. It was clear that hearing this made them both desperate to stop the duo from leaving. Nora finally relented, trying to hold Odasaku back.
"If that bastard Nier said it, there's a reason for it," Odasaku growled, stepping toward Kafka.
"Is everything the guy says absolute gospel?" Kafka fired back.
Nora cut in, "Odasaku, remember the last time? Weren't you supposed to die on that mission?"
"Well, he might as well be dead," Atheron joked. "Since he can't even see his beloved."
Embarrassed, Odasaku looked down. He began to gnaw on a fork, looking like a chastised puppy, and took a slow sip of his wine. So many thoughts were racing through his eyes—there was so much he wanted to say.
Nora, on the other hand, began to ramble endlessly about magic theories to distract herself. She hadn't touched a drop of her wine; her entire mind was consumed by complex arcane theorems, and she punctuated every sentence with a heavy sigh.
Kafka listened to Nora quietly.
Atheron was entirely focused on his drink, his mind clearly weighed down by the upcoming mission. With every sip, he stared into his glass, trying to catch his own reflection in the swirling liquid.
Eventually, Odasaku got completely drunk. He raised his glass to the sky and bellowed at the top of his lungs, hiccuping loudly:
"TO ATHERON AND KAFKA'S MISSION! CHEERS!"
Nora slammed her magic book shut and raised her glass. "Cheers!"
Atheron threw his worries to the wind and eagerly raised his own. "To us!"
Atheron shot Kafka a look that practically demanded he join in. Kafka laughed and raised his glass.
"To us!"
Hours bled into one another in the dining hall. Nora and Odasaku traded endless barbs, Atheron did his best to keep the peace between them, and Kafka kept everyone laughing with his legendary wit. Thoroughly intoxicated, Odasaku finally slumped his head onto the table, tracing the rim of his glass with a stray finger.
"Because of you guys... I never want to grow up."
Nora leaned back in her chair and took a slow sip. "Isn't it the presence of other moments that makes these ones so precious?"
Odasaku slammed his fist on the table, spilling Atheron's drink.
"IF ANY OF YOU CHANGE, I'LL PERSONALLY HELL-BENT YOUR ASSES!"
Nora smiled, entirely confident that she would stay the same, and drained her glass. Kafka busied himself handling the rowdy, drunken Odasaku. Atheron began to lecture them on how magnificent he truly was, and the night finally concluded with the quartet stumbling out of the hall in a drunken haze.
Kafka and Nora held Odasaku from both sides to keep him from collapsing, while Atheron looped his arm through Nora's to steady her faltering steps. Though they spoke of nothing of substance, they laughed all the way back to the dorms and immediately fell asleep.
In the dead of night, Atheron woke up. His heart was racing with excitement, making sleep impossible. He tossed and turned restlessly in his bed.
"Can't sleep?" Kafka's voice cut through the dark.
"Yeah..." Atheron sighed. "Do you think we should wake the others up for a game of poker?"
Kafka chuckled, pulling the blanket over his head. "We'll play plenty when we get back from the mission."
Satisfied with the answer, Atheron closed his eyes and drifted off.
At the first light of dawn, they all woke up. The sunlight was breathtakingly beautiful, shining as if it wanted to personally bid them farewell. Still half-asleep, they trudged toward the academy's grand outer gates.
Atheron and Kafka had deep, dark circles under their eyes, looking ready to collapse into sleep at any moment. Odasaku dragged the luggage along the ground, hunched over with exhaustion. Nora had brought her pillow, blanket, and sleep mask along, dozing off on her feet every time their pace slowed down.
Somehow, they made it to the outer gates. The structure was magnificent, yet ordinary in its function, but highly selective. It carried the protective wards of every mage who had ever reached the ninth circle, including Merlin himself.
Atheron fed the mission token into the gate's slot. Odasaku nudged Nora, wanting her to handle the rest of the mechanism. Sleepily, Nora activated the token, and the massive gates slowly began to groan open.
Atheron watched the opening path with a spark of excitement in his eyes. He took a deep breath, smiling. Gripping his spear tightly, he strode forward with long, confident steps.
Kafka turned back to the remaining duo and waved. To him, this felt like any ordinary day.
From behind them, Odasaku yelled at the top of his lungs, while Nora contented herself with a gentle wave.
"IF YOU SCREW THIS UP, I'LL BE THE FIRST ONE TO BEAT YOU BLUE!"
"Don't mind him!" Nora called out. "We'll play tons of poker when you get back!"
Kafka bowed his head playfully, while Atheron blushed, scratching his head and nodding in agreement. When they finally vanished from sight, Nora and Odasaku headed back to the dorms to catch up on sleep, while Atheron and Kafka sat in the carriage, combing through the mission documents.
"It says our job is just to stop some vampires causing a ruckus in the region," Atheron breathed a sigh of relief. "Oh, thank goodness..."
Kafka raised an eyebrow, curious about his friend's relief.
"I thought they were going to send us to the outermost city to fight an entire army, like the mission they gave to Odasaku," Atheron explained.
Kafka crossed his legs, resting his chin in his hand. "I bet there's a catch to this. It's too early to relax."
"Tell me about it," Atheron muttered.
For hours, they buried themselves in paperwork, not even glancing at the forest passing by the window. The carriage was cluttered with documents as they meticulously sorted and filled them out.
By the time they finished, night had already fallen, and their journey was nearing its end. Having finished his work early, Kafka gazed out the window at the rain-slicked streets.
Puddles had formed here and there on the cobblestones. The air carried the rich, crisp scent of petrichor. Under the moonlight, the puddles caught the glow of the magically sustained streetlamps, creating a stunning, ethereal view. The roads were paved with small, neatly laid stones, flanked by multi-story buildings. It was obvious that industry flourished here like nowhere else; the thick smoke billowing from a distant factory lightly veiled the stars in the night sky.
The scene captivated Kafka, drawing him in. He pressed his face so close to the glass that he barely noticed their arrival.
Finally, the carriage groaned to a halt. Gathering their documents, they stepped down in silence. Kafka pulled his hat low and grabbed the luggage, while Atheron tied his green bandana to keep his hair out of his face. Both had hidden their weapons inside the pocket dimensions Nora had gifted them, whispering to each other about how incredibly useful the charms were as they walked toward the inn.
When they reached the entrance, Atheron stepped back, and both boys forced amiable smiles onto their faces. Kafka pushed the door open, tipped his hat, and made a small, polite gesture.
"Good evening, gentlemen."
Atheron quickly moved past, securing one of the rooms from the innkeeper, and headed upstairs to unpack. Kafka, meanwhile, slid into a seat at the table of the first person who caught his eye, putting on his most approachable persona.
"Good evening, sir. Tough times we're living in, aren't they?"
The man, who was nursing a beer, immediately began to pour his heart out under the loosening effects of alcohol.
"YES!" the worker bellowed. "No one gives a damn about poor laborers like us. And yet, I have a beautiful wife and a son who's the pride of my life! But those bastards begrudge us a single copper. We barely scrape by, even though I work myself to the bone. At the end of the day, I go home with a pittance. I'm an idiot for spending my last coins on a drink!"
"No, sir, you are no idiot," Kafka replied smoothly. "It is entirely their fault. How dare they treat someone who does his job with such integrity this way? It's as if they view themselves as a superior race."
"Exactly!" the man slammed his mug down. "It's all the fault of those disgusting vampires. What right do they have to enslave a noble race like ours? Even if they built this place up from nothing, how dare they! Isn't this our land? If we wanted to, we could wipe them out with a single word."
Kafka's eyes widened slightly. He had gotten exactly what he wanted. He rose from the table without a word. The drunkard began to call out after him, but Kafka turned back slowly, releasing a sudden, suffocating burst of killing intent.
In an instant, a heavy, oppressive weight seemed to crash down upon the entire tavern. Everyone, including the man with the beer, froze in absolute terror.
Once the tension passed, Kafka suppressed his aura, adjusted his hat, and offered a hollow, chilling smile.
"Did you have a problem, sir?"
The man swallowed hard, rapidly shaking his head.
"Splendid. Have a wonderful evening, then."
Kafka climbed the stairs and entered their room. Atheron had already searched every nook and cranny. Once Kafka was inside, he placed Nora's sealing sigil upon the door and threw himself onto the couch.
"Well? Did you gather anything?" Atheron asked.
Kafka moved the luggage next to the bed, hung his hat on the doorknob, and sat on the mattress.
"Most of the factories here likely belong to vampire nobility. They're running the locals into the ground with abysmal wages."
"Is that it?"
"Probably not. There has to be more to it," Kafka muttered, his tone darkening. "The King wouldn't personally assign this mission just for a labor dispute. THERE MUST BE SOMETHING ELSE!"
Kafka gripped his head tightly and lay down. Atheron sighed, blowing out the candle.
"Kafka... don't you think this place is a bit too peaceful?"
Kafka turned his face to the wall, making it clear he didn't want to talk.
"That drunk guy... he reminded you of your father, didn't he?"
Kafka bolted upright in fury.
"NOT EVEN CLOSE! That man doesn't mean a damn thing to me!"
"Oh, come off it," Atheron pushed. "You were visibly seething at him."
Kafka retreated, sitting on the edge of the bed. "I really waste too much energy on useless things. Look at Odasaku—he grew up as a literal lab rat, a test subject, yet he doesn't let any of it get to his head. How do I manage to obsess over everything like this...?"
"Kafka, you're forced to care about these things precisely because you aren't Odasaku," Atheron said softly. "Otherwise, how could you be Kafka?"
A spark returned to Kafka's eyes. A smirk broke across his face, and he snatched one of the pillows, hurling it at his friend.
"In that case, to keep being Kafka, I need to give you a proper thrashing!"
Relieved to see his friend's spirits lifted, Atheron didn't waste a second joining the fray. They launched into a fierce pillow fight, eventually drifting off to sleep in a room filled with floating feathers, completely unbothered by the mess.
The morning sun pierced through the window, striking Atheron right in the eyes. He stirred, coughing slightly at the dust motes dancing in the air, before the bright light finally coaxed him awake.
He rose feeling as though he had slept in a lavish, expensive bed, stretching like a cat before sauntering toward the washroom.
The mirror in the corner was cracked, and the porcelain sink had yellowed with age. The wooden floorboards were warped and split in places, and every breath filled his lungs with the damp scent of mildew. Water dripped steadily from a rotted section of the ceiling, catching in a moss-covered bucket placed beneath it.
Despite the squalor, Atheron washed his face with a smile, carrying himself as though he were in a luxury suite. As he stepped out of the washroom and pulled the door shut, the handle broke off entirely in his hand. His smile only widened. He gently set the doorknob on the floor, nudged the door shut with his foot, and surveyed the room.
"I didn't realize what a complete wreck this place was when we arrived last night."
Muttering to himself, Atheron began picking up the stray pillows and tossing them back onto the bed, restoring the room to some semblance of order. Just as he was admiring his handiwork, a knock sounded at the door. He opened it cautiously.
Standing at the threshold was Kafka, a piece of straw clenched between his teeth. He wore a battered flat cap, a soot-stained shirt, trousers caked in mud at the hems, and a jacket with torn pockets. Holding a bundle of food, he adjusted his cap, kicked the door shut behind him, and swept into the room, tossing a change of clothes into the corner.
"WHAT ON EARTH HAPPENED TO YOU?!" Atheron gasped.
Kafka shot him a glance, took off his cap, and collapsed heavily onto the corner of the couch.
"Do you think it's normal for the academy to dump us in a place like this?"
"Is that seriously what you're asking me right now?"
Kafka began pointing around the room, ticking off the flaws on his fingers. "The dripping ceiling, the rotting bed and couch, a table practically crawling with termites... and don't even get me started on the washroom."
"What does any of that..." Atheron scratched his chin, a realization dawning on him. "If we're in a place like this..."
"Then this is the finest establishment in the entire city," Kafka and Atheron finished the sentence in unison.
Kafka smirked proudly, letting Atheron piece together the rest of the deduction.
"If word got out that the academy's students were being housed in a dump, it would be a massive blow to their prestige," Atheron reasoned. "And judging by the townsfolk, everyone is living in abject poverty. The only explanation is that this entire city is destitute."
Kafka grimaced, offering a silent "but?" to prompt him further.
"But the main streets are perfectly clean," Atheron continued. "They even have magical streetlamps. There's heavy industry here... which means we can actually handle the vampire suppression part of the gig!"
"It's bigger than that," Kafka warned.
He gestured with his head toward the window. Curious, Atheron peered out at the street below.
The road was packed so tightly with people that you couldn't have dropped a needle between them. Covered in soot and grime, the crowd was shouting furiously in Russian. Banners fluttered above their heads; even if they couldn't read them from this height, the message was clearly far from peaceful.
Atheron began gnawing on his fingernails, his face going pale. He whipped around.
"They're not about to riot, are they?"
"Honestly? I think they might pull off a full coup," Kafka noted.
Atheron threw himself to the floor, tearing at his crimson hair and rolling around while cursing the academy with everything he had.
"This is a nightmare," Kafka groaned. "If we messed up a normal assignment, we'd just get a chewing out from Professor Merlin. But now... forget the local Duke, even the KING is going to tear us a new—"
Atheron bolted upright, suddenly tearing at his own clothes, rubbing soot into his skin, and pouring dust over his head. Kafka watched the display as if observing a madman, shrinking into the corner to ensure none of the madness brushed off on him.
"BRING IT ON!" Atheron roared. "If we don't finish this mission and claim a reward from the King himself, then don't call me Atheron!"
The moment the words left his mouth, Kafka kicked Atheron square in the chest, sending him flying straight out the window.
"Thanks, but I'm not tethering myself to that kind of disaster, babe," Kafka said calmly, shutting the window.
Atheron crashed hard into the middle of the street. The furious crowd immediately fell silent, staring blankly at the boy who had just dropped from the sky. As Atheron rubbed his head in pain, the townsfolk swarmed around him.
A pale, frail-looking woman kneeled beside him. "Сынок, ты в порядке?" (Son, are you alright?)
A little girl clutching an apple basket gripped the woman's skirt tightly, her eyes wide. "Не плачь, твоя боль исчезнет, когда придёт мама и поцелует тебя в щёку." (Don't cry, your pain will go away when mama comes and kisses you on the cheek.)
A man covered from head to toe in coal dust shouted to the crowd, "ВЫЗОВИТЕ ВРАЧА!" (CALL A DOCTOR!)
These starving, hollowed-out people rushed forward, trying to offer help and asking if he was hurt. Flushed bright red from sheer embarrassment, Atheron tried to hide his face, uttering the only Russian phrase he knew:
"PAKA PAKA! (Bye-bye!)"
Atheron scrambled to his feet and bolted as fast as his legs could carry him, ducking into a deserted alleyway. He collapsed against a wall, panting heavily.
Just then, a girl stepped out from an adjacent tavern. She had bright blonde hair woven into two neat braids, a smattering of freckles across her nose, and eyes that held the deep blue of the ocean. She carried herself with an immense, quiet dignity. A white cloth was tied over her head, and her eyes were fixed on the wooden bucket of laundry in her hands. Her dress was a tapestry of patches, each torn from vibrant, multicolored fabrics.
To avoid making eye contact with Atheron, the girl lowered her head and began walking briskly toward the back of the alley. Driven by curiosity, Atheron began to follow her.
With every step Atheron took, the girl's anxiety grew. She began weaving through erratic paths, trying desperately to lose him in the shifting crowds. She lengthened her strides, trying to put distance between them, but Atheron remained oblivious to her sheer panic.
The girl veered down a narrow, dead-end alley, the brick wall at the end looming closer with every step. Seeing the trap, Atheron instinctively reached into the dimensional bag Nora had given him, letting the tip of his spear peek out subtly.
Sensing no escape, the girl spun around in desperate defiance. She ripped a loose plank from her wooden laundry bucket, her hands turning red as splinters dug into her flesh. Holding her breath, she faced him bravely.
"ПРЕКРАТИ СЛЕДОВАТЬ ЗА МНОЙ, ИЗВРАЩЕНЕЦ !" (STOP FOLLOWING ME, YOU PERVERT!)
Atheron frowned. "Seeing as you're the one who led me into a dead end, you're the suspicious one here."
Realization dawned on the girl. She blinked, processing his words, and tossed the wooden plank to the ground.
"Language... not good speak," she stammered in broken tongue. "Pervert, you! Follow, me!"
Atheron stared at her, caught off guard by her fractured speech. Understanding what she meant, he slid his spear back into the bag. He scratched his head, using exaggerated hand gestures to help her understand.
"I... followed you... because I thought... you were suspicious."
"Suspicious, me?!" the girl fired back, her fear rapidly transforming into hot anger. She held her breath in sheer vexation. "You who? Me suspicious?! I no deal with you. Now, you go!"
She pointed a rigid finger toward the mouth of the alley. Atheron's pride flared.
"Who am I? You don't know the GREAT ATHERON?!"
The girl sneered, looking at him with utter disgust. She swished her cheeks as if rinsing her mouth with water, and spat squarely onto Atheron's boot.
"I no care who you be. You act human, but when you do bad, I beat you!"
With a haughty upturn of her nose, she stormed past him toward the main street. Atheron stood rooted to the spot, utterly stunned. He didn't say a word; he just watched her go, completely captivated. He couldn't tear his eyes away. Once he was sure she was out of earshot, he let out a low whistle.
"Wow. Of all people, you fell for a Russian girl, huh?"
Atheron whipped his head around, shaking it frantically. "ABSOLUTELY NOT! Someone as magnificent as me is far out of anyone's league! If anything, she fell for me."
"Yeah, yeah, keep telling yourself that."
Kafka smirked, having just opened a window of the overlooking building and hopped down to the cobblestones. He began teasing Atheron while keeping a sharp eye on their surroundings.
"Incredible. You just handed me enough ammunition to mock you for the next forty years."
Atheron looked to the right, desperately searching for a distraction to change the subject. He noticed that several cobblestones in the alley had been pried loose.
"Look at these stones..."
"The locals are selling them," Kafka said, his playful demeanor vanishing.
Atheron looked at him in disbelief. Kafka stretched his arms, rolled his shoulders, and began walking toward the main street, with Atheron following closely behind.
As they walked, they noticed the pattern everywhere: dislodged stones, freshly dug earth, iron railings ripped from their fixtures. Though they hadn't paid attention before, every single side street was in this exact state of decay. In stark contrast, the main avenue remained dazzlingly pristine.
Atheron's eyes caught a shape huddled in a dark corner. He drifted toward it, but with every step closer, a foul, sickening stench of rot filled the air. Slowing his pace, he approached what looked like a dilapidated dog house crawling with termites. He reached out and pulled back the moldering piece of cloth draping the entrance...
Suddenly, Kafka's hand clamped over Atheron's eyes.
Inside the shelter was a little girl. Her eyes were sunken into hollow, pitch-black pits, her bruised cheeks completely caved in, her skin hardened with filth. A thick, crimson fluid was pooling from her hands. When she opened her mouth, a swarm of insects and dirt spilled out, along with a few chunks of raw flesh.
Lying before her was another body, stripped of its skin and horribly mutilated. The hair had been burned away, the eye sockets hollowed out. The living girl stared at them like a deer caught in headlights, utterly frozen.
Kafka stepped forward, drawing his rapier. With a grimace of disgust, he used the tip of the blade to nudge the mutilated corpse aside. Seeing the body move, the living girl's pupils shrunk to pinpricks. Emitting a feral, animalistic screech, she lunged straight at Kafka.
She clawed frantically, trying to tear her nails into Kafka's skin. Atheron moved instantly, striking her swiftly to knock her unconscious. Both boys fell back, breathing heavily.
When Kafka finally spoke, his voice was a choked whisper. He cleared his throat, uttering mindless nonsense to steady himself, but as he tried to stand, his knees buckled, sending him back to the ground.
"Ha... Hahaha... I guess my legs are giving out, huh?"
Kafka finally found the courage to look at Atheron. He turned his head slowly.
Atheron's hands were trembling violently. His face was pale, his lips bleeding where he had bitten them raw. He was as rigid and unmoving as the girl they had just encountered.
Summoning every ounce of his willpower, Kafka forced himself to his feet.
"Talk about a low blow, right?" Kafka forced a strained laugh, trying to bleed off the suffocating stress.
Bracing his courage, he pulled a pair of gloves from his pocket and slipped them on. Intentionally averting his eyes from the unconscious girl, he held his breath and began examining the mutilated corpse.
A trembling hand touched Kafka's shoulder. He whipped around in terror.
"Hey, Kafka..." Atheron whispered, his voice shaking. "Is there something else inside that dog house, or am I losing my mind?"
Kafka turned and ripped away the rest of the moldy cloth. Revealed within the shadows of the kennel was a symbol, freshly drawn in blood.
The world around them began to dim. A suffocating, amber hue bled across the alleyway. The sun was setting, illuminating the thick dust hanging in the air, and the temperature felt oppressive, unnaturally hot. Maggots, earthworms, and rats scuttled frantically across the filth.
And there, in the heart of the squalor, bled the crimson sigil.
Something clicked in Kafka's mind. A wave of pure terror washed over him. He staggered backward, clapping both hands over his mouth.
"Holy shit..."
Atheron waited anxiously behind him. Without a word of explanation, Kafka grabbed Atheron's arm with a vice-like grip and dragged him behind the structure. Both knelt low, desperate to vanish into the shadows.
"Don't make a sound..." Kafka breathed, his voice a frail, trembling whisper. "Erase your presence."
From the shadows of the alley, a figure draped in a pitch-black cloak emerged. His face was shrouded, but there was no mistaking the crimson gleam of his eyes. He possessed a stillness too profound for any ordinary citizen, yet his skin was as pale and gaunt as the starving locals.
The figure approached the unconscious girl, hoisted her up by the throat, and lifted her effortlessly. He was unnaturally tall. With sickening ease, he tore her limbs from her torso. Raising the mangled body high above his head, he began to drink the torrents of blood pouring from the wounds. As he drank, his eyes burned a deeper, malevolent crimson, and his raven hair began to bleach into a stark, ghostly white.
Suddenly, the creature spoke, his voice a warped, fractured rasp:
"Ground zero... Ahaha... Ground zero. AGIHH... I'M HUNGRY! I'M SO HUNGRY!"
Kafka swallowed hard, paralyzed by fear. The cloaked monstrosity extended a long tongue, licking at the torn flesh. There, branded onto the creature's tongue, was the exact same sigil from the kennel—but it wasn't drawn in blood. It was etched into his very flesh.
The towering creature jerked his head several times, scanning the desolate alley, before melting back into the shadows and vanishing from sight.
The moment he was gone, Kafka bolted forward, dipping his fingers into the girl's pooling blood to analyze it. Atheron, meanwhile, stared at the sigil, burning the pattern into his memory. Without exchanging a single word, they fled.
They ran blindly until they burst onto the main avenue, but it was already too late. Total darkness had devoured the city. The moon was entirely absent from the sky. Worst of all, the bustling avenue was utterly deserted. The only things left in the grand street were the silent shadows of others hiding in the dark, and a deafening, suffocating silence...
End of Chapter