Subtitle: The Sins of Humanity
Without a second thought, Kafka grabbed Atheron by the arm and dragged him into the tavern. The moment they burst inside, they slammed the door shut and leaned their backs against it, panting heavily. The raucous din of the tavern died instantly upon their entrance. Every eye in the room locked onto them, staring intently.
A massive bottle of beer sat on every table. In the back, several chairs were broken, and a few tables had books wedged beneath their legs to keep them steady. The place reeked of cheap liquor. The paint on the walls was peeling away in thick flakes. Nearly every patron in the tavern could be described as rotund.
The tavern keeper waddled over to the duo. This time, he had clearly chosen drinking over hosting; his plump cheeks were flushed crimson, accentuating his bulbous nose. Only a few stray strands of hair remained on his head, and he hiccupped constantly.
"What were you two doing outside?!" the tavern keeper demanded.
They had instantly become the focus of curious eyes and loose tongues. In the corner, a group of women had already begun muttering among themselves. The men, however, preferred to watch in silence rather than join the gossip.
"We just stepped out to get some fresh air," Kafka replied smoothly.
Hearing this, one of the women hissed to her companion, "Do you think they could be spies sent to inspect us?"
The second woman chimed in immediately, "Look at them, they're far too young."
The third woman set her beer down and leaned over the table. "Don't be so naive. You have no idea what they make children do these days."
The tavern keeper seemed to take the women's words to heart.
"W-w-we just went out for some air," Atheron stammered, "but we barely escaped with our lives!"
Hearing this, the tavern keeper seemed to relax slightly. He exhaled a heavy sigh and began scratching his thick mustache.
"Don't go upstairs," the keeper muttered. "We need to stick together."
Without another word, Atheron and Kafka took a seat at one of the tables. Beer had been spilled across its surface countless times; someone had tried to wipe it down, but it remained so sticky that a piece of paper would have glued itself to the wood. While Atheron scanned the room, Kafka rocked back and forth in his chair, bombarding the men sitting behind them with questions.
"We're new around here," Kafka said. "I don't quite understand why we aren't supposed to be outside."
"Young man," one of the patrons replied, "the local vampire count just had a son. They're planning something to celebrate it these days."
"Like unleashing monsters into the streets?" Kafka asked.
"I doubt it," the man said, shaking his head. "Vampires aren't actually that repulsive."
"Oh? I thought you all hated vampires."
"Not all of them. Sure, there are bastards among them, but not every single one."
"Do you know what they're actually doing then, sir?" Kafka pressed.
"Who knows? It's not like they're going to throw us into freezing water like we do to each other."
Kafka was quickly growing bored of the conversation. Meanwhile, Atheron was staring intently at the crowd. A girl with freckles, braided golden hair, and striking blue eyes walked up to the tavern keeper and began speaking. Her face looked incredibly familiar to Atheron. Intrigued, he slipped through the crowd to get a closer look.
"Я не смогла сегодня отнести белье в прачечную…" (I couldn't take the laundry to the cleaners today...) the girl murmured.
She was the same girl he had seen this morning, and right now, she looked utterly exhausted. Her head was bowed, as if she were trying to hide from the man in front of her. It was impossible to tell whether the expression on her face was one of hatred or profound shame.
The tavern keeper slammed his beer mug onto the table with sudden fury.
"Сукин сын, ты что, даже самую простую вещь сделать не можешь!" (You son of a bitch, can't you even do the simplest thing!) he roared.
The girl snapped her head up, her eyes blazing. Her mother was clearly someone sacred to her. Strands of hair slipped loose from her braids as she screamed back.
"НЕ СМЕЙ ОТКРЫВАТЬ РОТ ПРО МОЮ МАТЬ, ПОНЯЛ!" (DON'T YOU DARE OPEN YOUR MOUTH ABOUT MY MOTHER, UNDERSTOOD!)
The tavern keeper struck her across the face. At the sound of the slap, the gossiping women in the back immediately hid their mouths behind their fans and playing cards. A collective gasp and a low murmur rippled through the tavern.
"Если эта женщина твоя мать, то для меня она тоже женщина!" (If that woman is your mother, then to me, she's just another woman!) the keeper sneered.
The girl's cheek burned a brilliant crimson. Her calm demeanor vanished entirely. She glared at the keeper, and for a fleeting second, a dangerous crimson glint flashed within her deep blue eyes. Just as she was about to snap, Atheron lunged forward, throwing himself between them.
"WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU'RE DOING?!" Atheron yelled.
"STAY OUT OF WHAT HAPPENS BETWEEN ME AND MY DAUGHTER!" the keeper barked back.
Atheron ignored him, turning his back on the man to ask the girl if she was alright. The entire tavern was frozen in shock. A few men stood up, bracing themselves to break up the impending fight. But the tavern keeper, consumed by his rage, raised his hand to strike again...
With blinding speed, Atheron caught the keeper's hand, snapped his wrist, and hurled him into the corner of the room. Chaos erupted. Women shrieked at the top of their lungs, and the men scrambled to intervene.
"You piece of shit!" Atheron roared. "You hit your own daughter, and now you're going to raise a hand against me?!"
The tavern keeper groaned, rubbing his head as he struggled to his feet. Kafka finally condescended to get up from his chair. Shoving his hands into his pockets, he casually strolled over to Atheron's side. He tried to calm him down, but his efforts only seemed to make Atheron yell louder. Realizing the situation was spiraling out of control, Kafka grabbed Atheron by the hand and dragged him out of the tavern, with Atheron pulling the girl along behind them.
The moment they stepped outside, a heavy weight of dread settled over all three of them. A thick, crimson fog hung in the air. Kafka and Atheron bickered loudly as they walked, while the girl followed quietly in their shadow.
"Me... thank you," the girl muttered in broken speech.
"Don't mention it!" Atheron beamed. "The great Atheron is always ready to help!"
"Oh, brilliant," Kafka scoffed. "And how exactly are we supposed to get our belongings back from the tavern now?"
"We'll get them later, don't sweat it," Atheron dismissed.
Kafka let out a deep, exhausted sigh. The fog was so dense they could barely see a foot in front of them, yet Atheron was acting completely reckless. The girl tried to say something else, but she struggled to find the right words, her mind coming up blank.
"Sorry... to make up for this, me. Follow!"
Kafka didn't understand a single word she was trying to say; his entire focus was fixed on trying to make sense of the bizarre surroundings. Atheron, however, caught her meaning instantly. He eagerly took her hand, accepting the offer. A bittersweet smile touched the girl's lips, softening the tense atmosphere as they began walking down the main avenue with heavy, deliberate steps.
The crimson mist felt suffocating, growing thicker by the second until they could barely see their own hands. To avoid losing each other, they linked hands like cars on a train. The girl led the way with absolute certainty, Atheron walked in the middle, and Kafka brought up the rear—though he showed no signs of fear.
Suddenly, the girl stopped and took a deep breath. Before them stood an ancient door. She pulled a bizarre key from her pocket; it was rusted, yet the faint remnants of a deep red hue were still visible. Strangely, the key seemed to behave almost like a liquid. Atheron leaned in close, watching her intently, while Kafka kept his distance—close enough to intervene if things went south, but far enough to stay out of their way, leaning his back against a nearby wall.
The girl slid the key effortlessly into the lock and pulled her hand back quickly. Wanting to show some courtesy, Atheron decided to turn it for her. But the moment his fingers brushed the metal, the key melted into liquid. The girl let out a devastated cry that echoed through the avenue. Panic seized Atheron, and he scrambled backward as she advanced on him, frantically trying to explain what he had just ruined.
"Look, how about we just drop you off at another tavern and..." Atheron began.
"Why?" Kafka interrupted.
"What do you mean 'why'?" Atheron snapped. "We can barely protect ourselves, and you want to drag her along too?"
Kafka sighed heavily, rubbing his temples. He looked at the girl as if expecting her to confirm his suspicions. She simply tilted her head to the side. Kafka stepped away from the wall.
"Pureblood vampires have crimson eyes and black hair, don't they?" Kafka asked quietly.
"What does that have to do with anything—" Atheron started, but stopped dead in his tracks. He whipped around to look at the girl.
She simply lowered her head. She didn't look ashamed; in fact, it was hard to tell if she felt anything at all. She looked like a small child who had just been confronted with a crime they didn't quite understand.
"That broken accent of yours was a lie from the very beginning, wasn't it?" Kafka said.
Kafka closed his eyes and stepped back into the shadows. The girl said nothing. Instead, she knelt and began playing with the melted key on the ground. The fog was beginning to thin slightly, bringing a small wave of relief to the boys. Slowly, the liquid metal began to reform into a key within her hands. The duo watched her in silence. Once the key took shape, she plunged it into the lock. An elegant, majestic symbol flared to life on the wood, and the door swung open. Before Kafka and Atheron could even hesitate, she stepped inside, and they followed.
Beyond the threshold lay an entirely different world. Although the crimson mist still lingered here, the air was crystal clear. Nearly all the buildings were painted a deep black, lined up side by side like walls of an endless corridor. At the very end of the street stood a massive, sprawling estate. Street vendors had set up stalls in front of the houses, displaying fruits, trinkets, and jewelry. The entire area was bathed in a vibrant light, and the sound of laughter echoed through the air. The place felt exactly like a festival.
Young children were whining to their parents for balloons, couples strolled past chatting amiably, and those who were alone seemed content just watching the happiness around them. Atheron was instantly entranced by the magical atmosphere, wandering ahead into the long, corridor-like street without waiting for the others. He stared at everything, refusing to blink for even a second.
Kafka made no effort to catch up with him. Instead, he walked with his hands shoved deep into his pockets, trailing behind at his own pace. He didn't care about being left at the back. He refused to look at the scenery, keeping his head down and staring strictly at his own feet as he moved.
The girl walked with a playful sway, drifting from side to side to greet the people they passed. She seemed to know everyone. Whenever she raised a hand to wave, the locals immediately smiled and waved back, exchanging brief words before she moved on.
Finally, Kafka broke his stride and jogged to catch up with Atheron. He placed a hand on his friend's shoulder, leaning in close and covering his mouth with his hand.
"Don't let your guard down," Kafka whispered sharply. "Everyone here is..."
Atheron cut him off, completely reckless and speaking at full volume. "They're vampires, right?"
"Idiot! Do you have to say it out loud?!" Kafka hissed.
Atheron tilted his head, spreading his arms wide. "What's the worst that could happen?"
Kafka pinched the bridge of his nose, rattling off a thousand different dangers. He spoke of historical blood feuds, of the sheer abnormality of the situation, begging Atheron to take it seriously. But even though Atheron understood perfectly, he chose to play dumb, driving Kafka to near wits' end.
Kafka gestured wildly to the crowd around them, breathless from his own rant. He gritted his teeth.
"WHY ARE YOU ACTING ABSOLUTELY CLUELESS?! DO YOU HONESTLY THINK ANY OF THIS IS NORMAL?!" Kafka shouted.
"While a revolution is brewing on the outside, how is this place so peaceful? How has the monster we saw out there gone unnoticed until now? Why don't vampires live among humans? Is that what you want me to ask?"
Atheron advanced on Kafka with every question, forcing Kafka to take a step back, teeth clenched. Finally, Kafka's back hit a wall. He stared up at Atheron, defiance burning in his eyes. But before he could speak, Atheron lightly punched him in the stomach, turned back toward the street, and exhaled deeply as a sudden gust of wind swept through the avenue. He turned his head slightly.
"Maybe the fault lies with humanity, Kafka," Atheron said softly. "If you can't bring yourself to believe in adults, at least believe in the children laughing right here."
As he spoke, Atheron's emerald-green eyes flashed with a brilliant intensity. His crimson hair whipped wildly in the wind. There was no smile on his face, yet he radiated an undeniable sense of safety. Kafka swallowed hard, staring at him. Finally, he placed a fist against Atheron's shoulder in a silent nod and began walking forward.
"Curse that nihilistic streak of yours," Atheron muttered, trailing behind.
"Yeah, yeah, whatever you say," Kafka replied dryly.
"Boo!"
Both boys jumped. Atheron's face flushed bright red as he scrambled to invent a lie about how he definitely hadn't been scared, while Kafka simply glared at the girl.
"We haven't even told each other our names yet, have we?" she asked, her face lighting up with a radiant smile.
Atheron ran a hand through his hair, tossing it back in an attempt to look smooth and charming. Lowering his voice to a deeper register, he spoke.
"My name is Atheron, m'lady. And what might yours be?"
The girl's smile immediately dropped. "You idiot, I already know your name. You said it out loud earlier!"
Atheron completely ignored her insult, immediately launching into a proud monologue, bragging about every single achievement and accolade he had ever accomplished in his life. Kafka smirked, watching him out of the corner of his eye. The girl quietly drifted closer to Kafka.
"What's your name?" she murmured.
"Kafka."
"Angalina. I would like to be pleased to meet you."
Kafka took a step back, his expression turning solemn. "Likewise."
Kafka turned his gaze back to Atheron, as if waiting for a cue. Atheron simply hung his head and announced that he wanted a candy apple. Keeping a watchful eye on their surroundings, the trio strolled leisurely down the street and stopped in front of a random food stall.
Atheron leaned an arm against the counter, gritting his teeth as he demanded three candy apples.
"Of course, young sir, but..." the vendor began.
Kafka pulled some coins from his pocket, pinched them between two fingers, and handed them to the man. He closed his eyes, waiting for the others to shower him with gratitude. But neither of them paid him any attention. Disappointed, Kafka snatched his candy apple away and took a sharp bite out of it.
Atheron licked at his sugar coating to savor the flavor, while Angelina didn't even touch hers.
"It really is peaceful here, isn't it?" Kafka remarked.
"Tell me about it..." Angelina murmured softly.
"Is something wrong?" Atheron asked, sensing the shift.
Kafka smirked proudly at Atheron, trying to intimidate him with his gaze. Atheron, however, kept his eyes on Angelina, trying to probe her thoughts, desperate to prove that nothing was genuinely wrong.
"A few rogue vampires," Angelina sighed, her voice heavy, "and everything is thrown into utter chaos..."
"Don't worry about it," Atheron reassured her. "It has nothing to do with race. There are always a few bad apples among humans too."
"I suppose that's true, but..." Angelina's voice trailed off. She cast her eyes downward and stopped walking. The words she wanted to say seemed to terrify her. "I'm sure you've heard of the Blood Cult... the one formed to oppose the Church."
"Yeah," Kafka interred. "The ones who caused all that chaos in China, right?"
"Yes, them..." Angelina whispered. "And now, endless rumors are spreading that they've arrived here."
The moment the words left her mouth, Kafka and Atheron whipped around to face each other. Their eyes ignited with a sudden spark. Completely forgetting Angelina's presence, they plunged into an intense, hushed conversation. Anyone looking at them could see the immense wave of relief that had just washed over them.
"So that's what they meant when they said people were causing trouble!" Atheron and Kafka uttered in unison.
Angelina curiously pried her way between them. Even though she had a vague idea of what they were discussing, she wanted to hear it directly from them.
"What are you two talking about?" she demanded.
"None of your business," Kafka shot back.
Atheron pressed a hand to his chest and lifted his chin high, practically feeling his own ego inflating. He began to chuckle.
"I knew it! I was right all along!"
Kafka rolled his eyes, crossing his arms over his chest. "Hold your horses. Nothing is set in stone yet."
Bickering idly, the three of them resumed their trek toward the estate at the top of the hill. Though they raised their voices at each other from time to time, the arguments never escalated. It was a long road, but time seemed to evaporate as they walked. The sounds of their bickering blended naturally with the ambient laughter of the town. Everything felt simple and organic, as if this exact moment had been lived a thousand times before.
Everyone was busy comparing their personal grievances—except Kafka. Atheron spoke at length about how difficult it was to adapt after coming from another country, while Angelina ranted until she was blue in the face about the sheer isolation she endured purely because of her race. If left to their own devices, both would claim their own suffering was paramount, so they left the judgment to Kafka. Kafka would dryly pick whichever story sounded the most miserable, raising the winner's hand and whistling. The loser would immediately scramble to find excuses for why the verdict was unfair.
By the time they reached the gates of the estate, Angelina was declared the winner. Atheron pouted aggressively, turning his head away to signal his profound displeasure. Angelina scratched her ear and flashed him a smug look before mimicking a whistle. Unable to take it anymore, Atheron lunged, and a playful brawl broke out between them. Kafka tried to step in to break it up, but he only ended up caught in the crossfire, taking far more hits than either of them.
Unable to tolerate the racket any longer, the owners of the estate stepped out onto the porch, waiting for the teenagers to settle down.
"Enough!" Kafka yelled, catching his breath. "Look at the door!"
Atheron looked toward the entrance, tears pricking his eyes from having his hair violently yanked. Angelina seized the momentary distraction to land one final slap across his face before instantly pulling herself together into a polite posture.
"My, the youth certainly are bursting with energy," a large man remarked.
The large man stroked his beard. It was extraordinarily long; mostly black, though thick streaks of white ran through it. In truth, it looked as though he had painted the white streaks in himself—as he scratched his chin, white residue rubbed off onto his fingers, and Kafka had to bite his lip to keep from laughing.
"What brings you young people here?" the man asked.
It was obvious he didn't care for his hair nearly as much as his beard; it was visibly flaked with dandruff. His eyes were narrowed, surrounded by dark, heavy bags born of profound sleep deprivation. He held a cane in front of him, though it seemed entirely ornamental, as both his legs planted firmly on the ground. Despite being a vampire, he was dressed precisely like a priest.
"We came here for... uh..." Kafka stammered, before nudging his friend. "Actually, Atheron, I think you should explain why we're here."
"Right, we came because..." Atheron fumbled, before quickly pivoting. "Actually, I think Angelina should explain it to you."
"Well, we're here because of..." Angelina hesitated, looking trapped. "It's a very long story, so I think Kafka should be the one to tell it."
"Ahem, it's actually not that long at all," Kafka cleared his throat nervously. "So Atheron should definitely do it!"
With every repetition of this loop, the large man's glare grew visibly harsher. The trio began to break out into a cold sweat.
"Girls have much nicer voices," Atheron scrambled, "so out of respect, Angelina should address you."
"I believe life experience makes for far better storytelling," Angelina countered sharply. "So come on, Kafka, let's hear it!"
"A BABY!" Kafka suddenly blurted out. "We came to see the baby!"
Kafka forced out the wildest, loudest laugh he could manage. The other two instantly joined in, laughing hysterically to back up his claim. The harshness vanished from the old man's face, replaced entirely by the warm, gentle smile of a grandfather.
"Well then, please come inside," the old man welcomed them. "Come see my sweet little Ryan for yourselves."
The foyer appeared small, its floors beautifully paved with pristine white marble. A grand staircase split into two separate wings, forming a perfect circle in the center of the hall. In the middle of that circle hung a massive canvas covered in writing so intricate and complex that none of them could decipher it. The staircases were crafted from dark oak wood, flanked by heavy red drapes. In fact, every piece of furniture in sight was made from that same dark, rich oak.
The two wings of the staircase led to completely separate wings of the house; one side could not reach the other. The old man gestured for them to follow, keeping one hand tucked politely behind his back as he began to climb. Kafka let his hand glide along the heavy velvet drapes as he walked, unable to tear his eyes away from the grandeur.
Finally, the old man came to a halt. He gently cracked a door open, placing a finger to his lips to signal for absolute silence.
Inside the room sat a remarkably simple crib. Oddly enough, though it was wooden, it had been crafted from humble poplar rather than expensive oak. It gave a soft, rhythmic creak as it rocked, yet the sound was profoundly soothing. The windows were dressed in sheer white linens, thrown wide open to allow a gentle spring breeze to carry the scent of fresh blossoms into the room. A small rug rested in the center of the floor—it looked so incredibly soft and plush that it practically begged to be touched. In the corner stood a small poplar table, buried under a mountain of flowers and congratulatory notes.
Every corner of the room felt alive with pure happiness. Not a single trace of sorrow could pierce this sanctuary. Even the silence felt beautiful, worth listening to. Every breath drawn inside this room felt lighter, purer.
The old man stepped quietly to the side of the crib and gently lifted the infant. The baby was wrapped tightly in a swaddle of pure white linen. Just like the furnishings of the room, his hair was stark white. His hands were impossibly tiny, his head a bit large, and his skin wonderfully wrinkled. The old man approached Kafka, leaning down to show him the child. Slowly, the baby reached out and wrapped his tiny fingers around Kafka's thumb. Kafka froze instantly.
He couldn't bring himself to pull his hand away from that wrinkled, damp, yet radiating warmth. Instead, with every passing second, he found himself falling deeper under the child's innocent spell. The old man smiled, his voice dropping to a soft whisper.
"It seems he likes you. Would you care to hold him?"
Kafka swallowed hard. With absolute resolve, yet a strange hint of awe in his voice, he whispered, "Yes."
The old man carefully transferred the infant into Kafka's arms. Kafka cradled the baby tightly against his chest, terrified of dropping him. The baby babbled softly, uttering nothing but sweet, incoherent murmurs. The warmth radiating from the tiny body slowly began to melt the icy exterior of Kafka's heart, filling him with a strange fascination.
"What did you say his name was?" Kafka asked softly.
"Ryan," the old man replied.
"A little king, huh..." Kafka whispered, looking down. "You really suit your name, don't you, little guy?"
Atheron crowded around Kafka, leaning in to playfully pinch the baby's cheeks. When the infant's face puckered up, threatening to cry, Kafka immediately turned his back to shield the baby, rocking him gently.
"Back off, idiot! You're gonna make him cry!" Kafka snapped.
"No, I'm not!" Atheron protested.
The old man quickly hushed them both and took the baby back into his arms. Clearly annoyed by the sudden noise, he swiftly ushered the three of them out of the estate, shoving a handful of candies into their grip. As the heavy doors shut behind them, it felt as though the residents were praying they would never return.
The sky was beginning to darken. As they walked back, neither Kafka nor Atheron could stop complaining about how utterly exhausted they were.
"Man... I am dead on my feet," Kafka groaned.
"The moment we get back to the tavern, I'm sleeping for at least nine hours," Atheron muttered. "Don't even think about touching me."
"But we need to wash up first," Kafka pointed out.
Both boys turned to Angelina simultaneously, as if expecting her to recommend a local bathhouse.
"There's no place like that here," Angelina said flatly.
"A lake works fine too," Kafka offered.
"Disgusting," Angelina grimaced. "We wash our clothes in that lake."
"You're overreacting," Atheron dismissed. "We're just gonna splash a bit of water on ourselves."
"Do whatever the hell you want!" Angelina snapped, throwing her hands up.
The duo walked ahead, leaving Angelina behind. She stood in the street, waving goodbye as they parted ways. Hand in hand, the boys shared a laugh as they continued their trek. Kafka looked up, throwing witty remarks at Atheron while watching the stars kindle in the night sky. Atheron, however, kept his eyes glued to the earth, watching the lingering traces of happy families returning to their homes.
After a long walk, they finally arrived at the back door of their tavern. Kafka leaped nimbly onto the windowsill and climbed inside, pulling Atheron up after him. He immediately began rambling about how incredible Nora's craftsmanship was. Atheron pulled a lone candle from a battered old drawer, lit it, placed it in the center of the room, and drew the curtains shut.
In the middle of spinning one endless theory after another, the candle flame suddenly died, plunging them into pitch blackness. They quickly played a game of Rock-Paper-Scissors to decide who would have to grope around for the lighter. Kafka scratched his head and began scanning the dark room. It was so black they couldn't see their own hands. Atheron had drifted back into his own world, muttering aloud about how magnificent he was.
Suddenly, Kafka froze. Atheron went dead silent, turning to stone.
Instinct took over, and both boys dropped low to the ground. Kafka could feel a cold, phantom breath brushing against the nape of his neck.
Standing behind them was a figure holding an opulent, glowing candle. He wore a magnificent cloak adorned with a thick crimson trim and white fur. His hair was slicked back, save for a single lock that had gone completely white, cutting through the black strands and casting a shadow over his piercing blue eyes. Atop his head sat an incredibly majestic crown, and his fingers were adorned with gold rings set with emeralds of various colors. In his hand, he held a brilliant, gleaming sword with a golden hilt, dragging the tip carelessly along the wooden floorboards. A smug, self-satisfied smirk played on his lips. His eyes looked down on everything and everyone with absolute disdain. Like a fox playing with its prey, he set the candle down on the table. He looked visibly disgusted that his expensive boots had to touch such a filthy floor. His black trousers looked as though they cost a fortune.
"My precious children," the First spoke, his voice cutting through the dark.
At the sound of that voice, the duo immediately fell into formal protocol.
"HAIL TO OUR SUPREME KING!" Kafka and Atheron echoed in unison.
Both of them were trembling with sheer terror. The King narrowed his eyes like a fox, his smirk widening. He placed his sword directly in front of him, resting both hands over the hilt. Within the abyssal depths of his cold blue eyes, there was absolutely no room for vampires.
"How marvelous, how marvelous," the King purred. "Tell me, what were the names of your little friends again? Was it Odasaku... or should I refer to them as 0012? And there was Nora too, wasn't there? The one dabbling in forbidden magic?"
Kafka snapped to his feet, staring at the King with sudden, defensive fury.
"I don't understand what you are implying, my King," Kafka said, his voice taut.
Atheron shrank behind Kafka, holding his breath. He wanted absolutely no part in this confrontation, doing everything in his power to remain entirely invisible.
"My precious children," the First sighed, his tone sharpening. "You know I absolutely despise it when people beat around the bush."
The King was clearly losing his patience. He began to step toward them, his shadow growing larger, towering over them with every passing second.
"I merely came to offer a piece of advice to my beloved children."
"What kind of advice, my King?" Kafka asked, forcing himself to maintain his composure. Every nerve in his body was screaming. He was desperately trying to calculate a way to escape from a man whose very lineage was immortality itself.
"Simple," the King whispered, his eyes gleaming in the dark. "Do not form bonds with people who are of no use to me. Especially not vampires."
The moment the words left his lips, the candle went out. The King vanished into thin air. The sharp clink of a metal coin hitting the floorboards echoed through the silence. Kafka collapsed to his knees, his fists slamming violently against the floor over and over again. Meanwhile, Atheron numbly picked up a lavishly decorated letter left behind by the King, trying to read it.
With every word he scanned, Atheron took a step back, his resolve crumbling into nothingness. Kafka, on the other hand, had already figured everything out. Atheron's hands shook violently. Desperate to find a way out of this nightmare, he began pacing frantically, his mind racing through every possible solution.
"What if—what if we tell Master Merlin?!" Atheron stammered, panic bleeding into his voice. "Or Master Hajin?!"
"ATHERON!" Kafka roared.
Atheron flinched, freezing in his tracks.
"What could Master Merlin possibly do?!" Kafka yelled, his voice cracking with despair. "They already know exactly what those two are! No matter what we do, they'll...! And how are we even supposed to reach Master Hajin?! Even if a miracle happens and we find him, WON'T IT ALREADY BE TOO LATE?!"
Kafka stood up, his fingers clawing through his hair in a desperate search for an exit, leaving his strands a wild, tangled mess. The last remaining glimmer of light in his eyes had completely extinguished. He reached down, picked up his weapon, and stared at it. To him, the weapon no longer felt right in his hands. Every time those dark thoughts crept into his mind, the words Atheron had once told him echoed in his ears: "A sword exists solely to protect someone, otherwise we'd both be dead by now, right? Hehe."
"When do you want to do it?" Kafka asked, his voice dead.
"Tomorrow night..." Atheron whispered.
"No," Kafka countered coldly.
Atheron didn't argue. No matter how hard he tried to play the fool, he had known deep down from the start that there was no way out of this. He let his body go limp, collapsing onto the bed. He didn't care that the bedbugs were biting into his skin. He didn't care about anything. Except...
"Atheron, remember," Kafka said, turning his back to him, his voice laced with a bitter sting. "Among the people we are going to slaughter, there will be bad ones too. For now, just focus on the ones you spent time with today. Forget about the significance of the rest."
"Maybe... maybe we misunderstood," Atheron whispered into the dark, desperate for a shred of hope.
Kafka let out a sharp, tragic laugh and turned his head slightly.
"Do you honestly think so?"
Kafka spread his arms wide like a false messiah, a quiet, hollow laugh escaping his lips over and over again into the empty room.
[End of Chapter]