Chapter One – The Sleepless Night
The night was thick with darkness, the full moon hanging high in the sky. A strange violet-red glow spilled across the land, a rare phenomenon known as the Crimson Moon—the sign of the Moon Goddess at the height of her power.
In a small clearing at the forest's edge, a gathering of tall, black-clad figures assembled. Long leather coats draped over their forms, hoods drawn low—but from beneath each hood, two sharp, lupine points protruded, betraying their unnatural heritage.
The forest at night always carried an air of unease, but with these strange figures assembled, the tension thickened into something primal.
Before them stood a low, one-meter-high platform, upon which rose a ritual tower of some unknown dark metal. Its surface was adorned with the teeth, skulls, and rib bones of rare beasts. At the pinnacle rested a massive, moon-shaped crystal, half-transparent, reflecting the moon's piercing, uncanny light.
"Great Moon Goddess, your most cherished son calls upon you," a gray-haired elder cried, throwing back his hood and raising his arms toward the sky. "Foolish humans have destroyed our home. Your other sons have betrayed their kin. We are trapped—send us your messenger, O Goddess, and deliver your children."
Beneath that black hood, the sight was horrifying. A human body, but the head of a monstrous wolf. Eyes glimmered green in the moonlight, pupils marred by a dark fissure that ran like a sword through stone. This was the Wolfblood clan, children of the Moon Goddess, denizens of darkness.
A single howl tore through the night. One by one, hoods fell, revealing hundreds of wolf heads, necks craned toward the sky, each letting out a chilling, echoing wail. For a moment, the forest seemed transformed into a realm of shadowed terror.
From above, a violet light poured down. The Moon Goddess had finally released her warmth, granting these forlorn lives a glimmer of hope. But the sun was already stirring. Dawn crept along the horizon, and the golden edge of morning began swallowing the jagged peaks beyond the forest. As the sunlight spread, the moonlight dimmed inch by inch.
Panic rippled through the Wolfblood. They scrambled across the forest floor, paws tearing at the earth, dust and debris flying. A few of the stronger, wilder wolves tore at their clothing, revealing the tawny fur beneath, chest heaving with desperate roars, as if their fury could slow the golden light's advance.
The sky became a battlefield of violet and gold, light clashing against light. The Crimson Moon sank in the west, the sun rose in the east, and the brilliant spectacle vanished, leaving only daylight.
Under the sun, the Wolfblood began to transform. Fur receded, jagged jaws retracted, and the monstrous wolves became human once more. Men, women, young, old—they all bore the scars of their feral past. One muscular man traced a long scar near his left eye, squinting at the climbing sun before turning toward the gray-haired elder.
The elder gently lifted a swaddled infant from the ritual tower. Nestled against the child's chest was a small, irregular black crystal wrapped in sheepskin. A man whispered in the elder's ear.
"Already?" the elder murmured, eyes lingering on the child. "Children, our mission is complete." He exhaled softly, then raised his voice to the assembly. "Our task is done."
A cheer erupted, and the once-ominous forest filled with life. The elder placed the infant back upon the tower. "Our duty is over. It is time for us to leave."
Slowly, the Wolfblood retreated into the forest, reluctant yet resolute. The scarred man cast one last glance at the departing elder, then at the lone child upon the tower, before following the others into the shadows.
Time flowed. Years passed. Great deeds faded like dust in the wind, leaving no trace.
On a stormy, cloud-choked night, the sky once again blazed with the rare, crimson moon. On a small clearing, the earth was uneven, strewn with dead branches and decaying leaves. The air reeked of blood and rot, and patches of dark red marred the soil, like a gate to the underworld itself.
A thin, clawed hand broke through the mud, sharp nails glinting even in the darkness. Another followed. The earth between them cracked and heaved as if disturbed by a dying beast reborn.
Finally, with a sound of collapsing stones, a frail, tiny body emerged from the soil. A slit in the black clouds above allowed a shaft of crimson moonlight to fall upon the figure—a child, cadaverous and eerie, yet compelling in its unnatural beauty. Red eyes devoid of warmth glinted like rubies split by a single vertical line, a jaw jutting slightly, teeth sharp and cold. Mud and unknown viscera clung to its skin, yet it walked forward, a slow, unnatural gait that sent shivers down the spine.
But more terrifying than the appearance was the aura—the murderous, cold, and haughty presence radiating from the child, as though the envoy of death itself had arrived.
From the forest, the pounding of thousands of hooves broke the silence. A massive cavalry of nearly a thousand men stormed along the trail, each armed and fierce under the moonlight.
"Boss, there's a hole where we slaughtered the villagers. Looks like something crawled up from beneath. Could someone have survived?" a hulking man asked his leader.
"A trick of some necromancer, no doubt," the middle-aged commander said, his massive companion grumbling in agreement. "The village has been buried two days. Even the undead would be dead by now."
"Whatever," the commander muttered. "We return to the village. Watch your step. If you see anyone resembling a necromancer—avoid. Anyone else… kill."
Within the hour, the cavalry arrived at the village—and found a child walking calmly through the gates, the bodies of thirty-some men lying behind him. Those had been the scouts sent earlier.
"Damn it! Tear him apart!" the giant roared, yet the child's pace did not falter.
"Wait," the commander called, restraining his subordinate. In his mind, suspicion brewed. This child was no ordinary being. Could he possess secret power? Or hidden allies? Perhaps a reincarnated necromancer? He could not be certain—but soon, he would learn the cost of underestimating him.
The child advanced, unhesitant, as the bandits lunged. Weapons swung, and death came swiftly. The boy's movements, cold and precise, tore through the attackers like a storm. Blood rained across the village. Eyes blazing red, a faint curve formed at the corner of his lips—a chilling, almost imperceptible smile.
The clouds parted slightly, and the crimson moon poured its merciless light over the scene. Violet glowed in the shadows, a harbinger of the sleepless, bloody night to come.