The night was shattered by the sound of crashing footsteps and ragged shouts.
At the edge of the hero encampment, the guards leapt to their feet, blades raised, only to lower them in shock when they recognized the returning patrol. What staggered into camp was not the proud squad that had left only hours ago—it was a handful of broken men, pale as corpses, their eyes wild with terror. Their armor was cracked, their blades missing or bent, and the stench of blood clung to them like smoke after a fire.
The first man collapsed to his knees before the guard even spoke, gasping, "He's alive… He's alive—he's a monster!"
That was enough to draw a crowd. Soldiers, adventurers, and mercenaries left their posts or leaned from tents, their curiosity sharpening as the frantic survivors were half-dragged, half-led to the heart of the camp where the firepits burned high.
"Report," snapped a paladin captain, his silvered armor gleaming even in the darkness. He stood rigid, his hand on his sword hilt, his voice edged with suspicion.
One of the survivors looked up, his face streaked with dirt and tears. "It was Blaze Carter," he rasped, the name like poison on his tongue. "The useless one. The one we thought dead. He's—he's not dead. He's something else. A vampire. A demon in man's skin."
A ripple ran through the gathering. Heads turned, eyes widened. Some muttered disbelief, others made the sign of the sun-god across their chest.
Among them, the classmates stirred. Some had been in their tents already half-asleep, others around the fire still polishing gear or boasting about the day's drills. At that name, all of them froze.
"Blaze?" hissed Aiden, his flame-touched hair catching the firelight. "That can't be—he had nothing. No magic, no blessing. He was nothing."
"He was there," another survivor stammered, grabbing at the captain's greaves like a child begging a parent. His eyes darted wildly. "I swear it. Shadows moved like they obeyed him. One look, and men fell screaming. He didn't fight like a man—he played with us. Broke us without lifting a sword."
The classmates exchanged uneasy glances.
"Lies," sneered Marcus, one of the louder voices, his armor polished to a knight's shine. "You saw some beast in the dark and let your cowardice paint it in his face."
"No beast speaks your name," whispered the survivor, shaking his head. "No beast takes your friend and makes him kneel."
The words cut through the murmurs like a blade.
"Kneel?" echoed one of the girls, pale-haired and trembling. "What do you mean?"
The survivor's voice broke. "Elias. He turned Elias. Right there. Sunk his teeth into him, poured his cursed blood into him. We saw it—we saw him drink, we saw him change. He's one of them now. He belongs to Blaze."
The camp erupted.
Shouts of denial, curses spat, prayers cried out to the heavens. Some swore vengeance, others fell into horrified silence. The classmates shouted over each other—
"Impossible!"
"He must be lying!"
"Elias wouldn't—he couldn't—"
"If Blaze has that kind of power, then we're—"
The paladin captain raised his voice, booming over the din. "Silence!"
The crowd fell reluctantly quiet, though the air still buzzed with panic. The survivors were herded toward the center, surrounded by priests who immediately began inspecting them for corruption. One of the priests hissed under his breath when he saw the marks on their skin—traces of shadow clinging to them like cobwebs.
"Witness accounts must be verified," the paladin captain growled. "But if what they say is true, then the Nameless Vampire Lord is no mere rumor. He walks among us. And he has claimed one of our own."
The classmates stood frozen. Some were pale with horror, others red with fury.
Aiden slammed his fist into a tent post, fire sparking in his palm. "Damn him! I knew he'd bring nothing but trouble. We should have finished him ourselves when we had the chance!"
"And what would you have done then?" whispered Mira, her voice trembling. Her hands clutched at the hem of her robe, knuckles white. "Killed him before he even had a chance? You all laughed at him. Mocked him. Left him to die. And now… now he's back, and Elias—" Her voice cracked, tears brimming.
Marcus rounded on her, his fury flaring. "You think this is our fault? He chose corruption! He chose to consort with darkness! Don't you dare lay that on us!"
Their argument sparked more among the classmates. Some shouted that Blaze was to blame, a traitor who had embraced evil. Others muttered guilty protests, unable to shake the memory of his humiliation in the throne room, or their own cruel words whispered behind his back.
And through it all, the word spread, carried from lip to lip, tent to tent, until the entire camp knew: Blaze Carter lived. Not as the boy they abandoned, but as a vampire lord who had stolen Elias into his fold.
The soldiers muttered uneasily. Mercenaries whispered of abandoning their contracts. Even the paladins stood tense, their hands twitching on their hilts.
The name that once meant nothing now carried a weight heavier than steel.
The great pavilion at the center of the camp had been reserved for war councils. Tonight, its canvas walls glowed from within, lit by rows of lanterns and the shimmer of holy wards stitched into the seams.
Inside, the mood was grim.
The priests sat on one side, their white and gold vestments stark against the shadows. Paladins lined the tent's edges like pillars of iron, swords at their hips, shields at their backs. At the center of the long table lay a single object that drew every eye: a scrap of bloodstained cloth torn from Elias's tabard, recovered by the survivors.
The classmates sat opposite the clergy, silent for once, their bravado checked by the weight of what had been reported.
The presiding bishop, an older man with a hawk-like nose and eyes sharp enough to cut, stood slowly. His voice carried with the practiced gravity of decades in the pulpit.
"You have all heard the testimony. You have all seen the survivors. We can no longer deny what the Church suspected, what our scouts whispered, what the Light itself hinted." He gestured to the ragged cloth. "Blaze Carter lives. And worse—he has embraced the darkness fully."
Murmurs broke out among the classmates. Some flinched, others scowled. The bishop's hand slammed the table. Silence followed.
"This creature is no longer your classmate. He is no longer a man. He has been reborn as the enemy we swore to destroy. He is a vampire lord, cunning and cruel. And he has already claimed his first victim—one of you."
The words stung like salt on an open wound. Mira lowered her eyes, fighting back tears. Aiden's jaw worked furiously, but he said nothing. Marcus sat rigid, his fingers drumming against his gauntlet as though itching for a blade.
A younger priest leaned forward. "We must move swiftly. Every moment he breathes, he spreads corruption. Greywick festers under his rule. If he has begun turning your peers, then he will not stop until his army marches against us all."
"Elias…" Mira whispered, but her voice was drowned in the rising tide of voices.
"They should have killed him when they had the chance."
"The church warned of strays left unchecked."
"What if he comes for the rest of them?"
The bishop lifted a hand, and the clamor died. His gaze fixed on the classmates, one by one, until none could meet his eyes.
"You were summoned by divine will. You carry the light of heroes, blessed by the gods themselves. And yet—this Blaze slipped through your ranks like smoke, hidden, unvalued, discarded."
The accusation was clear. Some flushed with shame, others stiffened defensively.
"He was weak!" Marcus snapped at last, unable to hold his tongue. "He had nothing—no skills, no magic, no courage. He was a burden. We were right to leave him."
The bishop's stare sharpened. "And now that burden festers into a plague. The Light does not discard souls lightly, Sir Marcus. When mortals play judge, the consequences can be dire."
The tent filled with heavy silence. Even the paladins shifted uneasily, their armor groaning.
Finally, the bishop straightened, his voice rising. "Hear this decree. From this night forward, Blaze Carter is no longer remembered as one of the summoned. His name shall be struck from the rolls of heroes. His image erased from the annals of glory. He is the Nameless Vampire Lord, and he shall be known henceforth as the Devil of Greywick."
The proclamation rolled like thunder. The priests murmured prayers, sealing the words with divine weight. A pall settled over the classmates—final, suffocating.
Mira covered her mouth, as if the renaming itself hurt. Aiden burned with fury, not at Blaze, but at the humiliation of admitting that someone they scorned now bore a title dreaded across the continent. Marcus smirked, grim satisfaction twisting his lips, though his eyes betrayed unease.
The bishop pressed on. "You will march soon. You will hunt him down. And you will burn out this corruption before it spreads. The Light demands no less."
"But Elias—" Mira began, only to be cut off.
"Elias is lost," the bishop said sharply. His words snapped like a whip. "The moment Blaze fed upon him, he became unclean. Whatever remains is a puppet of the Devil. If you hesitate, if you falter in your duty, then Elias's fate will be yours as well."
The classmates sat in heavy silence, each haunted by their own thoughts. For some, it was rage. For others, shame. For a few, doubt that whispered too loudly to ignore.
What if Blaze was not always the monster? What if he had been driven to it—by them?
No one dared voice it aloud.
The bishop gave the final word. "From this night forward, the Church's holy war has a face. The Devil of Greywick. And it will be your blades, chosen heroes, that strike him down."
He gestured, and the paladins intoned a solemn prayer. Golden light flared in the tent, searing away shadows, but it felt hollow. Even as the light pressed against them, the classmates could not shake the chill that gnawed at their bones.
Outside, the soldiers already whispered the new title, carrying it into the night like a curse spreading from tent to tent.
The Devil of Greywick.
The council dispersed slowly, like smoke after a fire. Priests left in hushed groups, their whispers weaving prayers of warding. Paladins filed out with rigid discipline, though their faces were taut, as if the proclamation had struck them as heavily as any blade.
The classmates lingered.
The bishop's words still hung in the air, heavy and unshakable: The Devil of Greywick.
Mira sat at the long table long after the priests had gone, her eyes unfocused, her hands clenched tightly in her lap. She could still hear Elias's laugh in her ears, still remember the way he used to steady her when she doubted herself. To think of him now—eyes glazed, blood running down his throat as Blaze claimed him—made her stomach twist until bile burned at the back of her throat.
"Don't," Marcus said curtly. He leaned against one of the pavilion's support poles, his arms crossed, his voice cutting through the silence. "Don't start crying again. He's gone, Mira. You heard the bishop. He's one of them now."
Her head snapped toward him, her eyes flashing. "How can you be so cold? Elias was our friend."
"He was weak," Marcus retorted. "Weak enough to be taken. That's all Blaze is doing—collecting the useless. First himself, now Elias. If we don't cut him down, he'll keep gathering trash until he thinks he's strong enough to matter."
Aiden slammed his fist onto the table. The wood shuddered under the impact. "Shut your mouth, Marcus. Blaze isn't trash. He never was."
Marcus sneered. "You say that now? You weren't defending him when the priests said the gods rejected him. None of you were."
The words cut deeper than Aiden expected. He faltered, his teeth grinding, his anger aimed more at himself than at Marcus. "We left him," he admitted, his voice low. "We abandoned him in the wilds to die. And now…" His eyes burned with a mixture of shame and fury. "Now he's stronger than any of us thought possible."
Mira's tears finally fell. She pressed a hand to her mouth, as if ashamed of them. "We made him into this."
"Don't be stupid," Marcus snapped. "You don't make monsters. They're born that way. Blaze was always bitter, always sulking, always glaring when the rest of us trained. You really think this just happened? No—he wanted it. He chose it."
"Maybe," Aiden said. His gaze was distant, locked on the bloodstained scrap of Elias's cloth left on the table. "But maybe he wouldn't have if we hadn't treated him like nothing."
The silence that followed was heavier than any priest's judgment.
At last, Mira stood abruptly, her chair scraping against the floor. "I can't listen to this. I need air." She stormed out of the pavilion, her cloak trailing behind her.
Aiden followed, slower, his fists still clenched. Marcus stayed, leaning against the pole, his eyes hard, though the faint tremor in his jaw betrayed his unease.
Outside, the camp simmered with murmurs. Soldiers whispered the new title with awe and dread: The Devil of Greywick. The words seemed to spread faster than fire, passed from mouth to mouth until even the children hiding in tents were whispering it in their dreams.
Mira found herself walking past rows of fires, past guards who bowed stiffly, past paladins who avoided her eyes. The whispers chased her like shadows.
The Devil of Greywick.
Each repetition was like a nail hammered deeper into her heart.
Aiden caught up, his heavy footsteps crunching the dirt. "Mira—wait."
She stopped, but she didn't turn to him. "Do you think the bishop was right? That Blaze is gone? That he's nothing but a monster now?"
Aiden hesitated. He thought of Blaze's quiet eyes back in their world, the way he had never shouted over the others, never demanded attention, never asked for more than he was given. He thought of Blaze's loneliness, unspoken but always there.
And then he thought of the description: the shadows, the hunger, Elias's scream.
"I don't know," he said finally. "But I know this—if he is still Blaze somewhere in there, then killing him won't be enough. We'll have to face what we did to him first."
Mira looked at him then, her eyes glistening. "And if Marcus is right? If Blaze chose this path willingly?"
Aiden's jaw tightened. "Then we kill him. But I won't believe it until I see him with my own eyes."
Elsewhere in the camp, Marcus strode alone toward the edge of the wards. The whispers didn't shake him like they did the others. If anything, they stoked the fire in his chest.
He spat into the dirt. "The Devil of Greywick. Fine. If that's what he wants to be, then I'll cut him down myself."
But even as he said it, the name lingered in his head, wrapping around his thoughts like chains.
The Devil of Greywick.
It was a name not easily unmade.
By dawn, the title had already left the camp. Messengers carried it across towns, scribes penned it into letters, and priests began preaching it in their sermons. Across the continent, lords and kings would wake to the same chilling rumor:
The useless summon who should have died in the wilds had returned.
Not as a man, not as a hero, but as a lord of shadows.
The Devil of Greywick.
And in Greywick itself, Blaze sat upon his throne of blood and stone, a faint smile touching his lips as if he had heard the title whispered directly into his ear.
He leaned back, the cursed ring pulsing faintly against his finger. Devil of Greywick, the world named him.
And he accepted.