The hospital's chaos was eventually swallowed by the deepest darkness before dawn.
This devastating night raid struck both of Crescent City's supernatural factions like a resounding slap to the face. The Purifiers' actions were so precise, their knowledge of both sides' deployments so thorough, that the existence of an inside traitor had transformed from suspicion to undeniable fact.
Until the traitor was identified, no one could be trusted.
Thus, a joint directive from both the vampire Council of Elders and the werewolf Tribal Assembly arrived before Elian and Rafe with unquestionable authority—to ensure absolute security and information secrecy for their investigation, both must immediately relocate to the "neutral safe house" in the city center until the crisis was resolved.
The so-called safe house was a penthouse duplex atop a skyscraper in the "no man's land." The security system here was jointly designed by both races, supposedly impenetrable to even a fly. But for Elian and Rafe, this wasn't a fortress—it was a luxuriously furnished, legitimate prison specifically designed to torment each other.
When the heavy alloy door slowly closed behind them, suffocating silence immediately enveloped the entire space.
The apartment's design was typical modern minimalism—black, white, and gray dominance, cold metal and glass furniture, a living room spacious to the point of emptiness. This style was clearly meant to avoid offending either side's aesthetics, but ultimately left both feeling extremely uncomfortable.
For Elian, it lacked historical depth and artistic soul, cold as a mausoleum.
For Rafe, it lacked life's breath and companions' warmth, oppressive as a prison cell.
"Your room is east side, mine west," Elian broke the silence first, removing his coat tinged with gunpowder scent and handing it to the approaching intelligent butler. "All facilities in the apartment are available. I have only one requirement—don't make unnecessary noise when I'm resting."
"Noise?" Rafe scoffed, dropping his backpack carelessly on the expensive carpet with a dull thud, seemingly provocative. "Like heartbeat and breathing sounds? Oh sorry, I forgot—you don't have those."
Elian ignored his provocation, walking directly toward the western master bedroom. His back was straight and proud, as if Rafe were merely air.
This dismissal angered Rafe more than any heated argument. He irritably ran his fingers through his hair, entered the eastern room, then slammed the door hard.
The first night began in tense silence.
For Rafe, this was unprecedented torture. He was used to the tribe camp's perpetual bonfires, his brothers' heavy breathing and sleep-talking, the rustle of wind through forests. Here, it was too quiet.
So quiet he could clearly hear his own blood flowing through vessels, each heartbeat's dull impact in his chest. Worse, his senses were infinitely amplified in this extreme silence.
He could "feel" Elian's presence.
That vampire was just tens of meters away in another room, but the unique aura he emanated—like eternal ice—permeated the entire space unstoppably. It was a scent mixing ancient dust, cold coffins, and something extremely faint yet incredibly alluring... dormant blood.
This scent made his inner wolf feel extremely uneasy and agitated. The beast within identified the other as a top-tier predator, an elegant yet deadly threat. He couldn't help pacing the room like a caged beast.
For Elian, the torment took another form.
He didn't need sleep, only brief rest at dawn. Usually, he'd spend long nights meditating, letting his consciousness sink into boundless emptiness to combat the soul-deep weariness brought by immortality.
But tonight, he failed.
He couldn't calm his mind.
Because this space contained an overly vivid, overly noisy life source.
He could hear Rafe's restless pacing, the opponent's occasional quickened heartbeat from anger. That heartbeat—strong, powerful, full of wild vitality like war drums—beat continuously, brutally hammering his senses dormant for centuries.
He could even "see" the heat radiating from Rafe's body, that burning aura penetrating walls and disrupting his accustomed coldness.
Elian opened his eyes, gray-blue irises flashing with irritation he hadn't recognized. In three-plus centuries, this was his first time losing control of his mental state due to another being's presence.
This made him feel out of control. And he most despised losing control.
He rose, walking to the massive floor-to-ceiling windows, gazing down at the city nightscape below like a galaxy of stars. This had once been his only way of dispelling emptiness, but tonight, those brilliant lights seemed meaningless too.
After some time, the pacing sounds stopped. Instead came heavy striking sounds from the gym.
Elian's hearing easily distinguished fists hitting punching bags. Each punch was explosively powerful, as if venting all rage onto that poor bag.
Again and again.
Rhythmic, full of suppressed violence.
Elian closed his eyes, but the sound didn't weaken—instead, it rang directly in his mind like drumbeats. He could even imagine Rafe's current appearance—bare-chested, sweat sliding down his defined muscle lines, each punch driving fluid, powerful movement...
Elian snapped his eyes open, startled by his own unexpected shock.
What had he just been thinking?
He'd actually seen... aesthetic beauty in a werewolf's strength? This absurd thought filled him with physiological disgust.
He needed something to divert his attention.
He turned toward the study at the apartment's far end. The extensive collection here covered various ancient texts and secrets, joint property of both races. He wanted to research that mysterious emblem found on the Purifier.
Passing through the living room, the gym door opened with a "click."
Rafe emerged. As Elian had imagined, he was indeed shirtless, wearing only loose athletic shorts below. Sweat made his bronze skin gleam, his chest and abdominal muscles clearly defined in the dim living room light like an ancient Greek sculpture. He toweled his wet hair while walking straight toward the kitchen.
Their gazes met unexpectedly in the spacious living room.
Rafe paused, looking at Elian with wariness.
Elian's gaze lingered on him briefly before moving away indifferently, as if seeing only lifeless furniture.
However, only they knew what violent chemistry had occurred in that moment of eye contact.
Elian caught Rafe's intensified scent—mixing sweat with male hormones.
And Rafe saw Elian's face in dim light—pale to the point of sickness yet hauntingly beautiful, with those eyes capable of absorbing all light and warmth.
Dangerous, deadly attraction quietly bloomed in silence.
Rafe broke the silence, taking a bloody raw steak from the refrigerator and tossing it directly in his mouth, chewing with almost demonstrative savagery.
"What's wrong? Can't sleep?" he asked mockingly through his chewing. "Is our noble vampire prince having insomnia without a soft coffin and fresh virgin blood?"
Elian ignored him, heading straight for the study.
"Hey!" Rafe called after him. "That emblem—do you know something about it?"
Elian stopped. Without turning back, he said flatly: "Some knowledge is too heavy for simple-minded creatures."
With that, he pushed open the study door and entered, shutting Rafe out.
Rafe glared at the closed door, finally emitting an unwilling grunt.
Inside the study, Elian leaned against the door, closing his eyes. He could feel his heart—that organ silent for centuries—seeming to transmit an extremely faint tremor not his own. Illusion? Or some resonance caused by that werewolf's excessive vitality?
He dismissed this absurd thought, forcing himself to focus on the task at hand.
From memory, he precisely withdrew several ancient texts about "heretical judgment" and "Templar Knight secrets" from the vast shelves. These books' pages were yellowed and brittle, recording darkness covered by mainstream history in ancient languages.
He placed a sketch of the "sword and thorns" emblem he'd drawn from memory on the desk, beginning to search page by page.
Time flowed slowly with the rustling of turning pages.
Outside, night began shedding its deepest black, revealing weak blue-gray. Dawn approached.
Just as Elian felt slight mental fatigue from prolonged concentration, his fingertip stopped on a yellowed parchment illustration.
It was a woodcut depicting a medieval demon-hunting scene. In the image, armored knights surrounded a massive winged demon.
On one knight's shoulder guard was an emblem identical to his sketch.
Sword and thorns.
Elian's gaze fell on the ancient text notation below the emblem. His pupils contracted sharply.
"Ordo Spinae Sanctae..." he pronounced the name in ancient language, word by word.
—"The Sacred Thorn Knighthood."
An existence far more ancient, bloody, and mad than the name "Purifiers." They didn't just hunt—they believed in "purification"—using the cruelest methods to strip all supernatural beings of their powers, "returning" them to mortality before executing them publicly as heretics.
According to records, this knighthood had been secretly disbanded by the Church five hundred years ago due to extreme and cruel methods, completely vanishing into history's river.
Yet now, their emblem appeared in Crescent City.
Elian's expression became unprecedentedly grave. He realized they might not be facing a rabble of demon hunters.
But ancient vengeful spirits who had planned for centuries to drag all supernatural beings into hell.