The heavy alloy door slid open silently at Elian's command.
He stood in the doorway, looking at Rafe collapsed unconscious against it. Sunlight streaming through the blown window cast dappled light traces across him, making those grotesque wounds even more shocking.
The air was thick with blood—one type warm and fearful, belonging to humans; another wild and powerful yet tainted with corruption and despair from silver poison, belonging to Rafe.
Elian's brow furrowed tightly.
He reached out, attempting to drag Rafe from the doorway. However, when his pale, slender fingers touched Rafe's burning skin, he trembled slightly as if scalded by flame.
So hot.
This was a temperature belonging to vibrant life that he'd forgotten for nearly three centuries.
Rafe's body was far heavier than Elian had imagined. It wasn't just muscle and bone weight, but something rooted in earth—unyielding weight. In his current unprecedented weakness, Elian expended great effort dragging this unconscious giant into his room.
As the door closed, outside chaos and wreckage were completely shut out.
The room was dark, heavy curtains blocking all light, only wall lamps casting dim illumination. The air held Elian's accustomed scent—mixing cold fir and old parchment.
Elian laid Rafe on the expensive carpet, examining his injuries.
He had to cut away what remained of Rafe's tactical vest. As clothing was stripped away, that body full of explosive power and feline fluidity was completely exposed. Bronze skin was covered with wounds large and small—purple bruises and silver-burned black wounds crisscrossed like a brutal war map.
Most lethal were three bone-deep silver blade wounds—one on the left shoulder, one on the back, and one at his ribs, mere centimeters from his heart.
Muscles around the wounds had completely necrotized, showing ominous black color while visibly spreading outward.
Elian extended a finger, lightly touching the wound edge's skin. His fingertip felt sickly, burning temperature. He could even "hear" healthy cells being frantically devoured by silver poison, crying in agony.
For ordinary werewolves, such injuries would have meant death by now. Rafe had lasted this long purely through his far-superior Alpha-level robust constitution. But this was only a matter of time.
Elian knelt quietly beside Rafe, his gray-blue eyes flickering with complex light.
He had no reason to save him.
Rationally speaking, Rafe's death would benefit him in every way. But whenever he closed his eyes, his mind filled with the image of Rafe, blood-soaked yet still standing like a mountain, blocking all enemies for him.
That was protection he'd never understood—foolish to the point of... greatness.
"Troublesome beast."
Elian said quietly, then stood, walking to a hidden cabinet in the room's corner. He withdrew an antique wooden box containing surgical knives, tweezers, and crystal bottles filled with unknown liquids and powders.
He returned with water and clean cloth, kneeling beside Rafe to treat his wounds.
This required extreme patience. He had to use specialized tweezers to extract tiny silver particles, smaller than sand grains, one by one from deep wounds. His movements were light, steady, precise as the most advanced surgical robot.
Rafe, unconscious, seemed to feel the intense pain, his body involuntarily convulsing, throat emitting suppressed whimpers like a young animal. His face, usually written with rebellious pride, was tightly furrowed with pain, appearing somewhat helpless.
Elian's movements paused slightly.
He extended his other hand, tentatively placing it on Rafe's forehead.
Burning temperature transmitted through his palm again.
Somehow, this time he felt no repulsion. He even left that cold palm there, trying to bring some relief with his low temperature.
After cleaning the silver particles, Elian opened a crystal bottle, applying dark green, herb-scented salve evenly to wounds. This salve could temporarily suppress toxin spread but couldn't eliminate it completely.
To completely remove silver poison required a more powerful "catalyst" containing life energy.
Elian looked quietly at Rafe, his gaze falling on lips dried from blood loss.
He made his decision.
From the wooden box, he took the sharpest black obsidian knife. Without hesitation, he made a light cut on his own pale, smooth wrist.
A thin blood line appeared on his skin, but strangely, no blood flowed.
Elian closed his eyes, seemingly concentrating. Moments later, the wound slowly, laboriously secreted a drop of... crystalline blood glowing faintly like a ruby.
This was his "heart blood"—containing centuries of life essence, his most fundamental power. Each drop used would leave him weakened for days. Especially now, after forcibly interrupted rest, this was adding insult to injury.
He dripped this precious blood into a stone mortar containing herb powder, then slowly ground it with a silver pestle. Soon, a dark red medicinal paste with strange fragrance was complete.
He carefully applied this paste to the most lethal wound at Rafe's ribs.
The moment paste touched wound, a miracle occurred.
The blackened, necrotized muscle tissue, as if infused with powerful life force, actually began visibly moving, regenerating. The spreading black aura was consumed and purified by dark red light.
Rafe's tightly furrowed brow gradually relaxed. His throat's whimpers became steady breathing.
After completing this, Elian's face became paler than before, even his lips losing color. Leaning against the wall, he felt long-forgotten dizziness.
Just then, a burning large hand suddenly, unexpectedly grasped his wrist—the very wrist he'd just cut!
Elian started, quickly looking down.
Somehow, Rafe had opened his eyes.
His gaze was still scattered, consciousness seemingly not fully clear. He looked at nearby Elian, that pale, handsome face appearing somewhat unreal in his blurred vision.
"You..." Rafe's voice was hoarse as sandpaper, "...what are you doing?"
"Preventing my 'temporary ally,'" Elian quickly regained composure, withdrawing his hand with flat tone, "from dying in an extremely stupid manner on my room's carpet. I hate cleaning bloodstains—very troublesome."
Rafe didn't speak, only stared fixedly at Elian. His body remained weak, but those amber eyes burned like small flames in the dim room, trying to see through that icy mask.
He could feel the soul-burning agony in his body gradually subsiding, replaced by... warm energy full of vitality. That energy seemed to originate from the cold vampire before him.
Why... save me?
This question circled his mind but wouldn't emerge.
Because he didn't know how to face that answer.
Physical weakness, mental confusion, plus medication effects, made his consciousness sink into chaos again. Before completely losing consciousness, he seemed to see that rainy night ten years ago, see his father's final, complex look when leaving the tribe.
That look held reluctance, determination, and something he couldn't understand then—deep sorrow.
"Father..."
In unconsciousness, Rafe reached out, using his last strength to lightly grasp Elian's robe corner.
His lips moved, uttering syllables so faint only vampire hearing could catch.
It wasn't angry accusation or painful babble.
But utterance filled with endless confusion and grief.
"...They... lied..."