The village stirred with morning. Smoke curled from clay chimneys, carrying the scent of millet porridge and wild herbs. Children darted between wooden stilts, their laughter ringing sharp before being hushed by anxious mothers. Men sharpened spears with stony faces, and old women muttered prayers as they traced protective sigils across their doors.
It looked, from the surface, like any small riverside settlement. But Zed could feel it—the undercurrent of tension. The air itself was stretched taut, like a bowstring ready to snap. Everyone whispered, eyes flicking northward toward the great forest, where something stirred too vast to ignore.
Zed lay inside the hut, his body whole yet foreign. He stretched one arm slowly, watching the muscles roll under skin that had once been scarred and battered, now smooth as tempered jade. He felt too perfect, as if his very bones had been stolen and replaced by something otherworldly. His ribs no longer ached. His breath filled him like a bellows. Every motion felt sharper, stronger, precise.
He pressed his palm against his chest and felt it—the steady hum of qi coursing like molten light through wide, carved meridians. He had broken through, though he hadn't meant to. His body had clawed back from death itself and stepped onto a higher rung of cultivation.
But even more unsettling than his own transformation was the tether that pulsed deep within. His beast. His companion. The Vampire.
Silent, coiled, reborn.
It had not yet reemerged, not fully. It lingered in his dantian like a storm held behind a veil. But its intent bled through the link: loyalty, hunger, patience. And something new—reason. Its mind was sharper, its will no longer a fog of instincts. Zed could feel it watching him, almost whispering, though no words came. He drew a long breath, then forced the thought away. Not yet. Not here.
The door creaked.
Fuine entered carrying a small bundle of herbs wrapped in reed leaves. Her steps were unhurried, her expression calm, though her presence filled the space with an aura that was not ordinary. She moved like a stream, light but deliberate, each motion balanced. She glanced at him, her ethereal eyes searching, before setting the herbs by the fire pit.
"You're awake," she said simply, her voice soft but clear.
Zed inclined his head, guarded. "Where am I?"
"A day south of the river bend. A small village. My clan has ties here." She crouched, sorting through herbs, her black hair falling forward like a silken curtain. "You were half-dead when I found you. I kept you in the cave for three nights. Now you're mended."
Her tone was matter-of-fact, as though dragging an unconscious stranger into her shelter, tending his wounds, and carrying him miles downriver was a thing done every day.
Zed studied her quietly. Her beauty was beyond words—flawless, dangerous, the kind that could undo nations—yet she brushed it off with the ease of one who had lived with it her whole life. But beneath that innocent surface, he could sense more. A strange natural aura clung to her, subtle but potent, as if the world itself curved gently around her presence.
"You saved me," Zed said at last.
"I acted on instinct," Fuine replied, not looking up. "No one survives in that forest without help. Besides…" Her lips curved faintly. "You don't strike me as someone meant to die so easily."
The words pricked him. He kept his face neutral, but inside, unease stirred. This woman was no simple villager. She knew things. She sensed things.
That evening, the fire in the hut crackled low. Zed sat cross-legged, testing his breath, while Fuine sat opposite, grinding herbs into powder. Outside, the village hummed with restrained fear.
"They're saying two Lords are gone," Fuine murmured, not looking at him. "The balance of the forest is shattered. Beasts are migrating. Packs abandoning their dens. Hunters find nothing but empty ground and claw marks."
Zed's eyes flickered. He remembered the lion's roar, the Undine's scream as her crystal burst. He said nothing.
Fuine's gaze lifted to him at last. "Do you know what that means?"
He held her stare. "A tide."
Her lips pressed into a thin line. "Yes. When territories collapse, the lesser beasts panic. They flood outward in waves, into fields, into villages. Into cities." She tapped ash from the pestle. "The last time it happened, half a province drowned in blood."
The silence between them was heavy.
Days passed.
Zed rose with the dawn, testing his strength. Each movement startled him with its power: fists striking air like hammers, steps silent yet surging with speed. He remembered pain, scars, torn flesh. Now none remained. His body was alien, perfect, as if remade for battle alone.
In the mornings, he often found Fuine training by the grove. A slim blade in her hand traced arcs of silver light, each movement fluid and exact. She did not boast, did not seek to impress, but her skill spoke louder than words. Her Leshonte heritage was clear in her balance, her precision, her aura that blended with wind and root alike.
"You watch like a hawk," she remarked once, without breaking her form.
Zed only smirked faintly. "You move like water. Hard not to notice."
She smiled, the briefest curve of lips, before the blade flowed on.
At night, when the village settled, Zed stepped outside. The sky above was black velvet scattered with stars, the river reflecting their shimmer. He closed his eyes, sinking inward.
The beast within stirred.
Not the clumsy hunger of old. Not the blind fury of a husk. But sharp, deliberate malice. It pressed against his mind, showing flashes of crimson eyes, of wings unfolding into a storm of bats, of claws that could sunder steel. It showed loyalty—a vow burned into blood. And it showed freedom, the will of a predator that would bow to none but him.
Zed's breath hitched. Whatever it had become, it was no longer a servant. It was something greater.
The tension in the village thickened.
Hunters returned empty-handed, faces pale. "The wolves are gone," one muttered at the tavern. "Their dens empty, not a bone left." Another swore he saw a herd of boars stampeding southward, eyes wide with terror.
A merchant arrived, voice hushed as he told the tale: "Two Lords dead. Something killed them. Now the forest moves. That thing in the northwest stirs."
At the words that thing, the tavern fell silent. No one dared name it. Some spat, some prayed, some muttered that the kingdom itself should be warned.
Fuine overheard. Her gaze flicked toward Zed, who sat alone in the corner, hands folded. Her eyes lingered on him, strange, questioning, as though she saw more than he wished to reveal.
The next day, a scream split the air.
A hunter had been found mauled outside the willow fence. His body was broken, clawed, blood soaking the grass. Not by wolves, not by any beast of the common forest. These were scouts—feelers sent ahead of something vast.
The villagers trembled. Fuine knelt by the body, face calm but grim, murmuring rites before covering him with cloth. When she rose, her gaze fell on Zed. Her meaning was clear, unspoken: you are not ordinary, and when the tide comes, you will not stand aside.
That night, silence fell heavier than ever. No cicadas sang. No owls called. The very river seemed to still, as if holding its breath.
Zed stood outside the hut, feeling the weight of the air. His body thrummed with power, his beast pressed against the walls of his dantian, eager, waiting.
Then it came. A roar. Distant, vast, like the world itself had torn. It echoed through the forest, rolled down the river, rattled the bones of every living thing.
In the huts, candles flickered. Mothers clutched children. Men gripped spears that suddenly felt far too thin.
Zed's eyes narrowed. His heart pounded, not with fear, but with grim anticipation.
The tide was coming.