The world had not yet learned to fear the night.
In those days, fire was enough to keep beasts at bay, and prayers were enough to keep the soul from despair. Men walked beneath the stars with confidence, believing the heavens had granted them dominion over earth and sky alike. But the heavens are silent, and silence is not mercy—it is indifference.
It was in this silence that he was born.
He was no king, no saint, no hero sung in songs. He was only a man—hungry, forgotten, left to die beneath the weight of his own flesh. His body rotted from within, his bones cracked with thirst, and his lips split as he cried out for salvation. No god answered. No man dared approach. Only the darkness came, whispering promises sweeter than breath.
And so he drank.
Blood was not meant to be swallowed like water, yet when it touched his tongue, the taste was divine. Warmth filled his hollow chest. His veins surged with stolen life, his flesh repaired, his heart roared to life with a strength no mortal had ever known. But in that same moment, the sun betrayed him. The morning light scalded his skin like oil aflame, and he screamed as smoke rose from his body.
He had eaten life. And now life had turned against him.
From that night forth, he walked in shadows. His hunger grew insatiable, not for bread or meat, but for blood—the living river that carried the world's vitality. Men called him a demon. Priests called him a devil. Mothers told his name in trembling whispers, warning their children to stay indoors when the stars ruled the sky.
Akuma.
But the truth was far worse. He was no demon. He was not sent by hell, nor shaped by the gods. He was the first, the root of a curse born from silence, from hunger, from betrayal. A man who shed his humanity not by choice, but by necessity.
The first vampire.
And when he rose from his grave, his eyes glowed like dying embers, and his lips dripped with the color of sacrifice. The sheep welcomed him, never knowing the wolf in their midst. He smiled as he walked among them, kind and unassuming, a man draped in sheep's wool while his teeth gleamed with truth.
The Devil in sheep's clothing.
And so the world bled. Villages turned to husks, empires waned, and rivers ran red beneath the moonlight. Yet no one knew where it began. No one saw the shepherd at their gates, guiding them gently into the slaughter.
But history remembers. And in the black archives of forgotten scripture, his name is written in blood:
Akuma, The Eternal Hunger.