The Academy had become a gilded cage, its corridors feeling more like a prison's walkways after the incident with Marcus. The air, once thick with the casual arrogance of immortal youth, now hummed with a sharp, electric tension. The official story was a "training accident" involving a shattered ceremonial blade. But stories have a life of their own, and this one had mutated into something far more terrifying: a shadow-beast, a phantom from the Old World, had slipped through the Citadel's defenses.
Jerry moved through these hallways like the ghost they now all called him. Every whisper was a potential accusation. Every glance held a hidden inquiry. He was the subject of the mystery, yet he had to remain the most invisible person in the room.
His only anchor was the memory of his parents' faces the night he returned home. His father, Alistair, had listened in stone-cold silence, his knuckles white as he gripped the mantlepiece. "You have lit a fuse, boy," he had finally said, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "The Council does not investigate rumors; they extinguish threats. They will tear this city apart looking for the source. Your control must be perfect. Flawless." His mother, Seraphina, had simply wept, her tears leaving faint, pink trails on her cheeks.
"Control," Alistair had drilled into him that night. "It is your sword and your shield. Control your hunger, leash your power, master your every twitch. You are no longer a student. You are a spy in the heart of the enemy's camp."
At the Academy, the curriculum intensified, a direct response to the perceived security breach. The instructors pushed them harder, preparing them for a world where humans were compliant cattle, and the elusive Blood Hunters were the only true danger.
Professor Korbyn, a vampire so ancient his skin resembled cracked parchment, began their Blood-Weaving class.
"The blood is not just sustenance,"Korbyn's voice rasped, echoing in the circular chamber. "It is clay. It is thread. It is a weapon. You have been taught to consume it. Now, you will be taught to command it."
He held up a pale hand. A droplet of dark blood welled on his fingertip. With a flick of his wrist, it elongated, solidified, and sharpened into a needle-thin spike of crimson ice. It shot across the room, shattering a target orb into glittering dust.
"This is elementary Blood-Shaping," Korbyn announced. "To manipulate blood outside the body, you must first master the flow within."
Jerry watched, his mind a whirlwind. This was the path of a normal vampire. But his own blood was a restless, alien tide. When he tried the exercise, focusing on a bead of his own silvery blood, it didn't just sharpen; it writhed, wanting to form a fang, a claw, something predatory. He had to consciously force it into the simple, expected shape, the mental strain a constant, throbbing ache in his temples. He was trying to paint a delicate miniature with the raw force of a hurricane.
Later, in Aura Dampening class, they were taught to suppress their vampiric presence. A powerful vampire could be sensed—a cold spot, a pressure in the air. To hunt or to hide, one must learn to become a void.
"Feel the energy that radiates from you," Instructor Valerius commanded, his own aura a suffocating blanket of frost. "Now, pull it in. Contain it. Make yourselves small. Insignificant."
For the others, this was a difficult exercise. For Jerry, it was his oldest survival skill. When he concentrated, he could vanish so completely that even Instructor Valerius's scanning gaze would pause over him with a flicker of confusion, as if looking at an empty space. He was a supernova perpetually forced to impersonate a dead star.
It was in Shadow Melding that the chasm between his true nature and his facade became terrifyingly clear. They were taught to blend with darkness, to become near-invisible for short periods, a skill requiring immense concentration.
Jerry, paired with Laura, watched as she faded into the shadows, her form becoming a faint, shimmering outline. It was elegant, a vampire's trick.
When it was his turn, he stepped into the shadows, and they didn't hide him; they consumed him. They felt like a second skin, cool and welcoming. He didn't meld; he became one with the darkness. He could see everything—Laura's nervous breath, the instructor's critical gaze, the very currents of energy in the room. He was the darkness itself. He moved, a silent, unseen predator, and had to violently pull himself back, reappearing with a feigned gasp of exhaustion.
Laura looked at him, her amethyst eyes wide. "Jerry... that was... you were just gone. I've never seen anyone meld so completely."
He forced a weak smile. "I just focused really hard."
Her expression softened, but a new, thoughtful curiosity lingered. "You've been different since the incident. More distant. Is everything alright?"
The concern in her voice was a sweet agony. The secret was a poison in his veins, and her trust felt like the only possible antidote. But his father's warning echoed in his mind. "Trust no one. Not even the girl."
"Just the new curricula," he lied, the words tasting like ash. "It's a lot of pressure."
She nodded slowly, but the crack in her trust had widened. She was starting to see the cracks in his mask.
The days became a cycle of constant vigilance and forced mediocrity. He had to deliberately hold back, to perform just well enough to be unremarkable, while the power within him screamed for release. The hunger was a perpetual, gnawing beast. His parents' blood was a meager diet for a creature of his potential. The scent of his classmates was a daily torture—a feast laid out before a starving king.
The breaking point came during a practical survival exercise in the simulated Redwood Forest. The objective was to track a "prey" drone while avoiding instructors using Aura Sensing.
Jerry moved through the synthetic twilight with an innate, predatory grace. This was his element. The hunt. He disabled the drone within minutes. The emptiness in his gut roared in frustration. It was a hollow victory.
Then he smelled it. Fear. Rich, potent, and wrapped around a familiar aura.
Laura.
He moved without a sound, a shadow among shadows. He found her cornered near a fake ravine by Kael and Silas, two notorious bullies.
"Lost your way, little princess?" Kael sneered. "Where's your quiet shadow now?"
"Leave me alone," Laura said, her voice steady, but Jerry could smell the sharp, acrid tang of her fear. It was intoxicating, a siren's call to the beast within.
A red haze descended over Jerry's vision. The Revenant, the possessive, territorial protector, surged forward. These weren't just bullies; they were threats to what was his.
He didn't use Blood-Shaping. He didn't use Shadow Melding.
He simply moved.
One moment he was hidden. The next, he was standing between Laura and the bullies, his speed so immense it was a blur that defied vision.
Kael and Silas stumbled back, shock on their faces.
"Get lost," Jerry said, his voice a low, guttural growl that seemed to vibrate from the shadows themselves.
For a moment, they were paralyzed. The aura Jerry was unconsciously emitting wasn't just power; it was primal dominance. It was the scent of the apex predator.
Then, Kael, recovering, snarled. "Or what, Ghost?"
Jerry's lips peeled back. His fangs, their true, predatory length now fully visible, gleamed. His eyes, usually a calm grey, swirled with liquid silver.
"Or you'll learn why my name is the only warning you'll get," he whispered, the promise of utter annihilation hanging in the air.
That broke them. Raw, animal terror took over. They turned and fled.
The moment they were gone, the fury bled away, replaced by a cold, gripping terror. He had lost control. He turned slowly to face Laura.
She was pressed against a tree, her hand over her mouth. Her eyes were wide, but not with gratitude. They were filled with a dawning, horrifying comprehension. She was looking past the boy she grew up with, and seeing the thing he hid underneath. She had seen his speed, his fangs, felt his aura. She had smelled the difference—not the cold scent of a vampire, but something ancient, sharp, and dangerous.
"Jerry..." she breathed, her voice a tremulous whisper. "What was that? What are you?"
Before he could even form a lie, a thunderous crack echoed through the simulation. The fake sky flickered and died. Alarms blared, shrieking through the silence.
Instructor Valerius's voice boomed across the forest, magically amplified and laced with an urgency that froze the blood in their veins.
"Exercise terminated! All students return to the main hall immediately! This is not a drill!"
The personal crisis between them was instantly dwarfed. The alarms meant a breach. A real one.
As they ran back, they saw why. The main gates of the Academy had been shattered. Not broken, but… dissolved, as if eaten away by a corrosive force unknown to their kind.
Lying in the courtyard, surrounded by a circle of horrified instructors and grim-faced Council guards, were two of their classmates. They weren't just dead. They were… empty. Desiccated husks, their skin grey and stretched over bone, their eyes wide with eternal terror. All the blood, all the life force, had been completely drained.
But it was the marks on their necks that made the world stop for Jerry. They were not the messy tears of an animal or a weapon. They were precise, clean, and chillingly familiar.
Two perfect puncture wounds.
The Council's investigation had been focused on a legend, a myth. But as Jerry stood there, the sole Revenant in all of Crimson City, a terrifying, isolating certainty settled in his gut. The city was hunting a monster, and they had no idea they were staring right at him. The net was closing in, and the only person who seemed to see the truth in his eyes was the girl he was falling for.
The walls of his secret were beginning to crack, and the entire world was waiting for them to fall.