August in Athens. The stifling heat had yet to relent, and the city's sharp divide between government and citizens added a thick layer of tension to the world's capital.
But this chaos was limited to the daytime. Once night fell, few dared wander the streets. Riots or crackdowns both paused with the setting sun, naturally curbing the escalation of violence.
The word "vampire" had become a symbol of fear.
These past nights, powerful vampires had emerged from the shadows, rampaging across Athens. They clashed, they killed, leaving destruction in their wake. Any ordinary human caught in the path of their chaos had little hope of survival.
People didn't even dare light candles, fearing that any spark might draw the attention of those terrifying predators. Athens sank into darkness, with only the moon casting a pale glow. The city had lost its old luster—but to the world, it had never seemed so sharp, so alive. It had become the epicenter of the Western vortex, a city that could shift the world's balance in a single night.
In the pitch-black alleys near the mansion district, eight bats streaked low, a blur of predatory grace.
They zipped over homes and through the commercial district. From afar, the swarm resembled a small, shifting shadow cloud.
Soon, they reached the city's edge. Evading human sentries, they climbed a hillside and transformed into human forms within a patch of grass.
"There," Kumu said, pointing to a small estate on the slope. "By common standards, a seventh-generation vampire and his family live there—eleven in total. The head's aptitude is mediocre, not a fighter. This is the weakest nest in Athens."
By "common standards," he meant seventh generation. In reality, it was ninth. The gap of two generations separated Adam from the three earliest second-generation vampires sealed away—Whip, Iron Hoof, and Saber.
A seventh-generation vampire's power? A non-combatant pseudo-seventh could be taken down by a combat-savvy pseudo-ninth at any moment. Among lower generations, raw aptitude mattered more than rank. That's why, back at the viscount's estate, an eighth-generation fighter had dared to strike Adam despite suspecting his rank.
Combat aptitude didn't necessarily correlate with vitae quantity. Weak fighters were perfect sources for Adam's harvesting.
The estate was modest: a three-story Greek-style house, its roof purple under the moonlight. Like the city, no light shone from within.
"Yomi ordered all vampires to extinguish lights at night, just like humans, to avoid detection," Kumu explained. He was the only member of Adam's team with insight into internal vampire affairs.
Adam nodded. Transforming into a bat, he silently flew to the roof and reverted to human form. A wisp of blood mist escaped his mouth, dissipating instantly. Even the nearby cicadas fell silent as the mist swirled—an unnatural pause in the night, a forbidden force brushing the world.
Adam slipped through the top floor's open window. The remaining seven spread out, hiding in the surrounding shadows.
This was Adam's first strike. As a two-thousand-year-old progenitor, he had mastered many low-level vampire techniques. He could move unseen. A pseudo-seventh could not detect him.
The others were newly born second-generation vampires. Their skills varied, and even the strongest—Smoke—couldn't guarantee total stealth. One mistake, and a centuries-old pseudo-seventh could spot them.
Generation alone didn't guarantee dominance. Age marked accumulated vitae, which directly correlated with strength within a given generation.
Smoke might defeat a pseudo-seventh, but staying hidden? Risky.
Adam acted alone tonight, letting the others disperse. Any vampire attempting to escape would be caught—or delayed.
Even one escape could expose his presence. Future hunts would not be so simple.
Minutes passed. Crows erupted from a nearby tree. The soundproofing magic concealed the intruders, but all signs indicated movement inside.
A second-floor window opened. A vampire tried to leap out but was yanked back inside.
Half an hour later, the front door opened. Adam emerged, bloodied but composed, the coppery scent of fresh vitae clinging to his breath.
It was over.
The seven vampires rushed to his side.
"Clean it up. Don't leave signs of a fight. Make it look like they left suddenly… no, make it seem like they went into hiding."
"Yes, sir," Classical and Vine nodded and entered.
"How did it go, Your Highness?" Smoke asked, bowing slightly.
"Vitae too sparse. To elevate a second-generation vampire to peak from this type of raid? Maybe fifty attempts at least," Adam said.
"Estates of this scale are rare in Athens. I know around eighty vampire nests here. Their average strength is far higher. The next targets will be more difficult," Kumu said.
"Good. Greater difficulty means greater gain. Next stop. Time isn't on our side. Even if we disguise them as evacuees, they'll realize soon enough."
In no time, Classical and Vine had cleaned the house, carrying corpses to the yard to bury. Adam also fulfilled his promise to the demon Cherman, tossing the already rotting bodies outside to bury together.
Cleanup complete, the eight vampires—eight bats—set off toward the next target.
Meanwhile, in central Athens, two high-generation vampires still clashed violently. From above, a sleep-deprived Delice watched Adam's subordinate—the fat man—squirm under her scolding.
"Have these vampires gone mad? Treating Athens as their battlefield?" Delice muttered, seeing several newly destroyed houses. She knew tomorrow's riot would be even worse.
Reinforcements her brother Kerry had requested hadn't arrived yet, but the crisis she feared was imminent.