"Move out, people!" he bellowed, his voice cutting through the chaos like steel on stone. With a smooth motion, he unsheathed his second blade, the tal flashing under the dim lights as he now stood dual-wielding both swords.
The sudden clash drew more attention. From the other rooms, suited vampires poured in—staff mbers of the establishnt, still in their work attire, their polished composure replaced by cold, predatory intent.
"I’ll take left, you take right," Corven ordered, voice sharp as a commander’s.
"Got it."
Blood surged through Corven’s veins. With a flick of his wrist, crimson energy solidified in his grasp, forming a sword of living blood. The weapon pulsed faintly, almost alive, as he dove into battle.
It wasn’t much of a fight—not compared to the Corven of the past. These minor vampires weren’t even obstacles. They barely registered as threats, their movents sluggish to his sharpened senses.
"When did you get so strong...?" the rcenary asked, his clothes soaked in gore as ten vampires lay butchered at his feet.
Corven didn’t answer. His gaze lingered, his mind more fixated on the rcenary’s unnatural endurance than on the corpses around them.
"How...?" he finally muttered.
"How I took them all on? It’s called experience, boss," the rcenary replied with a grim half-smile.
Another vampire lunged from behind, fangs bared.
"Watch out!"
Corven moved to intercept, but before he could, the rcenary’s pupils shifted—subtly, unnervingly—turning a faint shade of violet.
SLASH!
He moved faster than Corven could track. The sound of his strike was wrong—not the clean ring of steel, but sothing distorted, warped, almost digital.
The vampire fell in two neat halves, no blood spilling from the wound as if the blade had severed more than flesh.
"I got it!" the rcenary called out, his voice laced with casual confidence.
Corven’s eyes narrowed. That sword... was far more dangerous than it appeared.
"What are you?" he asked quietly.
"Never heard of a warlock before?" The rcenary grinned, his left eye veined with crimson and violet corruption. The unnatural pattern pulsed faintly, a mark of sothing dark and otherworldly.
But just as quickly as it had appeared, it vanished—the eye returning to normal as if nothing had happened.
"Make a deal with a devil... or a demon. Take your pick. Hell, maybe even a fairy if you’re feeling reckless." He chuckled darkly. "And in return? You get their power."
"Surprised you’ve never heard about us."
"No, no... I’m familiar... I think." Corven’s voice was uncertain, but recognition stirred. The explanation fit—like the warlocks from old tabletop gas: forge a pact, gain power... and suffer the price.
He almost forgot that beyond the thick vampiric atmosphere of Urzen, this world was still built on the bones of a classic fantasy realm. A realm worth exploring.
But now wasn’t the ti.
’No. Focus on the task at hand.’
"Anyway, let’s continue," Corven said, his eyes sweeping the room for any sign of the widow.
"Why do you think they captured her?"
"Probably to make her a progeny for so high-tier vampire. A beautiful progeny is worth a fortune to the ancient ones," the rcenary replied, stepping behind the counter. His hands moved thodically, feeling along the shelves and counters for hidden chanisms.
Corven fell silent. It was monts like this that reminded him how truly dark this world was beneath its allure.
"What are you looking for? Why would they hide sothing like that here? In a place full of vampires, wouldn’t it be... commonplace?" Corven joined him, scanning the counter.
"It’s because they think it looks cool," the rcenary said flatly. His hand landed on a bottle filled with crimson liquid.
CLICK.
The sound ca from another room—a hollow echo beneath the pub’s usual din.
"I guess we found our entrance."
"Let’s not waste ti."
With a nod, the rcenary vaulted over the counter and sprinted toward the sound.
Deeper into the pub, the path was eerily empty. No guards remained—those who had been here earlier were already corpses on the floor.
The room they entered looked unremarkable... save for the gaping hole in the floor. From below rose the murmur of dozens of voices.
"These nightlovers and their obsession with trapdoors," the rcenary muttered, then glanced at Corven. "No offense, of course."
Corven shot him a look that could only an, Seriously?
"None taken."
"As for getting down there... that fall isn’t made for soone like . It’s built for your kind."
Corven stepped up to the edge. "So you’re stopping here?"
"Course not. You go first. I’ll... have a little chat with my patron."
For a mont, the space around him darkened unnaturally, the shadows bending toward his fra like moths to fla. A whisper, low and wet with syllables Corven couldn’t place.
Corven nodded once. "See you on the other side."
And he jumped.
The drop was brutal. The air howled past his ears, the darkness rushing up to et him. He fell for a full five seconds before slamming into solid ground.
FWOOSH.
Dust exploded upward, clogging his mouth and eyes.
"Dammit..." He waved it away, scanning his surroundings.
It was a cave. But not just a cave.
A few paces ahead, a massive stage stood illuminated. Humans—young, bound, blindfolded—were lined up in neat rows.
Dozens of vampires surrounded them, voices raised in frenzied bidding.
Their eyes glead like knives catching light, lips curling to expose glistening fangs. So lounged back with the easy posture of wealth, while others leaned forward, hands twitching as if they could already feel the warmth of living skin beneath their claws. The air slled of perfu and hunger.
"Fifty silver!"
"Seventy silver!"
Each shout was aid at the trembling figure in the center.
On the stage stood the host—oddly, a human. He wore a sharp black suit, a massive fur coat draped over his shoulders, and a top hat that practically scread "villain." His curled moustache completed the caricature.
"Sold to the handso vampire on the left!" the host bellowed, pointing his cane dramatically. "And now, for a fresh batch I know you’ll all enjoy!"
Corven tensed. His pupils narrowed, glowing faintly.
Another human entered, dressed like the host, dragging a wheeled cage covered with a curtain.
A faint, familiar scent pricked at Corven’s senses — worn linen, dried tears, and the thin tallic tang of blood. His chest tightened. Even before the curtain moved, so deep, unspoken part of him knew.
"Feast your eyes!"
The curtain dropped.
The widow.
She was disheveled, malnourished... and alone. The child was nowhere in sight.
Corven’s blood boiled. His hands clenched into fists.
FWOOSH.
The rcenary descended from above, demonic wings unfurled, his corrupted eye once again glowing with unnatural veins.
"Did anything happen—" He froze, seeing Corven’s expression. Then his gaze followed Corven’s to the stage.
His jaw tightened. "I’ll handle them for you..."
He launched himself toward the betting crowd, wings slicing the air.
But Corven didn’t move. His body trembled—not from fear, but from the crushing weight of recognition.
This was the price of his absence. The result of neglect. A promise broken... all because he couldn’t bring himself to stay in that small village a little longer.
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