Eduardo
Unknown
Unknown
Unknown
I awoke to the cold bite of silver chains, their mystical properties searing into my flesh, suppressing my vampiric strength, and severing my connection to mana. The dull ache settled into something deeper—a relentless burn that gnawed at my very essence. I gritted my teeth, forcing myself to endure the pain. Any sudden movement only worsened the agony.
My gaze swept the dimly lit chamber, and I saw Carmen and Jose bound alongside me. Jose, a Grandmaster-ranked vampire, had been restrained more severely than either of us, his bindings layered with additional enchantments. The scent of scorched skin and singed blood filled the air. I pulled against the chains on instinct, but the surge of pain nearly tore a scream from my throat. Instead, I bit down hard on my lip, fangs piercing through, the taste of my own blood sharpening my senses.
Then I noticed him.
Standing just beyond the rusted iron bars, watching us with a gaze that held neither pity nor amusement, was Anton—the old man who had bested me in battle.
He was clad in a crimson robe adorned with cryptic sigils, the symbols woven into the fabric pulsing faintly with power. I knew little of the deeper mysteries of the arcane, but even I recognized the signs of forbidden rituals—the kind that used vampires as sacrificial components. A sickening realization slithered through me.
Is that what he intends to do with us?
Anton exhaled a slow, measured breath. "You're awake," he said, his voice carrying the weight of certainty as if he had known I would survive. His eyes glinted with something unreadable. "That Old Blood of yours must come in handy, huh, Mircalla?"
The sound of my mother's maiden name on his tongue sent a ripple of unease through me. He was taunting me. Testing me.
Unlike Carmen and Jose—both turned vampires, whose ties to the ancient lineage had long been diluted—I was born into the darkness. My blood carried the legacy of the First Progenitors. The silver stake buried in my side was agonizing, and the chains rendered me immobile, but they were not lethal. Not to royal blood like mine.
Silver could kill newbloods like Carmen. Even older vampires, those whose lineage had weakened over generations, could be mortally wounded by prolonged exposure.
But for those of us closest to the origin—those whose blood still carried the echoes of the ancestors who birthed our race—silver was a mere hindrance. A tormentor, but not an executioner.
No, to kill one of my kind required something far rarer.
Something long thought lost in a world where vampires ruled.
"If you know who I am, then why attack?" I demanded, trying to keep my voice steady despite the pain coursing through my body. "You must realize how foolish it is to strike against one of royal lineage."
I hoped the weight of my bloodline, and the reputation of the Royal Houses, would be enough to dissuade him—to buy us time, at the very least.
Anton chuckled, a low, knowing sound. Then he laughed outright, the sound devoid of humor. "Hmm… Hahaha. Nice try," he said, his sharp gaze cutting through my feigned confidence. "But I do not fear the Divine Mother of your kind. No… I serve a god far greater than yours. One far more ancient than your so-called goddess."
I had no response to that.
I wasn't religious. Never had been. My knowledge of the gods was limited to two—the Divine Mother, who was said to await her children in Shelol, the afterlife of the vampire race, and the Merciless Light, who had been defeated when the Eternal Night was cast.
Beyond them? I knew nothing.
But in this era—an age where Ascendants wielded power beyond comprehension—anyone could be worshiped as a god.
Take the Dark Lord, Laplace, for example. Thousands of years had passed since his fall, yet even now, some still whispered his name in reverence.
Who's to say this human wasn't another one of those fanatics?
A sharp pang shot through my body, dragging me back to the present. My breathing grew ragged, the pain intensifying with each second. I had hardly fed, and the synthblood I had consumed ages ago was nowhere near enough to sustain me. The drug—whatever it was—had further drained what little strength I had left.
Verbena.
The realization settled over me like a death sentence. The herb, much like silver, was notorious for suppressing vampires—even royal blood like mine. I clenched my teeth. I wasn't strong enough to resist both.
"Then… what do you want from us?" I managed, forcing the words out between ragged breaths.
Anton's expression darkened, and when he spoke, it was with the conviction of a zealot.
"The time has come for our Savior to descend upon this world," he said. "The one who will usher in a new dawn. But for that to happen…" He tilted his head, eyes gleaming in the dim light. "Sacrifices must be made. And what greater sacrifice than one who carries the blood of the Elder Race?"
In other words, me.
His footsteps echoed as he turned and walked away, leaving me to ruminate on my impending fate.
I shifted, the silver chains biting deeper into my skin as I struggled to find a position that didn't worsen the pain. My instincts screamed at me to circulate my mana, to fight against the suppression, but every attempt was met with a violent rebound—the silver doing its job all too well.
A low groan drew my attention.
Finally, Carmen stirred, regaining consciousness first—likely due to the lighter silver restraints used on her. Moments later, Jose followed, his awakening slower, burdened by the sheer weight of the chains binding him. He was bound even more than me. And that alone told me one thing. Anton knew exactly who the biggest threat in this room was.
"What happened... Urgh! Where are we, Your Highness?" Carmen groaned, her voice weak as she stirred. She tried to move, but the silver chains held her fast, searing her flesh and suppressing her strength.
"It seems we've been captured by a bunch of crazy, demented humans," Jose muttered, his voice barely above a whisper. His tone was bitter, edged with disbelief. "Who would've thought a mere Manaborn human could take down someone of royal lineage like you, Prince?"
I grimaced. He wasn't wrong. If my father were to learn of this humiliation, my survival would be short-lived. The ruler of Xibalba had no tolerance for weakness.
For centuries, he had tried to beat it out of me, molding me into the heir he wanted. But I had failed him in every way. I had not inherited even a single ability factor from my mother's bloodline. Nor had I awakened the arcane gifts of my father's lineage. To him, I was a disappointment. And now? Captured. Powerless. At the mercy of humans. I could already hear his scorn.
"He was of the Grandmaster realm," I rasped, my throat dry and raw. "Just like you, Jose. Just because he was human… doesn't mean we should have underestimated him."
Never again.
Jose exhaled sharply. "Nice words," he said. "Not that they matter when we're about to die."
I had no answer for that.
For a while, we remained in suffocating silence, each of us shackled by more than just chains. Then, the sound of approaching footsteps echoed through the chamber. A group of figures entered the cell, draped in crimson robes embroidered with strange symbols.
The air grew heavy. Verbena. The sickly, cloying scent hit us in waves, its potency further weakening our already battered bodies. They moved toward Carmen. The second I realized their intent, a snarl tore from my lips, instinct overriding reason as I tried to lunge forward. But before I could do anything, a brutal strike cracked against the side of my head.
My vision blurred. The world tilted, colors bleeding into one another. I barely felt them unshackle me, only to replace the chains with reinforced cuffs, my body dragged unceremoniously from the cell.
By the time my senses realigned, I was somewhere else. A ritual chamber—open, vast, illuminated by flickering torches. A platform stood at its center. I knelt, bound by silver chains that fastened my wrists to the cold stone beneath me. No matter how much I struggled, the metal burned into my skin, stripping me of my strength.
I wasn't alone. Carmen stood nearby, bound to a wooden pole. At her feet, logs and kindling had been meticulously arranged. A pyre. They were going to burn her. A shadow loomed in front of me.
Anton.
His expression was different now. Madness gleamed in his eyes—a fanatic's devotion shining in their depths.
"You should say your goodbyes," he said.
He turned away from me then, raising a dark chalice high above his head. The gathered cultists watched in solemn reverence, their crimson hoods casting deep shadows over their faces.
"I give thanks to the Reapers of Sheoloth," Anton proclaimed, voice thick with fervor. "The keepers of lost souls, the servants of Maveth—the Sovereign of Sheoloth, the land of the dead. And in their name, I offer this sacrifice of Infernal power."
A gleam of silver. A swift, precise stroke. The blade sliced across Carmen's throat. Her blood gushed into the chalice, dark and glistening under the flickering torchlight. And then—
The flames came.
A torch was cast upon the pyre, igniting it instantly. Fire roared to life, licking hungrily at the wood, climbing toward Carmen's helpless form.
I watched in horror as the fire engulfed her. Even with her throat slit, she screamed—a sound raw, agonized, inhuman—as the flames devoured her flesh. A sharp, unfamiliar pain twisted deep in my chest, but I didn't let it show. I couldn't. I had learned long ago to vanquish such emotions. To bury them. To survive.
As Carmen burned, a shift in the air sent a shiver through my bones. A presence had descended upon the chamber, unseen but undeniable—like the weight of an ancient force pressing down on reality itself.
Then I saw it. A passage, yawning open like a tear in the veil of existence. From its depths emerged a shadowed figure, its form shifting and amorphous, leading an orb of light through the rift. A soul. Carmen's Infernal soul. I recognized it instantly. A servant of Death had come to claim her, guiding her toward Shelol—the afterlife of our kind. Even Vampires—the so-called Immortal race—were not beyond the reach of death.
I had learned this lesson decades ago, when my twin, Alejandro, met his end. But watching it unfold before my eyes now—seeing the evidence of our mortality in real time—etched that truth even deeper into my soul. Anton, unbothered by the specter of Death itself, carefully set aside the chalice filled with Carmen's blood. Then, he produced a new chalice, its silver gleaming under the dim torchlight.
"Bring the other one," he ordered.
The chamber doors opened once more, and Jose was dragged in. More chains than I could count wrapped around him—silver links glistening as they cut into his flesh. He fought savagely, desperation making him reckless, his body writhing like a trapped beast. But the verbena incense hung thick in the air, dulling his senses, sapping his strength. His Ascendant abilities—the very thing that made him a force to be reckoned with—were rendered useless.
For the first time in a long time, Jose was no more powerful than a mundane.
"This… this is all your fault!" he barked, his voice raw with fury and despair.
They bound him to the pole, just as they had done with Carmen.
Anton lifted his chalice once again, offering his prayers to the dark god he served. No…
Not a god.
I had pieced it together now, from the whispers, from the symbols, from the weight of the entity looming over us. They worshipped Death itself. Jose trembled. His eyes darted around, as if searching for something—anything—that could save him. For the first time in all the years I had known him, Jose was afraid.
"I… I curse you, Prince!" His voice cracked. "I curse you!"
The aura of finality pressed against us. The inevitability of mortality weighed down the chamber, suffocating. Jose spat at me, blood and saliva splattering across my cheek, dripping down my skin. But I did not move. I did not react. Emotions were a luxury I had long since learned to suppress.
I had known my journey to Ashtarium would be dangerous. But never—not once—had I considered that my greatest threat would come from humans. A race I had deemed weak. Useless. Beneath me. And yet, here I was. Bound. Powerless. Defeated. Jose's throat was cut, his lifeblood spilling into the waiting chalice.
The flames followed. His scream tore through the chamber, raw and visceral, before the fire swallowed it whole. The scent of burning flesh invaded my nostrils.
And then, I knew. It was my turn. But before they could move me to the pyre, a sudden impact struck the side of my skull. A flash of pain.
Darkness.
And then—
I awoke. The world around me had changed. The Salted Lands stretched before me, barren and empty, their desolation mirroring the hollowness in my chest. I was unchained. Beside me lay a bag of blood, along with a small supply kit—just enough to sustain me on the road to the next Regional Dome.
They had spared me.
I remained on my knees, unmoving, my fingers digging into the salted earth beneath me. The realization of my survival tightened around my throat like a noose. I had been spared. But instead of relief…
All I felt was disgust. And it clawed at me from the inside, threatening to devour me whole.