By now, Dylan was almost certain that the vampire stalking him was none other than Hank Hahn. Though he couldn't fathom how a vampire of such low lineage had suddenly gained abilities, the situation was undeniably unfavorable for him—especially with Richard lying unconscious beneath the tree.
Closing his eyes once more, Dylan focused intently, attuning his senses to the slightest disturbances in his surroundings.
Hank, having failed twice, was growing increasingly impatient. Seeing Dylan heighten his defenses, he hesitated, unwilling to move in too close. But as frustration mounted, a new thought took hold: he needed to end this quickly.
Seizing the moment, Hank tightened his grip on the dagger and lunged toward Dylan's face.
Again, he couldn't fully conceal his murderous intent. Dylan's eyes snapped open, and he lashed out with a swift kick in the direction of the blade's glint. Caught off guard, Hank couldn't evade in time—the kick landed squarely.
A pained groan echoed through the air, and the ground ahead bore the mark of something heavy hitting the earth. For a brief moment, a vampire wielding a dagger, his face twisted with malice, was exposed.
Though he vanished again almost immediately, it was long enough for Dylan to recognize him.
"Hank Hahn!" Dylan growled through clenched teeth.
So, it was him—the vampire who had once promised to build a wooden stage. Memories of Hank's deceit and exploitation surged through Dylan, his crimson eyes blazing with fury.
At the same time, Dylan noticed something else: the rain-soaked, softened ground bore faint, irregular imprints. A flicker of hope ignited within him. It seemed Hank's newfound ability wasn't yet fully mastered; he was leaving obvious traces without even realizing it.
Using his peripheral vision, Dylan subtly tracked the new imprints, feigning ignorance. As the marks crept closer, he suddenly struck, his hand clawing through the air.
The unexpected attack caught Hank off guard. Dylan's claw found its mark, but his youth and inexperience betrayed him. Before he could follow up, Hank retaliated, slashing his dagger toward Dylan's eyes.
Dylan dodged just in time, though the blade grazed his leather jacket.
When he turned to locate Hank again, the imprints on the ground had vanished. No new marks appeared.
Regret gnawed at Dylan. Hank must have noticed the footprints and adjusted his approach. Now, fully concealed, he was nowhere to be sensed. Dylan knew Hank hadn't left—he simply wouldn't expose himself so easily again.
But where was he hiding?
Hank, indeed, had slipped away. Realizing the rain-softened ground betrayed his movements, he'd opted for a different strategy. The forest was dense, the trees closely spaced. Leaping from one to another, he could move silently and swiftly. If Dylan Morris was proving too troublesome, perhaps it was time to focus on the unconscious Richard Morris instead.
Climbing swiftly, Hank positioned himself in a tree directly above Richard's prone form…