"Predators don't complain about the bite. They bite back."
– Iserath Codex, Vol. II
---
At five years old, Julius Iserath received his first combat lesson.
Not with a blade.
Not with a noble saber or a silver rapier.
No.
With his own claws.
He had grown quickly. Too quickly for a human. Too slowly for a vampire.
His body, though seemingly fragile, already held a supernatural energy few in the manor suspected.
Thanks to Archeognosis, every day spent watching the servants, listening to the elders, and reading forgotten scrolls in secret…
became a compressed year of learning.
But theory alone wasn't enough.
And his father knew it.
The training ground for young purebloods lay beneath the Hall of Judgment
a circular, ancient chamber carved into natural stone, where raw mana floated like an invisible mist.
That's where they brought him that evening.
In silence.
Valemir stood waiting, cloaked in shadow, face as motionless as stone.
Behind him, a broad man with a bare chest and noticeable fangs even at rest.
His arms were marked with old scars, and his golden eyes burned with instinct.
"This is Malkar. Your trainer."
Not your master.
Not your mentor.
Trainer. As one would forge a weapon, shape a creature, or refine a skill.
Malkar stepped forward.
Julius felt the weight of the room shift. A dense pressure. As though the stone itself held its breath.
The vampire knelt. Then offered him an obsidian dagger.
"Cut your palm."
Julius stared at him.
No explanation. No ritual.
But he understood.
This was the beginning.
He took the dagger.
It was cold. Heavy. Strange.
He inhaled.
Then, calmly, he drew it across his palm.
His blood flowed. Deep red, nearly black.
And then… something stirred.
A heat, deep and unfamiliar.
Not in the skin. Not in the nerves.
In the bone. In the core.
His fingernails began to lengthen slowly, sharply like living glass drawn from within.
Malkar gave a brief nod.
"Claws confirmed.
You'll learn to fight like a true vampire.
Not with swords. Not with clever words.
With the instincts and tools nature gave you."
"And if you fall..."
"...then it simply means you weren't ready."
---
That was the first night.
The first of many more.
---
He wasn't taught to strike.
He was taught to track.
To sense fear in the air.
To hear a heartbeat before it moved.
To leap without hesitation.
To react without delay.
His hands ached every night.
His claws wore down, regrew, then wore down again.
And in troubled sleep, Julius dreamed...
...of jungle.
...of tournaments.
...of strategic victories on flat screens.
And each time he woke, a single thought returned, deeper than before:
"If I want to survive here... I'll have to win without ever playing by their rules."