The clamor of Silvermoon Valley faded far behind as Len trudged, his body heavy with exhaustion, into the desolate stretch of land known as the Eternal Dusk.
This was the borderland between Wolf Clan territory and the Vampire domains, a place deliberately forgotten by both sides. The sky was perpetually shrouded in a gray haze, sunlight struggled to pierce through, and even the moonlight here felt colder, more desolate. Twisted, barren trees reached for the sky like the arms of the dying, while the ground was littered with heavily weathered bones and the nests of unknown creatures.
Len's "home" was a crude dugout near the edge of the Darkwood. A few slanted planks formed a frame, covered with scavenged tarps and dried moss, barely offering shelter from the wind and rain. The entrance was hidden behind a thicket of dead thorns, a result of years of careful effort.
He pushed aside the camouflage and bent down to enter the dugout. The interior was cramped, just enough space for him to lie down. A pile of dry grass in the corner served as a bed; a chipped earthenware jar collected rainwater; a few flint stones and a sharpened bone knife were his only possessions.
Moonlight filtered through gaps in the tarp, casting mottled patterns on the ground.
Len leaned against the cold earthen wall, letting out a slow, heavy breath. The scene of humiliation at the altar replayed in his mind—Ron's foot on his face, Alvira's indifferent gaze like an ice pick to his heart.
He closed his eyes, and the fragmented melody of his mother's singing seemed to whisper in his ear. It was a gentle voice, always tinged with sorrow, humming an ancient Wolf Clan lullaby. In his memories, his mother was always pale, her eyes holding an unfathomable sadness, her cool fingers gently stroking his forehead.
"Your bloodline is not a curse, my child..." she had once said, her voice weak but firm. "It is a unique gift..."
But the reality was that this "gift" had brought him nothing but pain and rejection. The Wolf Clan saw him as a half-breed defiling their bloodline; the Vampires considered him an inferior hybrid. He was like a living mistake, his existence solely to remind both races of a past they wished to forget.
The blood within him began to stir restlessly again. The full moon was approaching, and that familiar, suffocating sense of tearing was slowly building. Every full moon was a trial of life and death, the two bloodlines warring within him, vying for dominance.
He curled up, pressing his forehead against his knees, trying to suppress the churning power. Sweat beaded on his temple and dripped onto the dry grass, leaving dark stains.
Suddenly, a sound came from outside the dugout—the snap of a dry twig being stepped on.
Len instantly went alert, grabbing the bone knife, holding his breath. Peering through the gaps in the thorns, he saw several shadowy figures approaching.
"The half-breed must be hiding around here somewhere," a rough voice said. "Young Master Ron said to give him a 'special greeting' tonight."
"Tch, this damned place, even rats wouldn't want to stay," another voice complained.
Len recognized them—Ron's lackeys, three young wolves who often found entertainment in tormenting him. Clearly, the humiliation at the altar wasn't enough; they planned to continue their "fun."
His grip tightened on the bone knife, knuckles white. On a normal day, he might have chosen to endure, wait for them to leave on their own. But tonight, the scene at the altar still burned in his nerves, and the restless blood within him made it harder than usual to control his emotions.
A strange impulse stirred in his heart.
Why not fight back?
The thought, once born, spread like wildfire. Why should he always endure this? Why should he hide like a rat in a sewer?
The wolves outside were already at the entrance to his dugout, kicking aside the dead thorns.
"Found you, little half-breed!" the lead wolf, Gray, sneered, reaching to yank away the tarp.
In that instant, Len made his decision.
He would hide no longer.