Night falls on Blackspire.
The broken streets are dead silent.
Allen pulls his loose black cloak tight, the wide hood hiding his face. The narrow alleyway is flooded with sewage, filling the air with a sharp, disgusting smell.
At the end of the alley sits a shop. The entrance is messy. A lumpy wooden table holds a rusty iron hook. Piles of garbage are stacked nearby, with blood dripping to the floor. Above, a crooked sign bears four rusted, fading characters: Butcher's Meat Shop.
It looks like a shop that has long been abandoned.
Allen checks his surroundings carefully. Making sure no suspicious people are around, he walks to a small wooden door and knocks in a steady rhythm.
Bang. Bang.
"It's closed. Come back tomorrow if you want meat," a rough voice calls from inside.
Allen doesn't leave. Instead, he lowers his voice and whispers two words: "Selling blood."
Creak!
The old wooden door opens from the inside, revealing a hunched figure. Seeing Allen, a smile spreads across his face. He steps aside, making room. "Come in."
Allen has been here before, but every time he sees that man's smile, it sends a chill down his spine.
He gives a slight nod, steps to the side, and walks through the dark, long corridor.
"Hmm, the scent of prey," the hunched man murmurs, watching Allen's back disappear. He sticks out a bright red tongue and licks his lips.
...
Allen walks through the corridor, and suddenly, his view opens up. The air is thick with curses, wild laughter, and smoke, mixed with the smell of sweat.
This is an underground casino.
Allen frowns under his hood. He doesn't enter the gambling hall. Instead, he goes to the counter nearby.
A fat man with a thick, meaty face fills an entire chair. He leans back slightly, snoring softly. A lit, cheap cigarette hangs from his short, thick fingers.
Allen stands still at the counter, watching the small flame burn down the cigarette, making no move.
"Ouch!"
A cry of pain breaks the silence. The hot ash burned the man's finger. The fat man nearly jumps out of his chair, his jowls shaking violently.
He flings the cigarette away and finally notices Allen, startled.
"A special guest? You're back again?" The fat man's jowls bunch up as he forces a smile, looking like he's seen God himself.
"Selling blood," Allen says again, his voice low. He rolls up his sleeve just enough to reveal a pale, white arm, placing it on the dirty counter.
The fat man looked shocked. "Guest, if I'm not mistaken, you've come five times this month?"
"Will you take it or not?" Allen asked, his voice clearly impatient.
"I'll take it, I'll take it," the fat man said, forcing a wider smile. He grabbed a rusty iron box nearby. Inside, a cloud of foul-smelling liquid soaked a pile of crude medical tools.
He dipped his chubby, greasy hand into the mess, rummaged around, and pulled out a set of blood-letting tools.
"How much this time? Still 1000?" he asked while fiddling with the syringe.
"2000," Allen said coldly.
"2000?" The fat man froze. He looked up suspiciously, staring hard at Allen through narrowed eyes, trying to see through his disguise. All he could see was a patch of pale white skin on Allen's chin.
Frowning, he said, "Do you want to die? Losing 1000 ml of blood can be deadly for a normal person. Didn't you just give 1000 ml three days ago? If you take out another 2000, you'll definitely die."
Allen grew even more impatient. "You're not a believer anyway. If I don't care about my own life, why should you? Just do it."
"Heh, I'm just afraid of losing you, my moving blood pack," the fat man sighed with a bitter smile. "If you feel any discomfort, just tell me."
Allen was right. The fat man thought to himself: I'm a butcher. Thousands of innocent lives, if not tens of thousands, have died by my hands. People like me deserve to go straight to hell when they die.
With practiced ease, he inserted the needle into Allen's arm vein. Bright red blood began to flow through the soft tube, filling the plastic bag and slowly swelling it.
Soon, the 1000 ml plastic bag was full.
The fat man checked Allen, saw he wasn't trying to stop him, and quickly swapped in a new bag.
The speed of the blood flow slowed down significantly. He even started to wonder if all the blood in Allen's body had already been drained dry.
After a long wait, the second plastic bag finally filled up.
The fat man skillfully pulled out the needle. He grabbed a piece of yellowed cotton, dipped it into the cloudy alcohol, and pressed it against the wound on Allen's arm.
"Don't bother."
Allen quickly dodged. His body swayed unsteadily, and a wave of dizziness hit his head. It was a classic sign of too much blood loss.
Just then, a pool of green energy surged inside him. It flowed through his meridians and reached every limb. Instantly, the dizziness faded away.
Yet, Allen still acted weak, looking as if he were about to die.
"You have a germ phobia?" the fat man tossed the cotton aside. He rummaged through the cabinets below the counter, then slammed a bundle onto the wooden table. "Here's your payment."
Allen struggled to pick up the gold coins, feeling their weight in his hand. His voice was rough and weak. "There's too much."
"These extra 200 coins are a bonus. Use them to rebuild your body. Don't actually die on me," the fat man said. He pulled out a cigarette from his pocket and asked, pretending to care: "Can you walk? Should I send someone to escort you back?"
"Thanks, but I don't need it." Allen stuffed the coins into his wide cloak. He staggered, stumbled a few times, and then left.
Click.
The fat man flicked his lighter, lit his cigarette, took a deep drag, and slowly blew out a ring of smoke. He looked utterly satisfied. "He really is an interesting guy."
"Mason."
The fat man spoke softly. The hunched man suddenly appeared beside him.
Mason stared at the two fresh blood bags on the table, greedily licking his lips.
The fat man spoke calmly. "Save 100 ml for you. For this time, you must find where he lives."
"Yes." Mason answered, turned, and walked away.
The fat man picked up the blood bags from the table. He held them up to the dim light and whispered to himself, "Blood containing the power of life... that's so rare. Could that guy be a descendant of the Elves?"
...
The evening breeze blew as Allen left the shop. He let out a heavy breath, glanced back behind him, and then his steps became slightly lighter. He turned toward a different alleyway.
Squeak.
The old wooden door opened again, and Mason stepped out. He tilted his head back, looking at the crescent moon in the sky, and let out a low, rasping growl from deep in his throat.
Then, his body shook slightly. His mouth stretched long, and fur sprouted wildly across his face. In an instant, he transformed into a terrifying monster—a creature with a wolf's head and a man's body.
He was actually a Werewolf.
Mason twitched his nose, sniffing the air hard. He split his lips into a grin and said, "This guy runs fast. But this time, I'll definitely catch you."
He turned and rushed into the alley where Allen had vanished, disappearing in a few quick flashes.
Moments later, Mason appeared at the end of the alley. He stretched his nose out and sniffed hard again. "Why has the scent disappeared again? Did something cover it up?"
His eyes were sharp as lightning as he scanned the surroundings. Trash was piled everywhere, along with dirty, disgusting waste.
Even a tiny trace of scent couldn't escape his nose.
Mason still couldn't figure out how this guy had masked his smell and vanished into thin air.
"What a cunning bastard!" he cursed. He jumped onto a low wall to search the area carefully, but found nothing.
"Looks like I have to ask Lord Gamma for help." He sighed in resignation, then dashed off and vanished.
...
Deep in the night, an hour passed before Mason reappeared. His brow was furrowed, and fire burned in his eyes. "He's not here? Did someone really manage to shake my tracking? Damn it!"
For a weak human to escape his grasp over and over again felt like a slap in the face.
"You better pray you don't fall into my hands again!"
Mason vented his anger at the empty air, turned with deep reluctance, and left.
...
The night air was cool. The crescent moon had disappeared, leaving everything pitch black and silent. Occasionally, the squeaking sound of rats searching for food broke the quiet.
Splash!
Suddenly, the filthy ditch nearby churned. A figure sat up abruptly, coughing lightly.
The rats foraging nearby were scared and scattered in panic.
It was Allen.
He tore off his cloak, revealing a handsome face with black hair and dark eyes. However, his skin was a sickly pale.
"These guys are getting too tricky. But luckily, this should be my last time selling blood. 20,000 gold is enough to awaken my class." Allen whispered to himself. He hid his cloak in the trash pile, climbed over the low wall, and ran straight toward the distant, dilapidated slums.
He was an orphan who had grown up in this slum.
This world was filled with many races and monsters. Although humans were the nominal rulers, they were constantly fighting with other races, often leading to large-scale conflicts.
Humans could awaken their classes at 18 years old. Especially powerful combat classes were regarded almost like gods.