Alastor couldn't deny it—the surge of energy he had stolen from the woman he was supposed to sever himself from was like a splash of cold water in the morning.
He was more alert, his tiredness dissipated, his muscles relaxed, and the use of his magic effortless.
Beside him, Sixty-One noticed the glow emanating from beneath the material of Alastor's clothes.
The thorny vines, which had been small at first and served as protection, had become weapons.
With great speed, they shot out around him in all directions, surprising the vampires, whose chests they penetrated. Large holes were left behind where their hearts had been.
Alastor smiled, though none of the remaining vampires could see it. Their faces were a mixture of shock and anger.
Despite witnessing the downfall of their comrades, they charged forward anyway, surprising both Alastor and Sixty-One.
Just as he had killed the others before, Alastor dispatched them in the same way.
The last vampire died, torn into two pieces—an object of Alastor's experiment. Truly, with borrowed power, he was very strong.
Despite having only experienced it a few times, Alastor could see himself easily becoming addicted to the power, ever ready at his beck and call.
Unlike Alastor, who was still feeling the remnants of his surge of power, Sixty-One quickly ran towards his fallen comrade.
He dropped to his knees beside Sixty-Two, his breath catching as he whispered Sixty-Two's real name—a name known only to those raised in the same generation, before they had sworn secrecy and abandoned their identities.
Reduced to numbers, they were trained to be fierce, bloodthirsty assassins.
"Is this the first time you've lost a team member?" Alastor asked. From where he stood, Alastor could see Sixty-One's back shaking slightly. Crying.
"Why?" Sixty-One asked, anger audible in his voice.
"Hmm? Why what?" Alastor replied, the only one between them still wearing a wooden mask.
Sixty-One turned aggressively, Sixty-Two in his arms. His young face, no more than sixteen, was wide-eyed and wet with tears.
"If you could do that, why didn't you do it sooner?! If you had, he would still be alive! We could have gone home together!" he shouted, his voice echoing in the tomb.
Alastor glanced sideways. Considering the power was borrowed from someone he didn't know—and could have endangered them as much as it endangered him—Alastor had treated it as a last resort. He hadn't expected Sixty-Two to die; everything had happened so fast. But how could he explain that without sharing too much of his personal life?
"Answer me!" Sixty-One exclaimed, his words dripping with hurt.
"I'm sorry for your loss, but my reasons are mine alone," Alastor answered, his voice colder than intended.
After years of seeing those he cared for die, Alastor had simply grown detached from the casualties of battle and its pain.
"I deserve an explanation, you asshole! You could have prevented this, but you didn't!"
Alastor's eyes narrowed, slightly annoyed. He understood that Sixty-One was hurting, mourning a friend who had died on his first mission. But surely, they knew what they had signed up for. Just as there was a last, there was always a first.
"You deserve nothing," Alastor replied.
Sixty-One stood up and, with amazing speed, charged at Alastor. Without his mask, Alastor could see the tears streaming down his cheeks.
How Sixty-One thought he could manage an attack with the beam of a flashlight directed at his face, Alastor wasn't sure. But he wasn't impressed.
"Soldier! Stop!"
A sharp order echoed through the tomb. The familiar yet foreign voice was so unexpected that Alastor felt his heart jump in his chest.
Sixty-One stopped so abruptly he fell face-first onto the floor.
There, standing just inside the room, was Waren. His face was covered by the white fox mask, the silver pattern of a golden crack unmistakable.
"Commander," Alastor said, acknowledging his presence. Sixty-One scrambled to his feet.
"Commander," he echoed, bowing his head.
Realising he had left his mask beside Sixty-Two—a taboo for a Black Opt—he hesitated.
"What is this? Attacking your senior? Taking off your mask? Losing control of your emotions? Perhaps the training isn't grueling enough. Could it be that?" Waren—Number Two—simply lifted his hand and made a fist.
Sixty-One was raised off the ground, his body suspended in the air, choking as his lungs were crushed by an unforgiving force. A sensation Alastor knew all too well. Still, he said nothing.
"Useless," Waren said, tossing him to the ground like a wooden puppet. Sixty-One inhaled sharply, breathing quickly. He scrambled to retrieve his mask and put it on.
"M-my apologies, Commander. I was—"
"Silence!" Waren commanded sharply. "Take Sixty-Two and wait outside."
Without a beat, Sixty-one did just that. He tossed Sixty-two's lifeless body onto his shoulders, then quickly walked out. His footsteps faded away as both Alastor and Waren waited patiently.
"This is most uncommon," Alastor said, starting the conversation. Waren sighed, "Such news is most uncommon as well. I had to come as soon as possible. The Blood Trials will commence as planned," he said.
Alastor blinked at that, shocked. "But... but... the second prince! He's unwell!" Alastor pointed out. Saying 'unwell' was being generous. "Is the High Lady expecting me to go through the trial in his stead? For how long is she planning on keeping this lie?"
"I can imagine not as long as you would think," Waren said. He moved towards the boulder and then sat on it. In the dark, like a ghost with a white face. Alastor moved to sit not far from him.
"His illness is cured, Twenty-three," Waren said after a few seconds.
"What?" Alastor leaned closer. "But there's no cure for blood poisoning!" he exclaimed. After pretending to be the second prince his whole life, Alastor thought he was going to start living at the palace.
Having lived through multiple assassination attempts as well as living his own life as an Opt, he had grown used to living a double life.
"They found a Witch Doctor who created a medicine that is so powerful... it can cure any disease, illness, or wound. No matter how great, no matter how close a person is to death, they can still be saved," Waren explained. His words were so unbelievable, Alastor couldn't even imagine it. It was more like a fairytale told by an avid dreamer.
"Surely such a thing doesn't exist," Alastor said.
"I didn't believe it myself, but I've seen him. I've seen Prince Caspian; he's no longer the sickly man he once was. Color has returned to his skin, his eyes bright, his body stronger, his voice steadier... it is a sign of bloodshed within the Palace walls." Waren warned, the depth of his voice holding a foreboding tone.
Soon, the Black Opt would have to choose their allegiance. But having been created by the Fitzroy family during the Great Black War decades ago, it was clear where their loyalty lies.
The second Prince.
"Has the High Lady of Empire summoned me? Shall I go and offer my visit?" Alastor asked.
"No. No need. That's why I've come here personally to notify you of the sudden change. The High Lady wishes to keep the status quo until the second Prince has fully recovered.
He will be attending Solforge Keep Academy as a son of a new Lord," Waren explained as he stood up.
Alastor looked on silently.
"The High Lady of Empire expects you to befriend him and to keep him close. Make sure he knows his way and help him with whatever he needs. Don't let him get into any trouble. Train him for the Black Opt trial," he said, the last bit just as surprising as everything else, if not more.
Royalty or any other Lords or Masters of the land did not join the Opt. It was reserved for the lowest of the low.
Those who were stained by blood and disposable, fought for their own lives as they were thrown into the most brutal of battles.
"It is... unheard of," Alastor simply replied.
"It is indeed. But the Opt are trained to survive and taught to use unconventional methods. It's the perfect set of skills to survive the Blood Trials as well as life inside the Palace," Waren pointed out. "Tell me, how many times have you survived an attempt on your life? Were you not an Opt, would you have survived?" he asked.
"No," Alastor answered without a doubt. Although he couldn't credit his survival only to the training they provided.
It was also years of experience and learning on the field that had helped him manage the brutal attempts.
Whether the Prince would survive solely depended on his own wit and speed. But Alastor kept it to himself.
"Then that matter is settled," Waren said.
"Is there anything else you want me to do?" Alastor asked while remembering the pretty, frail boy who lay sick on his bed.
Trying to imagine training him and watching him go through the horrible, torture-like training of the Opt. It would not be easy.
"No. Nothing. This means you won't be sent on any more field trips. This is your primary mission. The race for the throne has finally started. So make sure you keep your eyes open," Waren answered sharply.
He began to walk towards the exit, leaving Alastor behind without waiting for an answer.