If the act of being born is a miracle, what comes after this miracle? That is the question all people yearn to answer.
The Merciful One crafted us in His image, yet with this gift, we act as though we are monsters. Abominations.
Demons.
The sky hung low, dark clouds choking the horizon while a thick veil of mist blanketed the forsaken city of Lamperouge.
They call it the City of Love.
A romantic notion, given the lore of an angel and a demon birthing their first child here.
But anyone who has walked these streets knows the truth: Lamperouge is a city of contradictions, where beauty and despair intertwine like lovers in a tragic dance.
Crumbling stone buildings lined the narrow streets, their surfaces etched with faded carvings of wings and flames, remnants of the city's divine history.
Pipes ran along the exteriors, leaking steam that hissed into the cold air, giving the city an eerie heartbeat.
The newer districts, where clock towers loomed over glass-paneled shops, sat in stark contrast to the old, as if the past and present were waging a quiet war.
People bustled past me, faces drawn, eyes fixed downward.
They hurried through the mist as if afraid it might notice them. To them, I was no more than a ghost.
Well... I was a ghost, but hey, I thought they could still see me.
I had just lost my life, that so-called miracle. But I knew all too well: I wasn't done yet.
Standing in the City of Love, now cloaked in darkness, I reached out to touch the cool stone of a nearby wall.
Cracks ran through it, spreading like veins, but the wall still stood firm, shielding the city from the monsters beyond.
Blood suddenly rained from the sky. Not a storm—just me. Only I was drenched. The crimson liquid seeped into my skin, and I felt my body begin to rebuild itself.
Skin knitted together, bones strengthened, and even my clothes reformed, piece by piece.
My sword appeared at my side—silver blade, gold hilt, gleaming as if freshly forged.
My battered brown jacket, stitched with scraps of monsters I'd slain, returned to its rightful place on my shoulders.
And then, of course, there was my face.
Ah, yes. My short, curly black hair fell just past my eyes—well, where my eyes would be if they had finished healing.
My lovely brown eyes, capable of charming any woman, they'd say.
My tan skin, smooth and radiant, perfect for modeling if I ever cared to try.
I was a beautiful creature. Truly above most.
As I admired my restored self, I caught movement from the corner of my vision—or lack thereof.
A woman in her mid-thirties stood nearby, clutching her purse like it was her last lifeline. Her wide-eyed stare locked onto me.
"What?" I said, voice casual. "Never seen a man use blood magic to heal himself from being a soul and then look back at a woman staring at him?"
She blinked, her face blank—or so I assumed. I still couldn't see, and instead had to rely on reading her soul.
"No," she said finally, "but I think you might want to, uh... look down and give yourself some eyes first."
She walked away, heels clicking against the damp cobblestones. I paused, puzzled, until my eyes finally forged themselves.
Oh.
I was naked.
I'd been so focused on reforming my body that I'd forgotten to make pants. Or underwear.
"Great," I muttered.
Gripping my silver blade, I sliced through the residual blood that had pooled in the air around me, redirecting its healing magic.
Stabbing myself in the gut, I forced the blood to coalesce into a pair of pants, which my wound healed along with.
Finally decent, I sighed and looked around.
The city loomed dark and foreboding, its streets eerily quiet despite the people walking them.
The air was heavy, a storm of chaos brewing just out of sight.
"This town is about to be destroyed," I said, brushing off my jacket. "Guess I'll have to save it."
I reached into my jacket pocket and pulled out my watch. Shaking my head, I sighed.
"It's the fourteenth hour. Already so dark... fitting for a city about to be ravaged."
The reason I'd nearly died was still fresh in my mind—a vampire. And not just any vampire, but one with strength far beyond the norm.
He was still out there, and the thought of him roaming free made my stomach churn.
I made my way to the heart of the city, eyes scanning for any signs of foul play.
The streets were alive with their usual chaos: humans bustling past beastfolk, people with hair like fire and bodies sculpted from stone.
Lamperouge, in all its bizarre glory.
"This is going to be a nightmare," I muttered under my breath, feeling the weight of the task ahead.
Even now, I could sense them—vampires. At least six thousand in this district alone, each one a potential threat.
Spotting a group of teenage girls standing under a flickering streetlamp, I approached.
They were dressed in skimpy outfits, cat ears perched on their heads.
Funnily enough, they weren't vampires at all. Werewolves.
"Hey," I said, keeping my tone casual. "Have you seen a vampire with slicked-back black hair and red eyes?"
They gave me looks that screamed annoyance. The tallest one crossed her arms, her expression sour.
"Listen, old man—"
"Old man? I'm barely twenty!" I shot back, indignant.
"Twenty thousand years old?" one of them quipped, smirking.
"Alright, I'm done here," I muttered, waving them off. "But when this city gets destroyed, don't come crying to me."
Their laughter followed me as I walked away, my ears burning.
In hindsight, it was a dumb question—most vampires had red eyes, pale skin (except for the starkindred), and hair turned pitch black through their transformations.
Finding one specific vampire in this chaos was like searching for a single leaf in an infinite forest.
I continued walking, scanning the faces of passersby, reaching out with my senses. His soul signature eluded me, slippery and untraceable.
Taking out my watch again, I ran a finger along my silver blade, letting blood drip onto the clock face.
The pain should have been unbearable, but lucky for me, I'm immune to all forms of it—a biological condition, though not one I'd recommend.
The blood pooled and began to swirl, forming an arrow that spun wildly before stopping. North.
I adjusted my jacket and headed in that direction, weaving through the crowded streets until I reached a quieter part of the city.
The mist grew thicker here, curling around the ancient stone buildings like tendrils of smoke.
Ahead, under a shattered archway, I saw them.
A gathering of vampires, their pale skin glowing faintly in the dim light.
At least two dozen of them stood in a loose circle, their attention fixed on the center.
I stepped closer, my footsteps silent against the cobblestones. Then I saw it.
In the middle of the circle was a baby, no older than a few months.
Its tiny body rested on a torn black blanket, and yet, it was anything but ordinary.
A shimmering halo hovered above its head, glowing faintly gold, while a single crimson horn curved from its forehead.
I sighed, drawing my silver sword from its sheath. Its blade glinted in the dim light, the mist curling around it like a serpent.
"Step away from the child," I said, my voice cutting through the silence like a knife. "Return it to its mother. And its father."
The vampires turned to me, their eyes glowing red as fangs bared in unison. A low hiss rippled through the group.
One of them stepped forward, a tall figure with a sinister grin.
"You're bold, hunter," he sneered, his voice dripping with malice. "But I see no need to humor you. Besides..."
He gestured to the others. "Our benefactor is not here, is he? I take it you're still searching for the one who killed you?"
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I was nothing more than a fly buzzing near a lion.
The night was suffocating, the air heavy with the stench of decay.
I stood in the ruins of a cathedral just outside Lamperouge.
Stained glass windows, shattered long ago, lay scattered across the ground, glinting like jagged stars in the pale moonlight.
I had tracked him here for weeks—this vampire, the one they called Asmodai.
Stories of his strength were whispered in terrified reverence, but I had never backed down from a challenge before. I wouldn't start now.
"Come out!" I shouted, my voice echoing off the crumbling walls.
My silver blade gleamed in my hand, its surface slick with the blood of the lesser vampires I'd cut down on my way here.
"You've been running long enough."
A chuckle answered me, low and smooth, dripping with disdain.
"Running?" His voice seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere all at once. "Oh, hunter, you misunderstand. I wasn't running. I was waiting."
The shadows at the far end of the cathedral stirred, and he stepped into view.
Tall, impossibly tall, with an elegant stride that spoke of confidence and centuries of experience.
His slicked-back black hair glistened as if the moonlight itself obeyed his vanity, and his crimson eyes burned with an otherworldly glow.
He was dressed in a pristine black suit, a jarring contrast to the decay around us.
"Nice sword," he said, his voice like velvet. "Too bad it won't save you."
I didn't wait for him to make the first move. I lunged, the blade a silver streak as I aimed for his chest.
He didn't dodge.
My blade connected—no, it should have connected. Instead, it stopped inches from his skin, suspended in mid-air.
The pressure around us shifted, and suddenly I couldn't breathe.
Asmodai smiled, his fangs glinting. "Predictable."
With a flick of his wrist, I was sent flying backward.
My body crashed through the remains of a pew, splinters stabbing into my back. Pain flared, but I forced myself to stand.
"Not bad," I muttered, spitting blood. "You must be great at parlor tricks."
Asmodai's smile didn't falter. In fact, it widened. "Confidence. I like that. It makes the despair taste sweeter when it crumbles."
He was on me before I could blink.
One second he was across the room; the next, his hand was around my throat, lifting me off the ground like I weighed nothing.
"You've killed a lot of my kind, haven't you?" he mused, tilting his head as if studying a rare specimen. "But I wonder... how many of them begged for mercy before the end?"
I gritted my teeth, gripping his arm with one hand while the other swung my blade at his face.
This time, the edge bit into flesh, carving a shallow line across his cheek.
Asmodai's eyes narrowed, and for a moment, his amusement flickered into something darker.
"Impressive," he said, his tone cold. "But you'll regret that."
His grip tightened, and I felt my ribs begin to creak under the pressure.
I struggled, my vision darkening at the edges, but I refused to give him the satisfaction of hearing me beg.
With a roar, I summoned every ounce of strength I had left and drove my blade into his side.
He hissed, releasing me as he staggered back. I hit the ground hard, coughing and gasping for air.
"Silver," he growled, touching the wound. "Clever. But not enough."
Before I could react, he was on me again, this time moving faster than I could follow.
His claws tore through my chest, and I felt a searing pain as his hand pierced my heart.
For the first time in years, fear clawed at me.
"Do you feel it, hunter?" he whispered, leaning close.
"That's death. The real miracle isn't birth—it's how quickly we waste the life we're given."
The world blurred, my body growing heavy as my blood pooled beneath me.
His face was the last thing I saw before everything went black.
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I tightened my grip on the sword, my eyes narrowing.
I reached into my jacket pocket and grabbed my watch, the silver blade gleaming in my other hand. Shaking my head, I sighed.
"Guess we'll have to do this the hard way."