The old house Kikidori called home was silent except for the occasional creak of the wooden floors. It was a small, run-down place that barely kept out the cold, but it was all he had. With his parents gone and no one else to turn to, Kikidori had learned to fend for himself.
After the disaster at school, Kikidori had returned home with bruises on his body and a heaviness in his chest. He'd thrown his bag into a corner and collapsed onto the worn-out couch in the living room, staring at the ceiling as frustration and hopelessness churned inside him.
But the mess around him made it hard to think clearly. Papers and old books were scattered across the coffee table, dishes piled up in the sink, and dust clung to every surface. Cleaning wouldn't fix his problems, but at least it was something to do—something to keep his hands busy while his mind tried to process everything that had happened.
With a sigh, Kikidori pushed himself off the couch and started tidying up.
Hours passed as Kikidori moved from one corner of the house to another, organizing old belongings and scrubbing away the grime that had accumulated over time. As he worked, his mind wandered back to the poster he'd seen earlier.
The military against the Dalki...
The idea of joining seemed ridiculous, but the image of the soldiers standing strong on the battlefield had stuck with him. What would it be like to have that kind of power? To not be helpless anymore?
Kikidori shook his head, dismissing the thought. "Doesn't matter," he muttered. "Even if I wanted to, I'd never make it."
He opened a dusty cabinet in the corner of the living room, pulling out a stack of old books and magazines. Most of them were unremarkable—history books, outdated science journals, and a few mystery novels his parents had collected. But as he reached for the last book in the stack, something about it caught his eye.
It was a small, leather-bound book with a dark crimson cover. Unlike the others, it seemed untouched by dust or age, as if it didn't belong there at all. Embossed on the front in elegant, silver lettering was a single word:
"Vampire."
Kikidori frowned, turning the book over in his hands. "What the...?"
He didn't remember ever seeing this book before. Where had it come from? His parents weren't the type to collect anything unusual, and it didn't look like something they'd own.
Curiosity got the better of him. Kikidori sat down on the couch and opened the book.
The pages were filled with intricate illustrations and dense, handwritten text. At first glance, it looked like some kind of diary or manual, though the handwriting was unlike anything Kikidori had ever seen.
The first page bore a simple inscription:
"To the worthy: power comes at a price."
Kikidori tilted his head. "What does that mean?"
As he flipped through the pages, he found detailed descriptions of abilities, each accompanied by vivid sketches. Superhuman strength, incredible speed, enhanced senses—things Kikidori could only dream of having. But the more he read, the stranger it became.
The text described blood as the source of power, a lifeline that fueled these incredible abilities. It spoke of transformations, heightened instincts, and even immortality.
"Is this... real?" Kikidori whispered, his heart racing.
He flipped to another section of the book, his eyes catching on an illustration of a dark figure with glowing red eyes. Beneath it, a single sentence was scrawled:
"Power is not given; it is taken."
Kikidori stared at the words, the weight of their meaning settling on him. He thought about everything he'd endured—being powerless, being mocked, being ignored. If this book was what it claimed to be, then maybe, just maybe, it could be the answer.
Hours passed as Kikidori poured over the book, losing track of time. The more he read, the more he felt a strange connection to it, as if it were calling out to him.
But with each page, there were warnings too. The text spoke of the dangers of the power—how it could consume you if you weren't strong enough to control it. It mentioned enemies, rival bloodlines, and a world hidden beneath the surface of society.
Despite the warnings, Kikidori couldn't stop. For the first time, he felt a spark of hope, however small it might be.
Eventually, he closed the book, his fingers trembling. His mind raced with possibilities, but doubt crept in too.
"What if it's just a story? What if this is all fake?" Kikidori muttered to himself. He looked down at the crimson cover again, his reflection faintly visible in its glossy surface.
But deep down, he couldn't shake the feeling that the book had found him for a reason.
He placed it carefully on the coffee table, leaning back against the couch. His body was exhausted from the day's events, but his mind refused to rest.
"If this is real," Kikidori whispered, staring up at the ceiling, "then maybe I don't have to stay powerless forever."
And with that thought, for the first time in a long while, Kikidori drifted off to sleep with something close to hope lingering in his heart.
The End of Chapter 8.