The forest swallowed them whole.
Kawara of the White Wolf led the charge, axe gleaming with torchlight, swaggering as if the night were a stage and he the hero.
Behind him, a half-dozen mercenaries followed — blades drawn, pride in their veins, laughter still echoing from the celebration they'd left behind.
And among them walked Lysaria.
The silver-haired mage.
Calm, composed, wrapped in arcane silk, her fingers brushed against the staff on her back.
She didn't speak. Her eyes flicked to every shadow. Something was wrong — the silence wasn't natural.
No birds.
No insects.
Just fog.
A thick, silver mist curling around their boots, rising slowly up their legs like it had a mind of its own.
"This is too quiet," she muttered.
But Kawara laughed. "Oh come on, Lys. It's just a bunch of leech-loving bandits trying to scare farmers. We've handled worse."
Lysaria didn't reply. Her instincts were screaming.
They passed the palisade and into the trees, where the torches began to flicker strangely — like the flames were choking.
The woods twisted around them.
Familiar paths became warped.
Even the moon seemed distant, as if the sky itself recoiled from what was about to happen.
And then, they saw it.
The body.
Hung from one of the garlic-soaked stakes just outside the barrier. Pale. Bloodless. The eyes wide open — but not with fear.
With awe.
"What the hell…" one of the younger hunters whispered, stepping closer.
"Don't touch it," Lysaria said sharply.
Too late.
The hunter brushed the body — and the spell shattered.
A rush of wind exploded outward, extinguishing every torch.
Darkness fell like a curtain.
Then the laughter began.
Not loud. Not monstrous.
Elegant. Amused. Patient.
From behind every tree… from the fog… from above, it echoed.
"Bravo," a silky voice said, clapping slowly. "You've made it just in time for the show."
Figures emerged from the shadows. Not running. Not leaping.
Walking.
Calm. Beautiful. Dressed in noble coats, black and crimson, their skin pale and flawless, eyes burning with hunger and intelligence.
Not feral. Not beasts.
Professionals.
Predators.
"Bandits, huh?" one of the young hunters whispered, voice shaking.
Kawara stepped forward, growling, "I don't care if you wear perfume or capes. You're still just bloodsucking trash. And you'll die, from the hand of Kawara." He said, with a very proud and almost "superior" tone of voice, like he was the strongest.
He charged with a roar.
One vampire — a tall, smiling man with eyes like polished obsidian — sidestepped without effort.
Kawara's axe struck nothing.
Then the vampire moved.
A flicker.
And Kawara was suddenly on his knees, both arms gone, blood spraying like fountains.
The vampire leaned down, lips against his ear.
"But I'm hungry trash."
He bit.
The screams began.
The hunters scattered, panic overwhelming pride.
Their leader was literally got destroyed in one single hit.
But one of the vampires immediately closed his wounds and shutted him up, but he didn't kill him.
He rather wanted him to see something particular-
Lysaria drew her staff and unleashed a burst of flame — a wall of fire roaring into the fog.
"KAWARA! NO!!" She screamed.
Wasted words.
"TAKE THI-" She tried to say.
But with no effort.
She could've cast a spell instead of screaming Kawara's name.
She tried to... but she didn't have the time.
Vampires knew how strong she was.
Lysaria... the sorceress...
For a second, she saw them recoil — at least five, maybe six — silhouettes twisting and hissing as the fire struck.
But the wind changed direction.
The fire died.
Something cold slashed across her ribs.
She screamed and dropped to one knee, clutching her side and done an instant magic to stop her pain, but with no efforts.
Her wound didn't heal.
Only the physical pain stopped.
Blood ran down her silk robes. She tried to cast again — but a boot slammed into her chest, pinning her to the forest floor.
A tall figure stood over her. He wore a long coat of silver-threaded black, his features sharp like a statue carved by a cruel god.
His eyes… golden. Glowing.
He didn't speak.
He simply watched her squirm.
Lysaria tried to reach her pouch — one last spell, a ward — but he knelt beside her and caught her wrist with effortless strength.
"You're not like the others," he said softly. "You smell… different. Educated."
She spat at him.
He laughed, wiping it from his cheek with a silk glove.
"You'll be... fun."
Then he stood and turned her head with two fingers — forcing her to watch.
What followed was not battle.
It was art.
The two younger hunters that were with her — barely more than boys — were already being fed on, limp and twitching, their bodies pale and ruined.
They were dying right before her eyes.
Kawara was also watching the scene with horror in his eyes, without his arms.
Another screamed as two vampires tore him between them, limbs separating like paper dolls.
One of the women tried to run — only to be lifted by her throat, the vampire snapping her spine with a twist and a kiss.
The last hunter, crawling, begging, had his head crushed underfoot.
Lysaria trembled. She hadn't even had time to cast half her arsenal.
It had taken them… maybe two minutes.
"Pathetic," the golden-eyed vampire murmured, crouching beside her again. "But they made good music."
He touched her cheek with a gentleness that made her sick.
"And you, little mage... we're going to play a while longer... if you know what I mean..."
"But before that... I must ask you something... about a particular hunter... his name is..." The vampire said, with a gentle but scary voice.
A tear slipped down her face.
Not from pain.
From shame.
The fog thickened. Blood ran in streams across the moss.
"Oh... don't cry... there's nothing to be scared about... You'll be one of us very... soon..." The vampire said, while caressing her cheek.
And then—
The sound.
Step.
A single footstep.
Not rushed.
Not heavy.
Deliberate.
The vampires froze.
Every single one.
Their heads turned — slowly — toward the sound.
Another step. Measured. Echoing as if the very forest held its breath.
Then another.
And another.
It wasn't just sound — it was presence. The pressure of something ancient and lethal.
Golden Eyes narrowed.
"Who—?"
But he stopped mid-question.
They couldn't see him.
"Oh... I guess that I was right... I knew..." The gentleman said.
The fog parted around the presence, but not enough to reveal his form. Just boots. Steel. Purpose.
Even the vampire's supernatural sight refused to focus on him — like the forest itself rejected the idea of what was coming.
Lysaria, broken and bloodied, looked up from the ground.
She saw him.
Only for a moment.
A silhouette, wreathed in shadow, blade resting against one shoulder, eyes burning like frostfire.
Azrael.
And though he said nothing… every vampire felt the shift in the air.
They were predators.
But whatever walked toward them now —
Was the end of predators.
And then everything went still.
Azrael had finally arrived.
His blue eyes were glowing in the night, looking around, in the total darkness.
"What is happening here...?" He whispered, while reaching for his greatsword.
A very bloody show was about to start...