CHAPTER 698: 698

They were guardians sentinels assigned immediately after the night’s hunt to watch over the newborn thralls while the sun rose and forced the lesser creatures into their instinctive hibernation.

The thralls were vulnerable now.

Their intelligence was fractured, their instincts simple: Hide from the sun. Remain still. Wait for the night.

But instinct made poor camouflage.

A thrall curled beneath a cellar floor or crouched behind a thin wall was no better hidden than a sleeping animal. A guard with a sharp eye could find one. A search dog could follow the scent of death. A grieving parent could tear up floorboards in a panic and reveal something monstrous.

Under normal circumstances, discovery would be inevitable.

But today, the humans searched blindly.

Not because they were incompetent but because they were not searching alone.

Before the first light touched the rooftops, several second generation vampires had slipped into the town. Under the cover of night, they cast simple but effective disguise spells, their forms bending and shimmering until they perfectly mimicked the townspeople and the uniformed guards.

One took the shape of a baker’s son, mud stains on the boots, flour on the sleeves. Another passed easily as a middle-aged guard with a tired face and red-rimmed eyes from a sleepless night. Yet another became a familiar stable-hand, his hair tied back in the same loose knot he always wore.

By dawn, they were already mingled among the humans.

Marching beside them, comforting frantic mothers. Listening to orders from the Town Head with polite nods. Leading search patrols with practiced concern.

And no one, not a single human questioned their presence.

After all, they looked perfectly ordinary. They smelled human an their voices matched. Their memories carefully stolen from the minds of their victims were flawless.

Trickery of the mind was second nature to these vampire godlings. Ordinary mortals stood no chance of seeing through it.

A pair of disguised vampires walked ahead of a search patrol, the guards following behind in a growing line. They moved through a narrow alley where, beneath a half-rotted barrel, a drained thrall slept like a shriveled corpse, limbs twisted, jaw slack, eyes unfocused in daytime torpor.

A human guard paused, squinting at the strange bulge beneath the barrel.

Something about it looked wrong. Like a body. Or something close to it.

He stepped forward instinctively when a hand landed lightly on his shoulder.

"Don’t bother checking that," the disguised vampire said, wearing the face of one of the town’s junior officers. "We already cleared this area. It’s just debris. Rats must have dragged something under there."

The guard hesitated, glancing between the officer and the barrel.

Another vampire-in-disguise called out from a few paces ahead, "Oi! We got tracks over here! Looks like someone was dragged toward the well!"

Immediately the humans jolted forward, racing to follow the false trail. The guards’ minds, nudged gently by the illusion-weavers, ignored the barrel entirely.

The thrall beneath did not stir, its head rested in the dirt like a discarded husk. But its lips twitched faintly in hunger.

None of the humans noticed.

Why would they? Their leaders were leading them astray, and no thought of suspicion dared surface under the vampires mental fog.

Tenichi sent more runners toward the county seat and neighboring villages, praying someone would answer soon. He forced himself to move from family to family, calming wails, steadying shoulders, promising they would find the missing.

But as the noon sun reached its peak, his gut twisted tighter.

Because despite the frantic searches, the barking of detection dogs, the guards crawling through crawlspaces and abandoned wells.

They found nothing.

Each passing hour tightened like a noose around Tenichi’s throat.

He had lost friends last night. Neighbors. People he had grown up beside since childhood. The blood in the streets was etched into his memory, as vivid as the sound of screaming that had never come.

Whatever had done this would return and next time, it would not leave more than half the town standing.

"No... something has to be done." Tenichi’s voice trembled, though anger steadied it. "We can’t just sit here waiting to die."

Fear made people freeze and desperation made them follow.

Tenichi burst into the town square, grabbing every man, every boy who looked old enough to wield a spear, shouting for them to gather. His voice cracked, but his determination pulled attention like a beacon in fog.

"Everyone who can fight, everyone who can lift a blade come with me! Now!"

Within minutes, hundreds surged after him, within twenty, thousands.

The crowd poured toward the town armory, an old stone building meant to equip a militia of a few dozen, not the entire population. But they didn’t care. They needed something.

As Tenichi pushed open the reinforced doors, the sight inside nearly stopped his heart.

Racks of spears stood dusty and unused, rows of rusting swords lay half-forgotten. Stacks of old shields leaned in unstable piles.

"This... this isn’t enough," one man whispered.

"Doesn’t matter," Tenichi snapped. "Take what you can. A blade is still a blade."

The armory quickly became a whirlwind of frantic motion, men passed weapons hand-to-hand. Young boys carried bundles of arrows. Older men searched the crates for anything sharp. Women arrived with farm tools, sickles, axes, sharpened stakes, refusing to be left behind.

Tenichi watched as fathers wrapped cloth around the handles of swords too heavy for their grip. Old veterans tried to instruct groups on how to hold a spear properly. No one knew what they were fighting, but they were willing to stand between their families and the night.

They had the number advantage and they had resolve. They only needed to buy time, hours, a day long enough for reinforcements or professional hunters to arrive from the county.

So they prepared.

Barricades were hammered into place along the main roads. Torches were gathered and oil distributed. Scouts were positioned on rooftops.

The town buzzed with a desperate energy, fear and courage tangled together.

But Tenichi didn’t know he was giving orders beside the supposed monsters.

As he shouted instructions, one of the "guards" next to him nodded and echoed his commands, his voice sounding perfectly human.

Another "villager" passed out shields, smiling grimly.

A third helped nail barricades, his hands moving too smoothly, too silently.

Their disguises held flawlessly, their minds pressed against the humans, nudging thoughts, easing suspicion.

Tenichi’s courage was admirable, his effort was inspiring. But none of it mattered if they missed the enemy was right beside them without them noticing.

As the sun dipped lower, painting the sky molten orange, Tenichi stood atop the half-reinforced gate and scanned the horizon.

"Tonight," he said under his breath, "we fight for our livelihood and families."

He gripped the spear he had chosen, an old dull-tipped thing, but his knuckles whitened with determination.

Behind him, thousands of villagers took their places, clutching their mismatched weapons.

They didn’t know what would come...but they knew it would.

Tenichi closed his eyes for a moment, steeling himself.

Just survive until help arrives. Just one night.

The second night arrived, and the Thralls began to stir. Their bodies twitched first, then tightened, as the last remnants of mortality unraveled within them. A low, collective hiss drifted through their place of hiding as they slowly awakened, hungering, expectant, obedient.

Before the transformation fully settled, the First Generations stepped from the shadows. The Thralls felt their presence like a pressure in the blood, old and commanding.

The first generation got words on the human action, of their boldness, or foolishness, of those who dared act against the coming night.

As the final pair of Thrall eyes snapped open, the First Generations spoke their decree into the mind of each Thrall.

"Snuff out their light," the cloaked voice spoke, neither loud nor soft, simply undeniable. "Let their precious brightness be taken from them, so they may learn that the night has an owner."

A hiss of approval rippled through the Thralls, feral, eager.

"And when darkness has reclaimed what they stole," the order finished, "you will feed... and multiply."

The town was awake long before the sun had fully set. Lines of torches burned along the walls. Lanterns hung from every post. Men, untrained, anxious, gripping spears and farming tools stood shoulder to shoulder at the gates.

Tenichi moved among them, checking placements, forcing his voice to stay steady.

"Hold your ground. Eyes sharp. If anything moves, call it, don’t keep silent."

But fear was thick enough to taste, bitter on every breath. Every shadow seemed stretched wrong, bent at angles that didn’t exist moments ago. Every rustle of wind snapped nerves tight, triggering a dozen raised weapons and shuddering breaths.

Then, a sudden gust of wind.

One of the torches on the wall sputtered, hissed, and died.

The nearest soldiers flinched as the darkness swallowed that patch of stone. All eyes darted to each other in confusion, a silent question passing between them: Was that just the wind?