CHAPTER 145: HARD TO KILL

In a completely deserted shack on the eastern part of the main city...

In the lower districts where the poorest of humans and vampires barely clung to survival, the streets were filled with quiet suffering. Starving children cried softly in alleys, old men begged with trembling hands, and the young carried hopeless eyes as they wandered barefoot through muddy paths.

Many didn’t know what would meet them in the morning. So, when night came, they wrapped themselves in worn rags and whispered prayers into the damp air, hoping they’d wake up breathing.

Amidst that gloom stood an old shack, barely upright, its wood soaked and rotting with years of rainfall and decay. Its roof sagged dangerously and the door creaked on rusted hinges. Yet, five men entered one by one, sluggishly, as if intoxicated—though it wasn’t wine that staggered their limbs but weariness from far travels. Each man had come from a different direction, like wandering ghosts returning to a haunted tomb.

Outside was dark. The night sky was shrouded in clouds so thick even the moon dared not pierce through. But inside the shack, it was darker still. A darkness so complete it swallowed every beam of vision. And yet, none of the men stumbled. Not a single one brushed against a wall or collided with the other. It was as if the shadows themselves parted for them.

Despite their frail appearances—aged, hunched, some with canes—they moved with a quiet purpose. They didn’t speak. Not even when they had formed a circle, shoulder to shoulder, their heads bowed slightly, their gazes blank and fixed straight ahead. Silence wrapped them tightly, like a noose that none dared to break.

Minutes passed.

And then the door creaked again.

A sixth figure entered, stepping silently into the suffocating dark.

This one was not aged. He did not limp. He didn’t shake from cold or time. He stood upright, tall, young—so young that it jarred the sight. He looked no older than thirty, dressed plainly, but with an undeniable air of control. His eyes were startlingly bright, cutting clean through the dark like blades of light. And unlike the others, whose eyes were void-like pits reflecting their age and experience, his were unclouded. Alert. Dangerous.

The five lowered their heads immediately.

He said nothing at first. His footsteps were measured as he walked past each of them, pausing briefly to observe. And then finally, standing in the very center of the circle, he smiled.

A calm, clean smile.

"Shadow Night One," he said, announcing his code name with almost cheerful ease.

The words dropped like thunder into the silence.

One of the five men visibly flinched. His entire body trembled like he’d been struck by a steel rod across the cheek, and it was only by willpower that he didn’t fall to the floor.

The others were no better. Their expressions tightened. Their eyes remained lowered. Their backs bowed slightly more in reverence—and fear.

"The last thing I expected..." the trembling man rasped, his voice brittle, "...was to be called on by the Great Leader."

At the mention of that title—the Great Leader—all five men went still, as though the very air had turned to glass. Even the bones beneath their skin seemed to hush themselves. No one dared look up.

"...Which means all of you already know why I’m here." The young man’s voice remained smooth, but a new undertone now laced it—something sharper.

The five remained frozen. No one dared speak again.

"Clay messed up," the young man said, still smiling. "A mess he’ll pay for."

The smile remained on his lips, but his voice grew colder with each word.

"...But for now, it’s a mess we clean up."

The others nodded, still silent.

Then, one by one, they spoke according to their position in the circle:

"He turned a human. That sin is unforgivable!" hissed the first.

"What’s worse is that he allowed the human to be discovered. He compromised his mission. He deserves to die," spat the second with disgust.

"He hasn’t been compromised yet," said the third, a bit calmer. "We can’t jump to conclusions. If they knew who he was, they would have already killed him."

The fourth’s voice was tight with paranoia. "What if they’re waiting? Waiting for him to lead them back to us? To destroy us all together? Are we willing to take that chance?"

And finally, the fifth, voice dry with suspicion, "We need to summon him... but can we even trust his messages now without staring into his treacherous eyes?"

The first man was just about to respond when Shadow Night One raised his hand.

"I’ve decided."

All mouths shut immediately. The sound of breath halted. His tone was calm, but absolute—final.

"Clay will be left alone. Completely cut off. No communication will be made with him until I’ve investigated things myself."

"Understood!" they chorused with rigid obedience.

"For the glory of the race!" they chanted again, louder this time, their voices echoing with fervent conviction.

The young man nodded once and turned toward the door, saying nothing else. The smile on his face never faltered.

The old door flapped shut behind him.

Inside, the five men slowly raised their heads, now staring at each other. The silence had returned, but the mood had shifted. Something thick and bitter hung between them—distrust, fear, maybe even doubt. But no one spoke.

They filed out one by one, careful in their steps, their postures slouched once more like beggars. Anyone watching would see nothing more than five drunk and homeless men seeking shelter in the cold.

Back in the Upper Quarters of the Palace...

King Jared stepped into the massive chamber assigned to him. His fur-lined coat trailed behind him, gold embroidery shimmering against the candlelight. The large wooden door swung open behind him and was immediately shut as his three councilmen—Brilla, Kannedy, and Falson—entered in quick steps.

Behind them was Harned, Jared’s ever-present shadow: his head of guards and most loyal aide.

He grunted under the weight of the body in his arms—the same monstrous corpse that had attacked during the feast. Blood still dripped from its open wounds, thick and black. Jared didn’t even glance back.

Instead, he made his way across the spacious room toward a table where several crystal decanters of wine had been laid out.

Harned placed the corpse on the floor, stepping aside with a sigh as his arms loosened from the weight. But when he turned to look at the others, he found them all—Brilla, Falson, Kannedy—frozen.

Their eyes weren’t on him.

They were locked on the body.

It was hard not to stare. Even in death, the thing was horrifying. The face looked stretched, mouth still agape with jagged teeth. Its eyes bulged like they had tried to burst free from its skull. Blood still oozed from the claws that had torn through noble flesh only hours ago.

None of the council members spoke. Even Harned, hardened by years of war, felt his stomach tighten.

And then, Jared spoke.

His voice was cold, flat.

"Take the body out and burn it."

Harned nodded instantly. "Yes, my King." He bent down, arms sliding beneath the torso to lift the corpse again.

Only—

The body jerked.

Its arms shot up.

Harned gasped.

It happened in seconds. The corpse wasn’t dead.

A claw, razor-sharp and blackened, slashed across Harned’s forearm.

Blood spurted.

A scream rang out from Brilla as she staggered back against the wall, face pale and she wasn’t the only one.

Kennedy and Falson had the same horrified and shocked expression on their face since they had watched one of the vampire lords pound the monster into bits, enough for its brain matter to drip out.

The fact that there was so much as any semblance of life to be found in the body was more scary than the fact that Harned had been slashed by it.

Such survival capacity was dangerous and something to be feared.

Before anyone else could move, Jared was there. He moved like a golden blur, no hesitation, no delay. His hand wrapped around the creature’s neck. His other arm ripped the limbs apart like brittle twigs.

He didn’t stop.

With a roar of fury, he tore the monster’s head clean off and crushed the skull beneath his boot. Dark blood splashed across the marble floor. Harned stumbled back, clutching his bleeding arm, his breath ragged but lips pressed tight in restraint.

The king stood over the body, face grim and completely still as he started at it even as anger could be seen in the depths of his eyes.

Wondering if Zyren hadn’t completely killed it on purpose when he asked them to take it away. The thought alone was enough for him to ball his fists in anger and want to pound it against someone in particular.

He turned to Harned, whose wound was already starting to knit itself shut.

"You should have burned it the moment we returned," Jared said sharply, though the edge of worry flickered in his eyes.

"I—I thought it was dead, my King..." Harned muttered, ashamed.

Jared said nothing more. He simply stared at the shredded pieces of flesh, blood seeping into the stone.