Alex didn't have time to think.
Not about the collars.
Not about the village.
Not about the strange Houses watching him like entertainment.
Only survival.
The werewolf—Luna's scout—lunged first, claws aimed at his throat.
Alex ducked, the beast's swipe missing by inches, wind slicing past his ear.
Then—
A cold breath brushed the back of his neck.
The vampire girl.
Her arms wrapped around him, fangs reaching for his throat—
He couldn't block it.
He couldn't get away.
But he could bite.
And so he did.
Alex twisted his head violently and sank his teeth into the vampire's pale neck.
Hot, metallic blood filled his mouth.
She shrieked—
> "YOU INSECT!"
—and in panic she ripped herself away, tearing a chunk of her own flesh free.
The taste of her still dripped down his tongue.
Alex staggered back, dizzy, heart hammering.
Then pain exploded through him—
The werewolf clamped its jaws around his leg, dragging him down.
Bones cracked.
Muscles tore.
He screamed—
But something else was happening.
Something ancient.
Something buried in his blood.
Red tattoos ignited across his skin, crawling like living fire up his arms, chest, face.
His vision blurred red.
His heartbeat thundered like war drums.
Berserker instinct awakened.
Alex roared and twisted violently; the wolf lost balance.
He slashed, trying to decapitate it—
Missed—
But kept fighting with pure rage.
Then—
A hand punched straight through his chest.
Alex gasped.
He looked down…
Through the torn flesh…
And saw his own beating heart in a pale, trembling hand.
The vampire girl's remaining hand.
Her voice trembled with fury:
> "How dare you bite my neck…"
"HOW DARE YOU!"
His vision dimmed.
Life slipped.
Strength leaked from his fingers.
But will…
Will remained.
With the last spark of consciousness, Alex raised the sword in his right hand—
And decapitated the vampire girl in a single savage swing.
Her head rolled, eyes frozen in rage.
Her arm—still impaled through his chest—twitched.
He reached out blindly with his left sword and cut it off at the elbow.
The hand fell, heart still beating inside its grip.
Alex turned toward the werewolf.
Blood pouring.
Light fading.
> "Your… turn…"
But darkness swallowed him before he could finish.
His body remained standing for a moment, twitching with fading Berserker fury.
Then it stilled.
He died on his feet.
---
LUNA WATCHES
From the shadows, Luna stepped out, her fur shimmering in the moonlight.
She looked down at Alex's corpse.
A low, disappointed growl rumbled in her throat.
> "Pathetic…"
She nudged his body with a claw.
> "That vermin robbed me of my toy. My fun."
She clicked her tongue.
> "You would've made a fine beta."
Turning away, she padded into the darkness of the street, tail flicking with irritation.
Alex's blood steamed on the cold ground.
His heart lay beside him, still faintly pulsing in the severed hand.
The village's enslaved citizens remained kneeling.
Waiting.
Watching.
Silent.
---
Meanwhile, Veronica's severed body twitched—once… twice… then rose.
Her fingers crawled blindly across the ground until they found her head. With a wet click, her neck fused back together. The vampire's eyes opened, burning like two crimson coals.
She turned toward Alex's standing corpse—still upright, frozen in the last act of defiance.
With a single, irritated flick of her fingers, a razor-thin arc of telekinetic force slipped through the air.
SHHKK!
Alex's body split cleanly in two—upper torso dropping forward, legs collapsing a moment later. Veronica hissed as she picked up her severed hand, reattaching it with a sickening snap of bones knitting together.
"Disgusting little insect," she snarled. "He dared take my neck…"
Her attention then slid lazily to the kneeling villagers—every one of them trembling, collars glowing faintly at their throats.
A woman's scream shattered the silence:
"Please! Not my son!"
Veronica's gaze locked onto a small boy clinging to his mother's leg.
She smiled—slow, cruel, almost playful.
With a flash of movement, she appeared in front of the boy, snatching him up by the back of his shirt. The child wailed and kicked helplessly.
"Shhh," she cooed, stroking his cheek with her reattached hand.
"You'll make a fine cuisine… little one."
The mother surged forward—only to be held down by the other men, their collars burning as they fought their own instincts.
"Let him go!" she sobbed.
Veronica didn't even bother looking at her. Instead, she tossed a broken iron plate toward the woman with mocking generosity.
"A souvenir," she smirked.
Then she unfurled her batlike wings—ragged, leathery, still dripping faint drops of her own black blood. With one beat of those wings, she shot upward, vanishing into the night sky with the boy clutched in her arms.
Below, the villagers remained frozen—kneeling, silent, afraid to even breathe.
And Alex's two halves lay cooling in the dirt…
but the forest behind them was no longer quiet.
Something else had noticed the power he unleashed.
Something old.
Something hungry.
THE BURIAL OF THE FALLEN
Vilomah's scream tore through the village like a blade of sound.
A mother's grief, sharpened by a lifetime of loss, filled the night.
Her husband had been torn apart by the same monsters that now haunted her streets.
Her son—her last hope—was snatched away by a creature of blood and malice.
She turned to the men who had restrained her, their collars glinting faintly under the twin moons.
Her voice was thunderous, trembling with rage and sorrow:
> "You are failures to your ancestors! Failures to your bloodline!
Our forefathers fought for independence, for honor… and you are cowards!"
The men only bowed their heads, silent, ashamed. Their eyes flickered with the faint glow of obedience—or fear.
Vilomah's gaze swept past them.
Then it landed on the body of Alex—split, battered, yet standing at the edge of death.
For a moment, grief and recognition froze her.
Then she stepped forward, hands trembling but determined.
The head of the clan—the man who had given Alex the swords—moved to stop her.
> "This is not yours to touch," he said, voice low.
Vilomah laughed, bitter and sharp.
> "At least he used our ancestors' weapons to fight…
At least he chose death over rusting away in your hands!"
She ignored him.
The silent men parted instinctively, letting her move.
Vilomah found a broken cart nearby.
Piece by piece, she lifted Alex's battered body—the torso, the legs, the arms, and even the bloodied swords.
Every fragment was treated with reverence.
She loaded him into the cart and turned toward the mountains beyond the village.
The journey was slow and arduous, winding through the charred streets, past the kneeling villagers, and into the shadows of the ruined forests.
Above the clouds, atop the mountain ridges, lay the ancient burial site of the warriors—hallowed ground where generations of her ancestors rested.
It was here, she decided, that Alex's courage would be honored.
Vilomah's hands never trembled again.
Her eyes, red with tears and fire, stared ahead.
She whispered as she climbed:
> "Rest among the brave… among those who fought, and never gave in.
You earned this, warrior. May your soul burn brighter than the darkness that claimed you."
The wind howled through the mountains.
And for the first time that night, the world seemed to hold its breath.
---