The iron wheels of the Magitech Train hammered the rails with a constant, hypnotic rhythm—clack-clack, whoosh, clack-clack, whoosh. Beyond the thick, magic-reinforced glass, the outskirts of Vesperia began to blur, replaced by endless forests of black pine and the silhouettes of the Spineridge mountains looming like dragon's teeth in the distance.
Inside the strangely empty first-class carriage, Devon sat reclined in a maroon velvet seat. His legs were crossed casually, and in his mouth, a piece of "Graveyard Mint" flavored gum was being chewed with a slow, boring rhythm. Snap. Pop.
Spread across his lap was an expensive parchment map he had bought from Stella. His manicured index finger—the result of his new body's regeneration—traced the railway line stretching east like a swollen vein.
"Hmm..." he murmured, his mismatched eyes scanning the names of the cities.
The route was long. Very long. From Vesperia Central Station, this train would slice through the heart of the Gloomfen Sovereignty. The first stop was Nyxholm, the overland trade hub where all roads met. From there, the tracks would climb steeply toward Harrowforge, an industrial city where the sky was perpetually choked with factory smoke and burnt souls. And finally, the rails would end at Gravewatch, the border fortress in the mountain pass.
From Gravewatch, Devon thought, shifting his gum to the other side of his mouth, I'll have to find other transport to cross into the Waste of Dust or sneak into the Iron Empire border. Stella said that's where the real madness lies. A lawless place.
Devon folded the map neatly and tucked it into the inner pocket of his stolen black suit. He glanced at the gold pocket watch (also stolen) he had found in the suit's vest. This trip would take at least two full days if there were no interruptions.
"It's so quiet..."
Devon cast his gaze around the carriage. Strange. Usually, the train was packed. But this carriage? Just him and about ten other passengers. All men. All wearing heavy traveling cloaks or suits that were a little too neat. They sat scattered, reading newspapers or staring out the window, but Devon could feel the tension in the air. It wasn't the awkward silence of strangers; it was the silence of predators waiting for a signal.
His right hand, instinctively yet casually, slid into his trouser pocket, his fingers brushing the cold metal of the grip of a fully loaded Desert Eagle .50.
Suddenly, the air around him shifted. The stinging scent of expensive perfume—mixed with clove tobacco and something rotting underneath—assaulted Devon's nose.
Someone sat in the empty seat next to him.
Devon didn't turn his head. He pretended not to care, though the muscles beneath his black suit began to tense. The corner of his eye caught the figure of a man in a pitch-black cloak with a hood obscuring part of his face. The man's hand, pale as a waterlogged corpse, lay still on the armrest.
"Nice suit," the man's voice broke the silence. His tone was flat, professional, devoid of excess emotion. Like a butcher commenting on the quality of beef. " The cut fits. The stitching is neat. A pity about the not-quite-dried bloodstain on the collar."
Devon stopped chewing his gum. His heart beat one beat slower.
"Blood adds character, doesn't it?" Devon replied casually, still not turning.
"Depends on whose blood," the man retorted coldly. He leaned in slightly, the clinical scent of death radiating from him. "The Von Carstein family is very... possessive of their assets. Including their foolish nephew, Mr. Luis."
The man sighed softly, as if bored.
"Your description has been circulating the underground network since morning, Kid. 'Pale youth, silly red wings on his head, dangerous.' Our client paid a premium to ensure you don't get off this train in one piece."
The man's voice dropped, becoming a whisper that promised violence.
"Don't take offense. It's nothing personal. Just business. The orders were specific: 'Ensure he suffers before his heart stops'."
Devon froze. His eyes widened slightly. So this wasn't an angry family. This was a cleanup crew.
"You think..." The man suddenly moved.
His speed was inhuman, the efficiency of a professional. Before Devon could blink, the man's pale hand shot out and gripped Devon's face. His claws dug into cheeks with precision, and with hydraulic strength, he slammed Devon's head to the side, pressing it firmly against the cold train window.
CRACK!
The glass fractured into a spiderweb pattern around Devon's face.
"TARGET SECURED," the man hissed, no longer whispering, his voice now cold and authoritative as he pinned Devon's face to the glass. "Don't make my job difficult, Brat. The client wants to see your head separated from your body, and I want to go home early."
Devon stared into the vampire's eyes from point-blank range. There was no fear. No panic.
There was only boredom.
"You talk too much," Devon muttered.
Devon's left hand shot out. Not to punch, but to grapple. He grabbed the wrist of the vampire holding his face. The muscles in Devon's arm, enhanced and reinforced, tensed and expanded slightly beneath his suit sleeve.
CRUNCH!
The sound of shattering wrist bones sounded like dry twigs being snapped. The vampire screamed, his grip on Devon's face releasing instantly as his hand went limp at an unnatural angle.
"AAAAARGH!"
Before the vampire could pull away, Devon moved. His right hand drew the Desert Eagle from his trouser pocket in one smooth, practiced motion. He didn't raise it to the head or chest. He pressed the cold barrel of the monster pistol under the table, right into the vampire's crotch.
"Goodbye to your future," Devon whispered.
BLAM!
The gunshot in the confined space was deafening. The .50 caliber bullet struck its target, tearing through flesh, shattering the pelvic bone, and punching through the seat cushion all the way to the train floor.
The vampire howled a high-pitched note of agony, his body convulsing violently before slumping to the floor, clutching parts of himself that were no longer there. Blood flooded the carriage carpet.
"One," Devon counted flatly. He stood up, kicking the whimpering vampire in the face until he was unconscious (or dead, he didn't care).
The nine other passengers in the carriage stood up in unison. Their disguises crumbled. Cloaks were thrown aside, revealing leather armor, daggers, and swords. Red eyes glowed in the darkness of the carriage.
The Hunters.
"KILL HIM!" one of them shouted.
Devon didn't wait. He bolted.
WHOOSH.
He dashed five meters forward, right down the center of the aisle. A vampire with twin daggers leapt at him, trying to slash his throat.
Devon ducked, feeling the wind of the blades brush his hair. His blood-red right eye twitched, the vertical pupil dilating and contracting rapidly, scanning every movement in slow motion. He saw an opening.
Devon's left hand shot upward, grabbing the throat of the mid-air vampire. The vampire's own momentum became his weapon. Devon squeezed.
KRRNCH.
The vampire's throat collapsed within Devon's grip. Black blood spurted from his mouth, splattering Devon's face. Devon hurled the body aside like tossing out trash.
"Two."
Another vampire attacked from behind, attempting an ambush. Devon didn't need to look. He drove his elbow backward with full force. His right elbow smashed into the vampire's nose, driving the nasal bone into the brain. The vampire stumbled back.
Devon spun, kicking the vampire's knee until it snapped backward, then pressed the barrel of the Desert Eagle to his forehead.
BLAM!
The vampire's head exploded, spraying brain matter onto the carriage ceiling.
"Three."
Two other vampires ran from opposite directions in the narrow aisle, swords drawn. Devon stood still, waiting until the very last second.
Just as their swords were about to touch his skin—
WHOOSH.
Devon jumped.
The two vampires couldn't stop their momentum. They collided violently, one sword burying itself in the other's shoulder, their heads meeting with a sickening thud.
Devon appeared behind them, in mid-air, positioned for a kick.
THWACK!
He kicked both their heads simultaneously, smashing them into each other until their skulls cracked. They fell in a heap.
"Four. Five."
The remaining hunters—five left—began chanting magic. Orbs of blood and shadow spikes started to form in the air.
"Tch, magic users. Cheaters," Devon scoffed.
He turned and ran toward the door of the next carriage. He kicked the door open and entered the bar car.
The place was void of regular passengers, containing only mahogany tables and a bar stocked with expensive bottles of alcohol.
"THERE!" shouted the hunters, chasing him in.
They unleashed their magic. Blood spears and orbs of darkness rained down on the bar car, shattering glass bottles, sending alcohol spilling everywhere. The floor was now soaked in flammable liquid.
Devon took cover behind the thick bar counter. He looked at the pooling alcohol. He looked at the oil lamp hanging on the wall.
He smirked.
"Let's heat things up."
Devon grabbed a bottle of Dragon Vodka (90% alcohol content), stuffed a cloth napkin into the neck, lit it with a match he pulled from his pocket, and threw it.
CRASH! FWOOOOSH!
The fire caught instantly. The entire bar car turned into an inferno. Tongues of orange and blue flame licked the walls and ceiling.
"AAAAHH! IT BURNS!" screamed one of the vampires as the fire ignited his cloak.
The fight continued amidst the blaze. Black smoke filled the room, stinging the eyes. Devon vaulted from behind the bar, his silhouette like a demon rising from hell.
He fired. BLAM! One vampire fell into the fire.
However, the smoke messed with his vision. His red eye stung.
SLASH!
A female hunter emerged from the smoke, her curved sword slashing across Devon's stomach.
"Ugh!" Devon grunted. His suit and shirt tore, and he felt the cold steel slice the skin of his abdomen. Fresh blood flowed.
A hard kick landed on his chest, throwing Devon backward. He tumbled, his pistol slipping from his hand, sliding far under a burning table.
The female hunter grinned, raising her sword for the final strike. "Die, you dog!"
Devon gasped for breath on the floor, flames licking around him. The pain in his stomach was sharp. But his lips curled into a grin.
"You're too close, Miss."
Devon's hand snatched a piece of timber from a ruined, burning chair. The end was glowing like charcoal.
He swung it with all his might.
THUD!
The burning wood smashed into the female hunter's face. She screamed as the embers seared her skin and splinters pierced her eyes. She stumbled back, blinded and in agony.
Devon rolled, snatching his pistol back. He also spotted a long iron bar, a remnant of a table leg. He grabbed it with his left hand.
He stood up. His clothes were burning in places, revealing pale skin smeared with blood and ash.
"Round two," he growled.
Devon lunged forward. He no longer shot. He struck. He used his empty pistol as a hammer, smashing the blinded hunter's jaw until it unhinged.
The last two vampires attacked simultaneously.
Devon parried the first vampire's sword with the iron bar in his left hand. Iron met steel, showering sparks. With his right hand, he slammed the pistol grip into the vampire's temple.
The second vampire tried to stab from the side. Devon jumped—just one meter straight up.
He landed on the vampire's shoulders, his legs clamping around the neck. With one powerful twist of his body, he snapped the vampire's neck. CRACK.
The tenth vampire, face burned, tried to crawl away. Devon walked over to him, twirling the iron bar in his hand.
"No... please..."
SPLURCH.
Devon drove the iron bar through the vampire's back, nailing him to the floor of the burning carriage.
"Ten."
He stood in the center of the inferno. His breathing was heavy. The wound on his stomach stung, but he could feel a familiar itch—slow regeneration was at work.
The door to the next carriage opened. The cold night wind rushed in, stirring the flames.
Devon walked out, leaving hell behind him.
He stepped onto the open-air cargo carriage.
His clothes were ruined. His black suit was gone, his shirt reduced to charred scraps clinging to skin full of burns and cuts. The small red wings on his head no longer looked cute; they twitched, radiating a subtle blood-red aura, as if drinking in the violence in the air.
His right eye was weeping—not tears, but thick blood flowing down his soot-stained cheek.
In his right hand, the hot Desert Eagle was still gripped tight.
In his left hand, he dragged something. It was the charred, mangled corpse of the last hunter, gripped tightly by the neck. He dragged it like a broken doll.
And in his mouth... Devon had clamped the blade of his hunting knife between his teeth. The steel blade ran horizontally across his grin, giving him a horrific metallic smile.
He walked. Muscles all over his body tightened—back, shoulders, arms, thighs. Every step was a statement of strength that refused to die. The slash wound on his stomach still gaped slightly, blood dripping, but scar tissue was forming slowly, very slowly, closing the flesh inch by inch.
He growled low behind the knife in his mouth. His gaze was fixed forward. Toward the locomotive. Toward the engineer.
He would stop this train, or he would destroy it.
THUD.
Something heavy landed on the roof of the cargo carriage, then leaped down in front of him, blocking his path.
"Hmm... not so fast, Mixed-breed."
Devon stopped. He released his grip on the charred corpse, letting it drop.
Standing before him was a vampire woman. She was different from the others. Her aura was far older, darker. She wore a tight, blood-red leather combat dress. Her long white hair fluttered in the night wind.
She held no weapons.
She raised both hands. Blood—blood from the corpses in the rear carriage, Devon's dripping blood, blood on the floor—began to levitate into the air. The red liquid swirled, solidified, and formed two twin sickle blades, beautifully curved yet deadly, in the woman's hands. High-level Blood Magic.
"You've made quite an entertaining mess," the woman said, her glowing red eyes staring at Devon hungrily. "But your journey ends here. Mr. Luis sends his regards."
Devon stared at her. He didn't speak.
Slowly, he raised his left hand and took the hunting knife from his mouth. He spat to the side—a mixture of saliva and blood.
"Tch," Devon hissed. "Right back at you. To hell."
Devon raised the pistol in his right hand and the knife in his left. The vampire woman twirled her blood blades.
The two stared each other down atop the train speeding through the night, under a smoke-obscured moon, preparing for the final dance of death.
And the train continued to race into the darkness.