Chapter 8 : An Omen Before the Storm
After a week…
In the town of San Hollow—inside the old church.
The air was cold, heavy, saturated with the scent of dampness and ancient stone.
The extinguished candles left shadows longer than they should have been, as if they were moving on their own.
A number of men knelt in a single row, heads bowed, breaths held, before a figure… whose body did not seem stable.
Its form wavered.
As though it belonged to this world—yet the other half was trapped within the shadows.
Its body moved with slow, inhuman motion, one part fading… then returning, as if reality itself refused to anchor it.
And when it spoke—its voice emerged heavy as iron, saturated with dry sparks, as though it scraped against bone rather than air:
"I… sense a presence…"
The walls trembled.
The air around it contracted, as if the church itself were holding its breath.
"The lineage of the Black Moon Witch… is in this town."
The words echoed through the void, slipping into the chests of the kneeling men like cold daggers.
Then it continued, in a deeper… more dangerous voice:
"But… there is a malignant presence emanating from it."
It fell silent for a moment.
"It is not as I knew it…"
The shadow behind it thickened, and the ground beneath its feet cracked with fine, spiderweb lines.
"It is… severed from the stars."
It raised its spectral hand—a hand that seemed to fade and return in the same instant—and pointed with lethal slowness at one of the kneeling men.
"You."
The man being pointed at trembled and slammed his forehead to the ground without conscious thought.
"Tell me…"
The voice drew closer, as though whispering inside his head rather than into his ear:
"What happened after the seal?"
A suffocating silence.
Then—
"Why… was the lineage of the Black Moon Witch tainted?"
No one dared to raise their head.
And at the heart of the church—Darkness was smiling.
The lips of the chosen man trembled, sweat pouring from his brow—cold drops sliding down his face like silent confessions.
He drew a deep breath—so deep it seemed as though he were trying to swallow his fear… before a living nightmare standing above him.
Then he spoke, his voice shaking yet forced to emerge: My lord… at present, no one truly knows."
The echo of his words rang between the stone pillars.
"But… there is a legend."
He fell silent for a moment.
A second longer than it should have been.
Then he continued, as if reciting a verdict written long ago: After you were sealed… by the Black Moon Witch… and after approximately eleven years had passed…"
A palpable tension spread through the place.
"The legend says that on the night of the full moon… a battle occurred… between the Black Moon Witch… and the ancient Sun Tree."
A faint murmur rose within the church—the rustle of breaths, fear colliding with fear.
But the man did not stop.
Stopping… was more dangerous.
"After that battle… the ancient Sun Tree was annihilated… and its lineage vanished forever."
He swallowed with difficulty.
"And on the other hand… the Black Moon Witch… and her children… disappeared completely that same night."
He fell silent.
Then whispered, as if declaring the death of the world: Their lineage was wiped out… utterly."
Silence crashed down upon the place.
A dense silence… pressing… as if the church itself had ceased to exist.
The spectral figure opened its eyes.
Within them burned a dark gleam… like coal igniting slowly—no light, only scorch.
He spoke with terrifying calm:
"I understand."
Then he murmured in a sharp tone, the edge of his voice slicing through the air:
"Regardless… there are still individuals… who possess the ancient lineage."
A brief smile formed on his lips… narrow… dangerous.
"And if I can absorb one of them… I will fully restore my power and break this seal completely."
His voice rose slightly.
It was not a shout—it was an order that could not be refused.
"Go."
Breaths stilled.
"And bring me one of them."
The group bowed at once, foreheads touching the ground.
"Yes… my lord."
Then they departed.
And the church remained—silent… carrying a promise
of blood.
After they left, the church remained empty… save for the darkness of night.
A long stillness settled, as though the walls themselves were watching.
Then the spectral figure spoke in a tense tone—low, yet charged:
"I did not expect… that the leader of the Gray Wolf Clan would still be alive… after all these years."
He turned slightly, directing his gaze toward a distant corner of the church, where darkness had gathered without movement.
"Gray Wolf leader… the world is no longer what it once was."
He paused for a moment, then continued in a heavier voice:
"And yet… you are still here."
A deep voice emerged directly from the heart of the night's darkness.
No body appeared.
No form.
Only a voice… bearing the weight of mountains, and the weight of ancient blood.
"I did not expect you to return to this world…"
The voice echoed throughout the church.
"And yet… you are useless now."
The voice stepped forward once—not as a complete body… but as a mere spectral outline, nothing more.
And its words were cold… cold as death: I am here… not for you, nor for your old games."
The space fell still.
Then it continued, in a deeper tone:
"But… for the Originals."
The light in the church trembled, and the unlit candles quivered, as though a hidden flame had passed through them.
"For vengeance."
It continued in a sharper, cutting voice: So… carry on with your righteous deeds here as you wish."
A brief pause.
"I will not interfere."
Then it added, with unmistakable clarity: And you… must not interfere with my righteous deeds."
A cold contempt slipped into its voice: After all… crushing you is easier than crushing a mosquito."
A heavy silence followed.
Then it concluded, in a low yet decisive tone:
"Focus on what remains of your power… and leave me be."
The spectral figure laughed.
A short… dry laugh… its sound like a stone striking the bottom of a bottomless well.
"As you wish… you little gray wolf."
Then—The voices vanished.
And the church returned
to its silence.
At the same time—in the center of town, inside one of the hotel rooms.
A number of people were gathered, seated around a small wooden table, their faces grim, the air between them charged with tension.
The discussion was not calm… but fragmented, cautious, as though every word could be dangerous.
The door to the room suddenly opened.
A short man entered, wearing a dark hat and a long coat that concealed his features.
He stepped forward two paces, then lifted his head and looked at them one by one.
He spoke in a steady tone:
"Alright, friends… let's begin this meeting. A lot has happened this week."
He moved forward, sat down on one of the chairs, leaned back calmly, then continued:
"Who wants to speak?"
A brief silence fell.
Then one of the men spoke, his voice rough, tense: Marcus Hill… we don't know what's going on. We found a group of people in the forest. They were killed in an extremely brutal way."
Quick glances were exchanged among those present.
"And then there's that young girl from the Gill family… she disappeared last week."
His voice faltered slightly before he continued: The strange thing about these incidents… is that there are no suspects. No clear signs of action. The detection devices… it's as if they're malfunctioning. Unstable. They couldn't even determine the nature of what happened in the first place."
Another man spoke, leaning forward:
"Marcus Hill… do you know anything about this?"
Marcus Hill let out a slow breath.
He raised his gaze, meeting their eyes one by one, without looking away.
He said with heavy calm: I believe… I have an idea."
Stillness settled.
"In any case… you know about the treaty. And you know about the vampire kings… known as the Blood Kings."
A woman in her early forties spoke, her tone firm: Marcus Hill… are you saying that what happened might be the work of one of the Blood Kings? Even so, the detection devices should have been able to identify them. Besides, I don't believe the Blood Kings are reckless enough to break the treaty.
Marcus raised his hand slightly, interrupting calmly.
"I didn't say it was one of the Blood Kings."
He looked at her directly.
"Please… don't interrupt me. Let me finish."
He drew a short breath, then continued in a more dangerous tone: Who truly knows how the Blood Kings came into existence in this world?"
No one answered.
"Those who know the truth… are very few."
He paused for a moment.
"And it so happens… that I am one of them."
A clear tension spread across their faces.
Marcus spoke in a low but distinct voice: In this world… there are those who stand above the Blood Kings."
The silence grew sharper.
"They are the Originals."
Some breaths trembled.
"The first vampires. The source of the lineage."
He emphasized his words: They are the ones who created the Blood Kings."
Then he concluded, his tone cold: And they are… more powerful, more terrifying, and older… than you can imagine."
Marcus Hill slowly lifted his gaze.
His eyes passed over their faces one by one.
He stopped.
And then—he smiled.
A smile that carried no reassurance, no confidence.
But a sinister… narrow smile… as though it knew far more than it should.
And he said with lethal calm:
"I believe… one of them has decided to visit this town."
A heavy silence settled inside the room.
Heavy seconds passed.
No one moved.
Then—the room exploded.
More than one person stood at the same time, chairs shrieking as they were shoved back, voices bursting out choked, sharp,overlapping:
"Marcus Hill! Are you saying one of those monsters is in this town?!"
Fists clenched.
Jaws snapped shut with force.
A woman brought her hand to her mouth without realizing it, eyes widening until the white nearly swallowed the dark.
Marcus Hill did not move at once.
He remained seated.
He lowered his head slightly and closed his eyes for a brief moment… as if counting his breaths.
Then he exhaled.
A long, heavy exhale, as though the air itself left him exhausted.
He slowly raised his hand—just one motion.
But it was enough.
"Calm down."
His voice was not loud, and yet—the voices gradually died away.
Not because the fear had faded… but because it had grown.
He opened his eyes.
His gaze was no longer calm.
He spoke slowly, word by word: The truth… is far deeper than that."
He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees.
He looked at them from beneath his brow—a look that made unease crawl into their chests.
"The first thing we need to think about…He stopped.
All eyes clung to his lips.
"The girl's fate.
A woman in the corner trembled.
A man gripped the edge of the table until his knuckles turned white.
Marcus continued, his tone growing heavier:
"Then there is another matter…"
He straightened in his seat.
"It appears the treaties… no longer hold any value."
A suffocating silence followed.
Someone spoke in a hoarse voice:
"What do you mean…?"
Marcus did not answer immediately.
Instead, he said:
"The Gray Wolf Clan…"
Faces tightened.
"…is preparing for a major war."
It was not a sentence.
It was a verdict.
One of the men took two steps back without realizing it, as though struck by an invisible blow.
Marcus went on, his voice official, cutting:
"I am here by order of the Hunters' Council… to warn you."
Then he lowered his voice, yet its edge sharpened:
"If the girl has been taken…"
He paused.
"…by one of the Originals…"
Breaths were held.
"Then that means—"
He lifted his head and looked them straight in the eyes.
"That the hunters' community… will enter this war."
He did not shout.
He did not need to.
He finished with lethal slowness:
"So—"
He drew a single breath.
"Prepare yourselves."
The final word fell like the edge of a blade:
"For war."
And for the first time—
No one dared to speak.