In a secluded valley, forgotten by time and untouched by war, there once stood a village.Simple folk dwelt there—humble, kind, and bound to one another as kin.The harvests were rich, the laughter warm, and hope bloomed with the season.
But then came the storm.
The skies wept ash instead of rain, and thunder groaned like dying beasts.From the darkness came the fiends—creatures of crimson eyes and cursed thirst.Vampires.
They fell upon the village like a shadow given form.Homes burned.Screams shattered the silence.Blood ran like rivers in the streets once filled with joy.
The villagers stood no chance.One by one, they perished beneath claw and fang.The night was lost.
But as ruin consumed all, seven figures descended from the blackened hills.They, too, were vampires—yet unlike the others.Their gaze was sharp, their steps deliberate.Not beasts… but hunters of beasts.
In swift, silent violence, they slaughtered the attackers, their blades singing through flesh and flame.
Then came silence.
Amidst the smoking remains of the village, a sound pierced the stillness—A cry.
Faint, fragile… the cry of a babe.
The seven followed it, digging through ash and ruin.Beneath the charred remains of a fallen home, they found her:A woman, lifeless and torn, her arms wrapped around an infant—shielding him even in death.
One of them knelt.
"This child… bears no fangs. He is not one of us."
"Shall we leave him, then?"
"No... We take him. The world has stolen enough."
Thus was the child spared by death, and raised among those who walked in shadow.The hunters gave him a name, taught him their ways, forged his body into a weapon.But his blood… remained a mystery.
Twelve winters passed.
And on a moonless night, the boy lay upon the hillside alone, eyes searching the starless void above.
A man approached.
Cloaked in black and silver, tall and solemn, with silver hair flowing like mist—It was Alster, the oldest among the seven.His gaze was ancient, cold… and burdened.
He sat beside the boy without word.
The child did not turn to look, but asked in a low voice:
"Alster… am I the last of men?"
The old hunter did not answer at once.When he spoke, his voice was slow—like a truth dragged from a grave:
"Thou art born of woman… yet thy blood is veiled.Aye, thou mayest be the last, or merely the lost.But hear this, child:
From the gate of Hell itself, once came a creature dark and vast.A Vampire King.From his foul essence sprang a new race—beasts of hunger and night.They swept across the earth like plague…and mankind, proud and many, was broken and few."
The boy turned his gaze to the horizon, where nothing but ruin remained.
"And the others? Are there any left?"
Alster looked to the heavens—to a moon half-devoured.
"If they exist, they are scattered shadows.The age of men is gone.And thou, young one…art but its echo."
A cold wind rose, stirring ash into the night air.The boy said nothing.
But deep within him…something ancient stirred.
End of Chapter 0