Sunday barely had time to summon some soul moths in front of himself when the hand reached for his throat. It pierced through the grey moths and burned, but less than he had expected. He felt death coming but remained calm. He could feel the eyes on himself through it all.

Eyes that didn’t belong to the vampire or anyone else from Blumwin. It was strange, feeling observed like helpless prey, but it was only natural.

Thieves of prey, meddlers, and fools.

The darkness moved again and Sunday laughed nervously as the hand froze mere inches from his throat. Could he live without a head? Or perhaps, as a head without a body? What were the limits of his half-living half-death state? It was a strange line of thinking that tried to alleviate some of the terror permeating the surroundings.

The lord with the goatee stood frozen, staring at the recesses of the manor behind Sunday as if seeing something no one else was. There were still vampires there, but they too, were frozen as if time had stopped.

The hand moved another inch and Sunday saw the vampire’s eyes widen as he disappeared and returned to his chair.

Oswald frowned and stood up. “What is it, Rubien?”

“I… felt like I’d have died if I touched him. How very peculiar.”

Sunday grinned to hide his confusion and relief. Even if his body could not sweat, his mind certainly was. He felt like a broken fishing boat amid a sea storm. There were no paddles, no land in sight, and no end to the thunder and wind.

“Perhaps a spell that intimidates? Or was it an effect of the soul magic? It is somewhat dangerous, even at such an impure state,” Oswald observed. His tiny eyes and hooked nose made his attention feel like a bunch of needles stabbing into Sunday’s brain.

“No. The soul magic is not it,” Rubien answered. He looked at his hand which had already healed. “It could’ve killed Versum only if he was very weakened, but I don’t see it happening.”

So, it was the Hunter’s help that allowed me to end the bastard. Fuck, am I really so helpless against them? Even Phantasmal Fall only lasts a second or two against the lords.

It was Oswald’s turn to move. He was even faster but he too froze mere inches from Sunday, his clawed hand a promise of death. “Something in the darkness…”

Sunday swallowed heavily. He whispered a word and a few tens of pairs of eyes focused on him. He ignored them. It was important to know his current situation. His pupils narrowed toward the golden page that sprung before him, and he tried to tune the looming threat of death out from his inner world.

Race: Origin Corpse

Rank: Two, 1st step

Soul Forging Technique: Ishiren’s Black Breath

Status:

No Escape – A chosen warrior’s fate is inescapable and certain. The unworthy live to prove themselves and earn the right to the gifts so generously bestowed. You shall wait for the fight to commence, bound to the place of your transgressions.

The Hunter watches with a cold gaze. His purpose is to turn prey into a predator. To be given a chance is to struggle tooth and nail and triumph over all that comes.

Nothing and no one will stand in his way.

There is no escape.

Hunted – The Hunter looks at you and scoffs. Perhaps he was wrong about your worth. Perhaps you’re nothing but a mistake.

Missing – Through blood and corruption, they thread with the sole purpose of finding their charge. They may not know who you are, or what you look like, but eventually, your paths will cross. Your importance has grown. They are getting close.

This… this is ridiculous.

The vampires let him read everything in peace as they studied him instead, but that was hardly a consolation. The words stung his pride somewhat, but he had bigger issues than that. The ‘Missing’ status had also changed, but it was not a priority.

He was locked in place to await the so-called duel. Did that mean he couldn’t leave the vampire district? Something was protecting him from the cold in the darkness, and it was keeping the vampire lords at bay. It hadn’t acted earlier, but Sunday had handled the weaker vampires easily. Keeping those away or straight up killing them was not that difficult with his current spells.

Sunday stepped forward as if death was not there. He ignored the gazes of the vampires. The lords were looking at him with curiosity, despite having sensed the danger to their lives. Some of the vampires hissed at him but still allowed him to pass through and walk away. Just as he was about to step onto a nearby road that led to the depths of the district and away from the deceased lord’s abode, the darkness lunged at him.

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Sunday felt a cold breath. It bit his skin with the ferocity of an endless winter and the rage of a churning volcano. His soul shook and he was once again reminded of the darkness that had encroached upon the city of his rebirth.

A warning.

He turned and rushed in another direction, but again each darker corner became a monstrous vision threatening to swallow his sanity and soul.

Some of the vampires seemed to have sensed what was going on as they gingerly approached the places where Sunday had met with difficulty. They met no resistance and looked around, searching.

“This is fascinating,” Oswald said after Sunday’s third attempt.

Sunday looked back, past the crowd of vampires. Vyn was as white as snow and had taken a seat on the top of the stairs leading to the entrance of the dead lord’s abode. He seemed almost non-responsive.

The vampire lord came next to Sunday, but the darkness remained unmoving and unresponsive. “It seems,” he said, “That you’re quite a peculiar one. Is it a spell hounding you, or something worse? Is it what caused the demise of dear Versum?”

“This is no Divine intervention,” Rubien added from Sunday’s other side. Their bloodlust was gone, replaced by a desire for learning akin to that of a small child.

“Don’t you care your friend is dead?” Sunday asked in retaliation. He was getting frustrated with all the bullshit that seemed to happen. How was one supposed to prepare and act accordingly, if powers beyond comprehension always meddled in such ways?

Worst of all, he was alive because of the Hunter that wanted him dead. What did I do to the guy to deserve this? I didn’t ask about any of this. Goddamn it.

“Versum? He was weak. Too young. The Baron gave him a chance and he failed. The blood of his betters was making him arrogant and foolish. Falling to a weak rank two mage just proves he was unfit. If anything, you did us and the other lords a service,” Oswald said. He stepped forward casually and marveled at each flickering shadow as if it were the rarest of jewels. They remained unmoving.

And that’s why you tried to execute me? What was it, flay me first? Sunday thought. How many lords were there? They were strong. Too strong to be ignored. How were they even part of regular society and living in the city, considering what Sunday had seen? It made no sense unless they were just that strong. Couldn’t the Arcanum and the guard force some decent behavior out of the vampires, or was that a taboo? The politics of this world made no sense on the surface level.

However, he knew well that wealth and strength were oftentimes all that mattered for one to thrive, no matter their dark proclivities.

In the next moment, Rubien’s hand was on Sunday’s shoulder, but the darkness still didn’t react. Sunday froze. The touch was colder and heavier than he had expected, but the vampire was casually looking around.

“Very curious. Then…”

Sunday sensed the change like one can sense going from a sauna to a cold room. It was confusing and disorienting at first, but the darkness leaped for the vampire just as Sunday felt the shadow of death once again descent upon him

There was a crunch, a mumbled curse, and Rubien, vampire lord, stood near the steps of the mansion, his arm and part of his torso gone. There were streaks of frostbitten wounds on the rest of his chest where his fancy robe had been torn apart, and his nose and his cheek were also halfway gone. It almost looked like the part of him had been ripped off by force, rather than bit or cut. A thin layer of frost covered the wound and slowed down the thick dark red blood from flowing down.

The vampire’s lord expression was twisted in anger and pain, but he made no sound. He looked at his wounds with a scoff and Sunday saw the flesh shift and start to mend. It was a slow process, however, which only displeased the vampire further.

That’s what you get. Maybe the Hunter wasn’t such a bad guy after all. But if he had all that power… couldn’t he just take care of the Divine and their servants? Using Sunday to do that seemed like extra steps that didn’t guarantee even half of the results.

Oswald laughed, but his gaze when he looked at Sunday was anything but joyous.

“If not Divine intervention, then what?” he hissed through chuckles.

Sunday straightened up and took a step back, observing the darkness. If he was to be a prisoner in the estate until the promised day came, then that would make things very difficult for him. However, there was another small aspect of all the craziness he could greatly enjoy.

No matter who or what came to pick a fight with him during this short time… He was untouchable.

The only question was whether the protections of the insane Hunter would save him if he was the initiator of violence. Why wouldn’t they? The Hunter had proven that he wanted to be the dealer of perceived justice and the executioner of the unworthy Sunday.

Like a birth flying toward a stormy cloud, and like a moth rushing to its death by incineration, a hand flew toward Oswald. It was slow and downright offensively unthreatening, so the vampire lord simply stood in place and took the hit.

The slap was thunderous and made the powerful lord’s head snap to the side. He didn’t move a single step, but as he looked up and showed his sharp teeth, he froze.

“Why does it hurt so?” he asked a moment later, cradling his reddening cheek. Were vampires’ cheeks supposed to redden when slapped? Sunday deemed that a question better left unexplored for the time being. Rules were apparently made to be broken by him and his many various stalkers.

“What is earned weighs more,” Sunday replied, cringing at himself. The vampire lord looked at him again and nodded, plastering yet another smile on his face.

“And if I try to repay it, the darkness will tear me apart like it did to Rubien, hm? What a peculiar situation we have. Your wardens are your protectors. But for how long? Do you plan to move into Versum’s estate and take over? Do you believe yourself untouchable? Gambles of insanity such as this is something we vampires respect a lot, but that doesn’t change the fact that someone has to be flayed for what happened.”

Rubien stepped closer, grimacing as his flesh and blood wiggled and tried to reconnect. His one hand was carrying the vampire who had been allowed to regrow a limb, by the hair. His arm was once again missing, but one of his legs was slowly growing. He was very pale, which was an achievement. Rubien let him go and the vampire fell to the ground, trying to get closer to the lord’s leg by any means necessary. It was a disgusting sight.

Oswald narrowed his eyes at that but didn’t comment.

“What is the name of this corpse, trash?” Rubien asked. His eyes were piercing and Sunday decided that he was getting slapped too, consequences be damned. What more than flaying his skin off and death could they promise? He had to take his opportunities.

“Sunday! He’s named Sunday!” the pathetic limbless vampire growled from the ground.

“Does he have friends? Lovers? Where does he reside?”

Why the fuck are you asking him?!

“He has! He stays in the Wayward Rat, and his—”

“The Rat? Mesmer!?” Rubien growled.

“Yes! Yes! Lord Versum was—”

There was a short scream that was cut off by the sound of torn flesh and bone. Sunday cringed as blood splashed everywhere. Rubien tore the crippled vampire in two and threw the halves to the ground. The vampire was oddly still living, if it could be called that.

The two lords stared Sunday down. The pressure was heavy but the situation was somewhat comical to him.

“So, I guess I’m moving in?” he smiled innocently.