[Bucuresti, Romania]
The flat I rented reeked of marijuana smoke and used condoms. I kicked the blanket off of me and shot up to my feet. Next to me, she was passed out like a light from a long last night. I struggled to remember her name. Was it Ana, Andreea, Alexandra? Who cares, honestly? Romanian girls have such generic names. Romanian people in general. My name was Mihai, so I'd know. I still use that name, 'cause I love the shock on their faces when a Japanese teen introduces himself with a Romanian name. The shock, the disbelief, then the racism they throw at me like they're entitled to a land they sold to foreign powers since the dawn of time. Sa-mi sugeti pula de dobitoci, jumate bozgor sau japonez, tot sunt mai roman ca voi.
It's been years since I went to a club. The neon lights moving like a braindead lag, the music, the twerking hoes, everything made me sick to my stomach. I'on remember how much I drank... beers, shots of tequila and vodka, some joints, some lines. A buff guy wanted to kick my ass, but my gut punch send him flying into the wall. His girl? The stupid hoe sleeping in my bed right now. Really, it's funny how shallow these people are. Home sweet home, right?
Yeah, right. When was the little Paris my home? I wasn't ready to go back to Brasov yet, though, so this felt like a compromise.
Still, you'd think devil abilities would make you immune to the convulsive migraine of a hangover? Think again, lmao. My head hurt so much I wanted to smash my skull into the wall. I saw half a gram on the coffee table near the bed and I grabbed it, the rolling papers and some filters. Rolling, rolling, rolling, I got hoes, pattog a lowrider füstöl a kannabisz with my bros. Sigh. Rap is dumb, no matter the language. I heard my phone buzz with a notification, but I chose to ignore it as I was finishing rolling my joint. I had a vague idea who it was, but I guess they should understand that I need my space. Prolly keep the whole recreational activities stuff a secret, I feel like they'd start nagging me about it like my family used to. I'm not relapsing, alright? I just wanna change the vibe. Just chill, for once.
I laughed. I became so good at lying that I even believe myself now? What the fuck? Pathological liar syndrome? I need help? Yeah, no. I'm beyond help.
I finished rolling my joint and inhaled a puff of smoke, feeling the effect kick in fast. Ain't gonna lie, this shit is good, like, really good compared to how I remember it. Finally, I checked my phone. A LINE message, from Haruka, nonetheless.
Hey, where are you? We're worried.
I typed: "I'm fine, just need some space, I'll be back soon" and pressed send. I know I'm making them worry, but staying there woulda prolly made my mental state much worse than it already is. Romania doesn't feel much better, but... it's home. A shallow, empty home of a man who died, but still carries the old wounds into his new life. Sounds poetic, right?
It's not about Haruka or Midorikawa. Not really. If anything, I wish it was just them. It'd make things easier.
Whatever.
You ever think that life is just a curse underneath all the glamor? I do.
My phone buzzed again, but I couldn't be bothered to look at it. I need to get outta here. I got dressed fast, and slammed the door behind me, not caring if that thot woke up. I've smoked half of the joint by then, and I got no problem smoking the other half on the way down, lmao. Smoking in Romanian bloc flats was a regular occurrence no matter the city.
I flew by the stairs straight into the cold air of Bucuresti. The North Railways zone looked as miserable as I remembered— same communist blocks, same trash everywhere, same gypsy kids sniffing glue out of bread bags. It was so nauseating, it made my head ache as I cursed the city under my breath. I finished my joint and threw the leftover filter inside the nearby trashcan.
A gypsy kid approached me.
"Nenea, da si mie 5 lei."
I looked over at him, barely hiding the amusement on my face. Five lei. They used to ask for one leu... One fucking leu. The reason for the boldness was obvious, I thought as I noticed the dried glue in his bag. Mortii ma-tii de copil tampit.
"Mars la munca", I said without thinking. Go fucking work. He cursed me, then shuffled away, back to his crew. In a split second, they were heading towards me.
Tsk. Exactly what I needed. I sent an icicle their way and the fuckers recoiled, scared.
"Take one more step and you'll die", I warned.
They ran away. It's funny, what I used to see as a threat is now an annoying pest. Anyways.
I headed towards the train station, leaving the streets of Bucharest behind me. The station buzzed with its regular, deadbeat rhythm—old couples with shopping bags, a handful of students, a guy with a guitar butchering some lame ass rock song, prolly from Cargo or Iris. Romanian rock is an abomination.
The train arrived 20 minutes late. CFR, alright. I drowned in the once familiar sight of those crappy wagons, ripped seats, trash and no sockets to charge your phone. Here we go.
The train rattled along the tracks like it was about to fall apart any second, but I didn't mind. There was something comforting about the noise — that constant metal-on-metal rhythm that filled in the silence I didn't wanna deal with. The nostalgia of CFR's two-kilometers-per-hour trains. Of Romania's rusted railways, held together by overreach and apathy. Reparations? The government could give less of a fuck. And yet, I felt oddly serene — as if the land itself was calling me back, like I'd never left.
Outside, the mist rolled over the fields, wrapping the villages in that grey, half-awake stillness I always remembered about Transylvania. Chimneys puffed smoke. A few old houses, red roofs and peeling paint. Everything looked the same. Maybe that's what scared me.
I leaned my head against the cold window, eyes tracing the hills in the distance. They were supposed to mean something. Home? Memory? Roots? But the longer I stared, the less I felt. I've been gone too long. Or maybe just long enough to forget why I ever cared. That kind of detachment never stops loving from afar — it just forgets what love is made of. I'm disconnected, yet drawn at the same time. What the fuck.
My reflection in the glass looked tired — more than tired, really. Like a ghost wearing my face. The kind of look you get when too much time passes and you stop trying to look alive. Yet, there was something changed about me. Maybe I was hallucinating from exhaustion, but I could've sworn my hair looked light brown again. And my eyes — that greenish hazel I got used to — flared red, pupils dilated, staring right into my soul.
I smoked too much weed and now I'm hallucinating. Fuck.
I forced my eyes off my reflection. The carriage wasn't crowded. Just a handful of people — a man reading a newspaper, a kid glued to a phone, a couple whispering in the corner. The usual NPC army, marching into the streets of everyday life. Nobody looked at anyone. Nobody cared about anyone. This is fine.
I reached for my earbuds, scrolled through the playlist until I landed on something old — Asking Alexandria, maybe. The kind of music that used to mean teenage rebellion when I was 14, but now just sounded like a faint memory. I reached fourteen twice; it didn't mean much. But tracing the feeling of that memory was the only way to remember who I was. Who I still am.
Brașov was two hours away. I wasn't sure what I'd find there — maybe answers, maybe just another dead end. But I couldn't stay where I was anymore. Too much noise. Too many faces I didn't want to see.
The intercom crackled something about the next stop. I didn't catch it. I couldn't give less of a fuck.
I just wanted to breathe in that mountain air again, even if it hurt. Because that pain is who I am.
(scene break)
The train screeched into the station with that familiar metallic cry — long, drawn out, tired. I stepped out into the chill mountain air, and for a second, I forgot how cold Transylvania could feel. In București, it was always warmer than in the provinces. Here, though? The cold air hit like a slap in my face, the way only Braşov's autumn breeze would be able to make me feel. It felt like home, pulling me back into a graveyard of unresolved feelings, a home of ghosts. Yet, I had to see. If it exists in this world, what became of it? Romanian diaspora: you can get a Romanian out of Romania, but never Romania out of a Romanian. We always come back home.
I lit another cigarette the moment my boots hit the platform. The lighter clicked twice before catching — cheap Bic, same one I bought at a Petrom on the way here. The smoke mixed with the fog curling down from the Carpathians. You couldn't tell where one ended and the other began.
Brașov was the same old corpse, dressed up for tourists. The station was just as disgusting as I'd remember it, gypsies roaming from all across the floor all the way down to ground floor, where the ticket stands and some food stalls were located.
I headed down to the Fornetti stall, and bought a pizza with ham and chees. The taste I used to enjoy a lifetime away struck me like the feeling of deja-vu. Around me, the station was restless.
Some couple argued in Hungarian. A woman yelled at her kid in that thick Moldavian accent that always grated my nerves. Some gypsies were asking money from the students, positioned all around the hallways like predators. Taxi drivers smoked in a row near the exit, waving keys and shouting:
„Taxi, șefu'? Centru, Poiană, la un preț bun! 50 pana in Centru sau 100 pana in Poiana". That's cheap... my ass. Brasov before Bolt was plagued with scammers.
A girl approached me as I chugged down my pizza.
"Hey, can you help me out? I don't know where to go. I've got a train to Roman, but I'm not sure on what platform I should wait."
I glanced at her. Small, like Koneko, but older — maybe twenty. Black hair spilled down her shoulders, brown eyes scanning me with a subtle, guarded curiosity. Her accent — a mix of Moldavian and Roma — gave away her roots, but her features and speech were refined enough to stand out.
"Roman?" I asked, half-chewing, half-bored. "You came to Brașov just to go back east?"
She smiled faintly, adjusting the strap of her small purse. "Change of trains. I came back from Rome — I was taking care of an old lady. Pay was low, so I left."
"How much?" I raised a brow, still munching.
She chuckled bitterly. "1000 euros a month. And they only paid me half when I left… I don't have much left."
We walked down the hallway together, her dragging the pink Under Armour suitcase, me still finishing my slice.
"You'll want to wait over there," I said, nodding toward the far-left platform. "They usually send trains to Moldova from track five or six, but check the board — CFR loves switching things up."
The platform was mostly empty by then. I helped her lift the suitcase up the stairs — small, light, but awkward enough to make her struggle. She laughed softly, clearly amused by my frown at the effort.
"Thanks," she said, adjusting the strap on her shoulder. "I don't usually get this kind of help."
"Don't mention it," I muttered. "Platform five or six, I think. Check the board though."
She leaned against the railing, finally catching her breath. "I'm Denisa, by the way," she said.
"Mihai," I replied, nodding. "Nice to meet you, Denisa."
She smiled faintly. "Are your parents here?"
"Nope," I said, shrugging. "Live abroad. I'm just visiting my grandmother for a bit."
"Ah, so you're just passing through Brașov like me," she said, nudging her suitcase. "Life of a traveler, huh?"
"Something like that," I muttered, letting the words hang.
Curiosity crept into her eyes. "Do you… have a girlfriend?"
I shook my head, smirking. "Yeah, actually, I do."
Her eyebrows shot up, half-surprised, half-teasing. "Pity. We could've gone to a hotel and had fun," she said, half-joking.
I laughed, shaking my head. "Nope. Can't afford that luxury right now."
She laughed too, the sound light and infectious. It was the first time in hours I felt something close to… normal.
"Well," she said, gesturing toward the park behind the station, "we've got time. Wanna walk a bit? Better than staring at concrete."
I nodded. "Sure. Let's do it."
The park was quiet, fallen leaves crunching under our boots. I lit a cigarette and offered her the lighter. She hesitated, then accepted it with a small grin, taking a puff.
"Thanks," she said. "Coffee?" She held out a cup from the station's kiosk.
"Why not," I muttered, taking it. Warmth seeped into my cold hands. We walked in silence for a while, letting the smoke curl between us.
I couldn't help but notice the little things — her scarf fluttering in the chill, the distant cries of children somewhere deeper in the park, the smell of damp leaves and roasted chestnuts. Brașov hit me in waves, memories colliding with the present. The streets I had wandered as Mihai before all the chaos. The ghosts of the boy I used to be.
She asked quietly, "So… Mihai, do you live here?"
"Yeah… born here, gone for years. But you can take a Romanian out of Romania, can't take Romania out of a Romanian, right?"
She smiled faintly, staring at the cigarette between her fingers. "I guess that makes sense."
"What about you?" I asked, my voice sounding more casual than it felt. "What's your story?" Honestly, I just needed someone to talk to. Even hearing a woman ramble felt like therapy right now — like proof the world still had voices that didn't come from my head.
"Oh, not much." She exhaled smoke, watching it drift into the night. "I went to the art high school, but I failed the BAC. Didn't go to college after that. I was… a hooker for a while."
She said it plainly, not fishing for pity — pride and shame balanced in her tone like two people trying to share one body.
"But I quit. Didn't like it."
She flicked ash off her cigarette, eyes unfocused. "After that, I worked wherever they'd take me. A factory, a pastry shop… then I went to Rome."
We just sat there talking for 2 hours, before her train arrived. Then, I walked her back to the platform. When she turned to leave, her perfume trailed behind her — something floral, faintly cheap, but not unpleasant. It mixed weirdly with the diesel stink of the station. She waved at me, then ran off to catch the train.
I made my way back to the into the hallways of the ground floor and stormed towards the exit. The sight of the Tampa Mountain greeted me from a distance, overshadowed by the communist blocs of Bulevardul Victoriei. I caught my reflection in the glass doors of the cars stationed in the parking lot. I looked pale under the flickering lights. The kind of face that didn't belong here anymore, but couldn't quite stay away either.
Outside, the air bit harder. The mountains loomed in the distance, silent and indifferent.
Home.
If you can still call it that.
The air smelled like pine and diesel. That mix you only get in mountain cities. I stopped for a moment, looking at the Tâmpa mountain in the distance, half-eaten by fog. That Hollywood-style "BRAȘOV" sign still sat on top like some cosmic joke. The city loved pretending it was something it wasn't... guess my hypocrisy it's genetical.
I passed by the OMV near the Central intersection. Funny. The memories hit harder than the cold. I took a long drag from my cigarette, then headed toward the bus stop. Saturn Boulevard first, transfer at the Roman station toward Precizia. The ride? Predictably nothing. The seats rattled, kids shouted into their phones, the bus smelled like sweat and diesel. In the back, a group of gypsies were laughing, blasting manele straight from their phones. Nicolae Guță. Florin Salam. The holy trinity of cheap speakers and broken hearts.
And yet… there was something nostalgic about it. You're not really Romanian if you don't listen to manele at least once — even if you hate it. The rhythm, the vulgar sincerity, it clings to you like cigarette smoke. Even the music seemed to be pulling me back — not just to the city, but to some buried version of myself that never left.
Back to Săcele. The blue piece of junk RAGCPS bought from 90s Germany hummed along the way. Its creaks and groans were oddly comforting. I slumped into a seat, letting the landscape crawl past.
An elderly man shuffled down the aisle and dropped into the seat beside me. Probably seventy. Worker's uniform, reeking of the faint smell of alcohol. He leaned toward me like he was about to share the wisdom of all seventy-seven years.
"You remind me of my younger days," he rasped. "Spent thirty-seven years in the army. Saw the world. Met all kinds of people. Ever seen Capcana mercenarilor? Jean Constantin, Sergiu Nicolaescu. Nobleman returns, land lost, seeks revenge. Cameleon, psychological thriller, visitor not who he seems. BD la munte, BD la mare—comedy, three inept convicts, drugs. Laugh and think. Declaratie de dragoste, love story, high school kids, obstacles. And Poisedon. Disaster. Freighter catches fire, city at risk. Courage, doing right when it's hard."
I blinked, chewing the scenery instead. "Uh huh. Yeah, I've seen Liceeni, Buletin de București. Pretty much everything else? Meh. Guess I could use some Romanian recommendations though."
He leaned closer, eyes twinkling with mischief. "These films… culture. History. Lessons. Life."
"Sure," I muttered, staring out the window. Culture, history, life. Got it. The standard adult lecture, coated in nostalgia and cheap cologne.
The man paused, reaching into his coat. "You hungry?"
"Yeah," I said, because why lie.
He rummaged through his worn jacket and pulled out a piece of cozonac, still wrapped in wax paper. "Take this," he said, holding it out like a peace offering. "Got it from Casa Armatei. We war vets always get a free meal."
"Thanks," I muttered, accepting it with a nod. I tore into it — sweet, slightly stale, the kind of homemade sugar hit that could quiet any hunger. Better than pretending I cared about the lectures, or the heroic noblemen, or the doomed freighters.
The old man smiled faintly, satisfied with himself, and stared out the window. The bus hummed along, the winter sun spilling over the city's crumbling edges. And for a second — just a second — I felt like I belonged here again.
The bus rattled along. Kids shouted, the engine groaned. A fleeting human moment—the old man, his drunken reminiscences of battles in Kosovo and Iraq, the cozonac. Not much, but better than nothing.
As we neared Săcele, the man stood. Slow. Deliberate. "This is my stop." He nodded, then shuffled off. Gone before it could mean anything.
Sometime later, I reached my destination. The bus hissed to a stop. I stepped onto the uneven pavement, the sharp scrap of boots against the pavement ringing in my ears. The scent of home.
The hill to my house rose between the church and the hospital, the incline more punishing than I remembered. My lungs burned—not from age, but from a life spent somewhere else, somewhere flat and easy. Every step stirred a memory, half-forgotten, half-etched in the air: laughter, shouting, the sting of fists.
Then I saw it.
The house looked exactly as it had when I was a kid. Half the ground floor was covered in polystyrene, coated roughly with plaster, a lazy attempt at insulation that never got finished. The rest of the walls were slathered in a thin, uneven layer of plaster, cracking at the edges. The attic had some battered wooden paneling, and the green cardboard that passed for a roof sagged slightly under the weight of years. Unfinished. Permanent in its incompletion. Like a snapshot of my childhood, preserved in dust and cement.
I stopped. For a moment, the cold autumn air pressed against me and the city seemed to hold its breath. My reflection in the grimy window looked tired, worn—older than I was supposed to be. The house wasn't welcoming. It didn't need to be. It just existed, stubbornly, like me.
I continued down the hill, slipping past cracked sidewalks and patches of weeds. Electroprecizia stretched before me, familiar in all the wrong ways. Shops with fading signs, apartment blocks with peeling paint, a stray dog sniffing through a bin. The air smelled of roasted chestnuts and damp soil, mixed with car exhaust. Somewhere, a kid kicked a football against a wall. I could hear the metallic ping and feel my chest tighten in recognition.
The sight of my old school made me pause. Școala Generală Nr. 4, still stubbornly standing, looked like a relic frozen in time. Its pale brick façade was chipped and dull, the red metal window grilles rusting, the sloped tile roof sagging slightly. The courtyard, fenced with concrete and wrought iron, was empty but for a scattering of fallen leaves and a small bike rack, silent witnesses to years of running, shouting, and the odd scrape of childhood. The austerity of the place pressed in, almost daring me to remember.
Then, I saw a kid near the wooden fence on the left wing, flanked by 5 guys. His clothes were dirty and his face was bruised.
No. No. No. No. No. No. No. Just no.
Not this scene. Not again.
"Fuck you!", the kid barked at the bullies. He spit in his face, their leader, and kicked him in the balls. Too weak to count... The next second, fists and feet flew at him. Boxed in the corner, weak arms shielding him from the impact, weak arms getting bruised from the kicks. My breath caught in my throat.
I moved without thinking. Instinct, not reason.
I went straight for their leader, grabbed him by the collar, and swung him mid-air before slamming him against the wall.
"Leave that boy alone, or I'll beat the shit out of all of you."
They froze, the bravado draining from their faces.
"Who the fuck are you?" one of them spat, trying to sound tough.
"You didn't hear me the first time?" I barked back. Cold air gathered in my palm, and in the blink of an eye, an icicle took shape. I flicked it toward the wall — it shattered on impact, leaving a crater in the plaster.
Silence.
"Gata, șefu', we were just joking around," one stammered, his voice breaking.
"Yeah, just… joking with our friend," another added, backing away.
"We'll be on our way."
They bolted down the street, sneakers slapping the concrete.
I turned to the kid, offered him a hand, and pulled him up. His palm was small, warm, trembling — and when I saw his face, everything stopped.
Light brown hair, medium length, messy in the wind. Hazel eyes, wide and familiar. A bruise forming under one cheekbone.
He looked at me with that mix of gratitude and awe that only a child can have for someone they think just saved them.
This little guy… is me.
What the fuck.
Something cracked inside — not physical, but deeper, like the slow crumble of a rotten tooth. The air around us shifted, heavy with static, and even the light seemed to warp. The streets blurred, the sound of traffic dimmed. The world itself held its breath, as if it too recognized what I was seeing.
""Thank you, mister," the kid smiled at me — that kind of sad smile only I could make when the world showed me kindness it shouldn't have.
The school bell rang, sharp and distant.
"Oh, I gotta go. Have a nice day, nenea!" He waved at me, clutching his worn backpack as he ran toward the schoolyard.
My brain just… stopped. Didn't even try to process it. The world moved, but I didn't.
Tears slid down before I could stop them — quiet, uninvited, cutting through the cold air like cracks in glass. I couldn't be bothered to stop them.
Because for the first time, I wasn't looking at a stranger. I was looking at the part of me that never got to grow up.
I didn't linger. The courtyard still hummed with memory, and the chill of reality reminded me that I wasn't here to reminisce. As I exited through the back gate, a sharp, unnatural tension sliced through the quiet streets of Electroprecizia.
Figures emerged from the mist—humanoid, yet not. Their eyes glimmered with malice, insignias of the Oblivion Syndicate glinting faintly on their cloaks. Devils, sent to kill, to erase the resonance I carried with this land.
I clenched my fists, cold sweat dripping down my back. The lights flickered again — once, twice — then went out for good.
The air grew thick. My breath came out in fog. Footsteps shuffled somewhere ahead, too light for men, too heavy for ghosts.
"Kokonoe Takashi, on the behalf of the Oblivion Syndicate, you have become a target for elimination. Prepare to die", said one of them, prolly the team's cheerleader.
Not these bastards again. What the fuck. They've been following me? They marked me for elimination? Must be pissed I ruined their plans. Like hell I'm gonna die to you pigs, you're gonna die for what you did in Nagano. I'll hunt down every single one of you, even if it's the last thing I'll do.
I opened my palm. The air cracked, sharp as breaking bones. Frost raced up my arm, veins glowing faint blue. A spear of ice solidified in my grip, humming like it wanted blood.
The first one came screaming — face smeared in dried wine or blood, I couldn't tell. I drove the spear clean through his chest. He twitched once before going limp, sliding off the blade like meat from a skewer.
Another cultist came from behind. I spun, swept the spear low, and cut his knees out from under him. His howl echoed through the corridor — short-lived. A third lunged, knife flashing, and I rammed the spear into his throat. The blade shattered on impact, scattering shards across the floor that kept glowing faintly where they landed.
More came. Five. Maybe six. I couldn't count anymore. They chanted between blows — guttural, rhythmic, in a tongue that made my skin crawl. I froze one mid-swing, watched the ice crawl up his arms and face until his eyes turned to glass. Another one I smashed into the wall hard enough that his skull left a dark smear on the plaster.
Blood steamed against the cold. The floor was slick with it.
I was breathing hard now. My shoulder burned where one had cut me — shallow, but enough to sting. The rest circled, muttering, waiting for me to slip. I backed into a corner, hand trembling as I tried to form another spear. The air was too warm, the frost unstable.
That's when the chanting stopped.
They froze mid-step — eyes rolling white, spines bending backward. One by one, they dropped to their knees, shaking like something invisible was crawling under their skin.
And then I felt it too — that pressure, that silence heavy enough to crush thought.
Shadows stretched along the walls. At first, I thought it was smoke. Then faces took shape inside it — pale skin, sharp cheekbones, crimson eyes burning in the mist. The air froze. Their fangs gleamed under the fading streetlight, catching that cold metallic glint like blades thirsting for blood.
An aura rolled out from them — ancient, territorial, hungry. It wasn't demonic, not exactly. It was old. The kind of power that felt rooted in the soil itself, older than churches, older than myths.
Vampires.
Of course. In a world where every legend ends up being real, Romania just had to have... fucking vampires. I exhaled, half laughing to myself.
"Today's mad as fuck," I muttered, flexing my hand as the temperature around me started to drop.
They moved like they'd always been there, peeling themselves out of the dark. The cultists didn't even scream — they just gurgled as the vampires tore through them, fast and precise. One had his throat opened before he could blink; another was drained so fast his skin caved in like paper.
I watched, frozen — not with fear, but something colder. Awe, maybe.
One of them — tall, white-haired, eyes red as brake lights — turned his head toward me. He saw the frost still coiling around my arm, the frozen corpses at my feet.
Our eyes met for a second too long.
He smiled. Just slightly. Then he spoke to the others in a whisper that hissed like silk over razors. They paused, glanced my way — assessing, measuring — before turning back to their feast.
That was my cue to leave.
I stepped over the bodies, boots crunching through glass and ice, and didn't look back until I hit the stairwell. The air was warm there. Too warm. My arm was still bleeding. The ice around my fingers finally melted.
I didn't wait. My fingers gripped the familiar, jagged edge of my Sacred Gear. "Nelu," I whispered. The icy Archaeopteryx flared into existence, wings spanning like frozen lightning, eyes glowing with a cold intelligence that only I could read.
I leapt onto its back as the devils and vampires battled below. The Sacred Gear took flight, wings cutting through fog and smoke, frost trailing in our wake. Săcele shrank beneath us, the neighborhood's autumnal charm replaced by the surreal chaos of clashing supernatural powers.
Above the rooftops, the town's memory—the resonance of my younger self—remained intact, untouched. The bullies forgotten, the schoolyard quiet, the streets whispering their welcome. And somewhere, in that echo, I felt the pull of home one last time before escaping into the approaching night.
Whatever that was — cult, vampires, or something worse — it wasn't my problem anymore. At least that's what I told myself as I steadied myself for a long flight to Kuoh.
[Bistrița Citadel, Romania – Vampire Council Chamber]
The air in the chamber was still — too still, like even dust feared to move without permission. The council met under candlelight, the flames casting long, sharp shadows against stone walls older than the Kingdom of Hungary itself. Elmenhilde Karnstein sat at the head of the table, back straight, eyes half-lidded with that same mixture of boredom and condescension that had driven more than one fledgling to madness.
"He entered Săcele two hours ago," one of the familiars reported, kneeling before her. "The magnetic fluctuation in the ley lines was recorded across three counties. Even the Nosferatu enclaves near Sibiu felt it."
Elmenhilde's lips curved in mild amusement.
"Over a single devil?"
"Not just any devil," another voice replied. A male vampire with slicked-back hair and a deep red scarf. "This one bleeds familiarity. The field readings match ancestral resonance. His energy signature—"
"—belongs to a foreigner," she cut in. "A Japanese boy playing tourist in a country that isn't his."
The chamber went silent for a moment. The arrogance in her tone wasn't questioned; it was law here.
And yet, under the surface, there was discomfort. Everyone in the room had felt the pulse that went through Transylvania when he stepped on Romanian soil. It wasn't devil energy. It wasn't even demonic. It was Romanian. A buried echo, the kind that the vampires recognized in their bones.
"The locals report he calls himself Mihai," one of the younger nobles said, his voice trembling slightly. "And he fought against the so called Oblivion Syndicate trying to take over Nagano… defended humans. That doesn't sound like a servant of devils."
Elmenhilde turned her gaze toward him, and the boy shrank under it.
"Defended them? You sound as though you admire that."
"I–I only mean… if his allegiance isn't clear—"
"Then he's unstable," she said coldly. "And instability can be useful."
A pause. The older vampires exchanged knowing glances. The arrogance of old blood often came with opportunism; a creature like that could be either a threat or a pawn.
Finally, the elder at her left spoke. "If he is what you say — foreign yet bound to the land — perhaps we shouldn't strike too soon. There's… history in this. Something older than the devils' games."
Elmenhilde tilted her head, her crimson eyes reflecting the candlelight like two drops of fresh blood.
"History," she echoed softly. "Or ghosts playing dress-up."
She stood, her long cloak sweeping across the cold floor. "Keep watching him. If the devils claim him, we learn why. If the land claims him…"
She smiled faintly — that sharp, cruel smile that could pass for beauty only in the dark.
"…then he's already ours."