The rain fell in relentless sheets. Drowning the neon-lit streets of the city in a haze of silver and shadow. Each droplet carried the weight of sorrow, a mournful rhythm against the pavement.
But inside the Rughton Building, sorrow was a foreign concept.
Here, the night pulsed with something far darker: desire, decadence, and the primal hunger of the Upiri.
The building loomed slightly taller than its neighbors, its windows tinted black, sealing in the sin within. The air inside was thick with the scent of sweat, blood, and something metallic... lust and violence intertwined.
Upiri, their eyes gleaming like rubies under the strobe lights, moved in a frenzy. Bodies pressed together, fangs glistened, and techno music thrummed through the floor like a heartbeat gone feral.
A middle-aged Upir in a slick navy-blue suit and crimson tie leaned against the bar, swirling a glass of something too dark to be wine.
"Looks like we hit the jackpot with this new DJ, don't you think, Mr. Rughton?" he said, his grin revealing just a hint of elongated canines.
Rughton, the owner of this den of depravity, barely glanced at him.
He was younger in appearance. Smooth brown skin, sharp cheekbones hidden behind dark shades, and an orange fur coat draped over his tailored suit like a king's mantle.
A cigar smoldered between his fingers, and in his other hand, a half-empty glass of fresh human blood glistened under the lights.
"Yeah, yeah," Rughton muttered, his voice a growl.
"Let's discuss business then. Blood prices have skyrocketed exponentially. This is our time to strike."
Rughton then takes a sip of the crimson liquor.
"I don't want to live in the goddamn streets like some common leech!"
The middle-aged Upir raised his hands in mock surrender. "Okay, okay, boss, relax! Let's enjoy the show tonight. I'll deal with the harvest tomorrow."
Rughton's only response was a glare that could've frozen hell over.
Then... his phone rang.
"Boss! Boss! There's an intrud..." The line dissolved into static.
Rughton's grip tightened around his glass.
"What the f**k?! Who's there?!" he bellowed, his voice cutting through the music like a blade.
The middle-aged Upir chuckled nervously. "An intruder? Probably one of those homo sapien terrorists. Sir, don't worry... we'll capture and skin that sh*tty human alive."
[The Elevator]
Fifteen guards surrounded the elevator, their claws unsheathed, fangs bared. Their eyes burned red in the dim light, some licking their lips in anticipation.
The air was electric with tension.
Ding.
The elevator doors slid open.
And then... silence.
The guards froze.
Standing before them was a figure clad in a black cloak, a sword strapped to his back, and a white mask adorned with peculiar, jagged lines.
Dark maroon hair, neither long nor short, framed the mask's edges.
"Sh*t! Sh*t! It's him!" one guard shrieked, stumbling back. "Call for backup! NOW!"
Another fumbled for his phone... only for his arm to hit the ground a second later. The swordsman barely even moved.
Then... chaos.
The guards lunged at the intruder with a wave of claws and fangs. The swordsman twisted, his blade a silver blur.
One slash... a head rolled. One kick... a ribcage caved in. Bullets fired, but the sword intercepted each one, deflecting them with inhuman precision.
In seconds, the hallway was painted in cerulean—the color of Upiri blood.
The swordsman stepped over the corpses, his stride unhurried, as if he were taking a midnight stroll.
[The Rave]
The rave was still in full swing, the Upiri too lost in their debauchery to notice the slaughter. The music pounded, bodies writhed, and the scent of blood only seemed to excite them further.
Then... more guards came, bursting through the crowd.
The swordsman dodged. Parried. Sliced.
Each movement was effortless, a dance of death set to the DJ's relentless beat. Cerulean blood sprayed across the dance floor, mixing with spilled liquor and sweat.
The music grew louder, the bass vibrating through the walls as if the building itself was alive.
The middle-aged Upir from earlier finally joined the fray, landing a brutal kick to the swordsman's chest. For a moment, it seemed like they had the upper hand.
They didn't.
The swordsman spun, delivering a capoeira kick that sent the Upir crashing into a table.
Before he could rise, the blade came down... slicing through him like paper.
The remaining goons fell just as quickly, limbs scattering like broken dolls.
Rughton who was watching the slaughter laughed.
"Well, well, well," he chuckled, clapping slowly. "I didn't think it'd be you." His grin widened, revealing rows of needle-like teeth.
"Attention, all Upiri! I know you're having fun, but... go home now."
The music stopped. The crowd hesitated, then scattered, stumbling over bodies and broken glass in their haste to flee.
"Not you, DJ," Rughton called. "Crank that sh*t up! This is going to be fun..."
The swordsman remained silent. Then... he removed his cloak.
Beneath it, he wore a black leather sleeveless top, his muscles taut, his lean physique honed to lethal perfection.
His maroon hair caught the light, and his mask's eerie lines seemed to shift as he stared Rughton down.
Rughton spread his arms... and from his back, black wings erupted, tearing through his expensive suit like shadows given form.
"Let the fun begin..." he sneered.
The swordsman tightened his grip on his blade.
"Alterum!"
To Be Continued...