The rooftops carried him toward the barracks like veins across a body, each slate tile a step of shadow. Noctis moved without haste, savoring the quiet. The city had not yet woken to the ruin behind him. Soon they would. But not yet.
He paused.
A sound pricked through the stillness — soft, rhythmic. Not footsteps. Not chains. Softer. Human. The rhythm broke, swelled, and became unmistakable. Moans.
His head tilted, crimson eyes narrowing.
He turned toward the sound. A shutter half-closed. A faint flicker of candlelight behind. A small house tucked in the row, its walls thin enough to bleed secrets.
He descended.
Inside, he found them. A man and a woman, tangled together, lost in themselves. They hadn't heard him. They wouldn't.
For a moment, he watched. The sight pulled at memory — long buried, long rotted. He had lived once in halls of silk and laughter, wine on every table, perfumed skin at his fingertips. That was before betrayal. Before the chains.
His lips curled. It had been too long. Tonight, he decided, would be his celebration.
The man never even looked up before Noctis's hand closed over his mouth. A twist. A snap. Silence.
The woman gasped. He was upon her before the sound could become a scream. His hand pressed over her lips, his eyes burning into hers.
"Don't," he whispered.
Terror froze her. Her eyes were wide, reflecting only crimson.
He leaned closer, voice quiet, cruel. "If you can satisfy me, I will spare you."
She trembled… then nodded.
His smile was cold.
Hours passed.
The candle guttered low. Shadows stretched and writhed against the walls. Her moans rose and fell, trembling between fear and surrender. The night swallowed them, turned them into music only he could hear.
At last, his low grunt broke the silence. His fangs sank into her neck. She stiffened, then went limp, the life leaving her in a slow rush.
[Blood Essence Acquired] +160[Skill Activated: Devour]The maiden's form dissolved into red mist, absorbed. Nothing remained.
The room fell quiet. Only the candle hissed once before dying.
Noctis stood, eyes gleaming, smirk cold. "Satisfied."
He slipped back into the night, leaving the house hollow.
The city spread ahead, its heartbeat steady, unaware. The barracks loomed across rooftops, their stone walls lit faintly by lanterns. Soldiers inside. Blood richer than peasants. Faith thicker. Iron in their bones.
Three birds with one stone. Strength, essence, fear.
He smiled again, thinking of the horror to come.
And he moved, a shadow across the tiles.
The first tremor reached the barracks just before midnight.
Walls groaned, beams shook, lanterns swung like pendulums in the rafters. At first the men thought it was thunder, or a passing quake, the kind that sometimes rolled off the river valley. But then the sound carried — not thunder, but a groan that seemed to climb out of stone itself.
The cathedral collapsed.
A deep, grinding roar split the night. Dust rose in a column so tall it swallowed half the moon. The spire bent, then fell with the slow inevitability of a guillotine, its shadow sweeping across the barracks before the crash drowned all thought. Windows rattled, crockery shattered, men clutched their helmets as the ground bucked under their boots.
The barracks bell rang. Once. Twice. Then again and again until the whole garrison stirred awake.
In the lower bunks, Sergeant Harl drew his boots on with fumbling hands, jaw tight. He had seen war in the marches, raids along the eastern border, but this… this was different. His gut knew it.
"What in the gods' name…" muttered Jerrin, the boy beside him, barely old enough to carry a pike.
"Up, lad," Harl barked. "Armor on. Spire's down."
The words sent a ripple through the dormitory. The cathedral had stood for centuries, through wars and fires, untouched. To imagine it falling was to imagine the sky cracking.
Men buckled breastplates, pulled helms over unshaven faces, scrambled for spears and halberds. In the upper hall, captains shouted orders.
At the gatehouse, Captain Deymar stood with fists braced on the stone sill. His eyes fixed on the haze rising where the cathedral had been. He could see nothing but the glow of embers bleeding upward like veins in the dark.
"Sound the horns," he ordered. "Double patrols. Streets sealed from the river to the northern wall."
A runner saluted, feet slapping stone.
Deymar's lieutenant shifted uneasily. "Sir, if the cathedral is gone… the Abbot—"
"—is dead," Deymar said flatly. "Or worse."
The lieutenant's mouth shut with a click.
Worse. The word carried more weight than death.
Through the halls, soldiers hurried. Buckles clicked, shields thudded against backs. Fear swam beneath the noise, unspoken but thick. They whispered to each other, half-believing, half-dreading:
"Was it fire?""Some say demons.""No… I heard it was an earthquake.""Earthquakes don't scream."
That word caught in the air like a nail.
Scream.
Because some had heard it. Not just the roar of stone, but a note carried on the wind, high and terrible, like a hymn torn inside out. Men who had been near enough swore the sound clawed at their ears. They spoke of whispers curling through the dust, of relics glowing and then shattering.
Faith broke fastest in whispers.
Above them, unseen, a shadow moved across the rooftops.
Noctis crouched on a ridge, cloak stirring in the river wind, eyes glinting gold-red. The barracks below hummed with frantic life — men rushing to arms, captains barking, boots trampling like drums of war.
He watched, silent, still.
The scent reached him: iron, sweat, faith. Stronger than peasants. Richer. Guard blood carried more essence. Every soldier he slew would give him Blood. Every believer among them, Faith. And their iron-forged discipline would break into Iron essence when shattered.
Three birds with one stone.
His lips curved.
Inside, Sergeant Harl clutched his halberd, heart hammering. His men were arrayed along the inner yard, a makeshift phalanx under torchlight. The captains ordered them to march streetward, to secure the perimeter.
But the night was wrong.
The shadows between torches felt too deep. The rooftops too quiet. Even the dogs had gone silent.
A cry broke it — short, sharp, cut off.
Every head turned. One of the forward scouts, gone into the alley, had not returned.
"Scout report!" Deymar bellowed.
Only silence answered.
Another cry. A gurgle. Steel clattered onto stone.
The men shifted, shields trembling against each other.
From the rafters above the yard, a drop of blood fell, spattering on the flagstones between their boots.
Harl's breath caught. He looked up. Nothing.
But something was there.
Eyes.
Two pinpricks of molten gold and crimson, watching from the dark like a predator behind glass.
"Saints preserve us…" someone whispered.
Noctis smiled.
The barracks broke into shouts. Orders barked, spears leveled upward, torches thrust into the rafters. The flame found nothing. The rafters were bare. The eyes were gone.
Yet the fear remained, thick enough to choke. Men swallowed hard, gripping their weapons until knuckles whitened.
"Form up!" Deymar roared. "You're soldiers, not children!"
But his own hand trembled. He had seen eyes like that once before, long ago, on the battlefield when the Order had broken a vampire line. He had prayed never to see them again.
Noctis slipped silently along the rafters, unseen. He had let them see, just enough. Fear was a weapon sharper than steel. The dread would hollow them before his blade did.
He crouched over the inner hall, listening to their panic spill like wine across stone. Their fear pleased him.
Tonight, he thought, would be his harvest.
He dropped soundlessly into a shadowed corridor. His boots made no noise. The barracks air tasted of sweat and iron. He moved toward the heart of it, where the captains shouted and the soldiers gathered, where faith still clung like tattered banners.
He would strip it from them.
One by one.
The barracks groaned with noise. Boots hammered stone, orders barked, shields rattled against walls. Men scrambled like ants shaken from their mound, chasing commands they barely heard. Torches swung in the corridors, their flames spitting shadows across stone. The air smelled of sweat, oil, and fear.
Through it all, Noctis moved unseen.
He slipped along the rafters, his form stitched into the dark. His footsteps made no sound, his shadow ran a half-beat behind him like smoke. To mortal eyes he was absence, a hollow in the torchlight.
Below, a squad of six guards jogged the corridor, armor clattering, breath ragged. The youngest of them muttered prayers between gasps. The sergeant hissed at him to shut it.
"Keep tight. Barracks gate by the west stair. Move!"
They never saw him.
Noctis dropped from the rafters as quiet as dust falling. He landed behind the last man, one hand covering his mouth, the other dragging him backward into the black between torches. The man's eyes flared wide — a cry tried to form, smothered. His boots scraped stone once before they vanished.
The others didn't notice.
Noctis's fangs sank deep. Warmth flooded him. The soldier convulsed once, then went slack. He was gone before his body hit the floor. No blood spilled, no corpse left. Only red mist curling into Noctis's lungs, drawn into nothing.
[Blood Essence Acquired] +70[Faith Essence Acquired] +10[Iron Essence Acquired] +5[Skill Activated: Devour] — target consumed. No remains.
The corridor remained empty. To any who turned back, it would seem the squad had always numbered five.
Noctis exhaled softly, crimson glow fading from his eyes. He stepped backward, folding into the shadow as though it swallowed him whole.
The squad turned a corner. The sergeant counted heads and frowned. "Where's Jarrick?"
Five faces looked back, blank, confused.
"He was just behind me—"
"No, he was—"
"I swear I felt him at my back—"
The sergeant's throat tightened. The corridor seemed longer than before, the torchlight thinner. He barked, harsher than he meant: "Shut it! Eyes forward. If he's lost, he's lost. Keep moving!"
But the fear already showed in their steps.
Elsewhere, Noctis slid through a wall of shadow and emerged in another passage, one floor above. A patrol of four ran beneath him. He crouched on the beams, watching them scatter torchlight. His body hummed with fresh essence, the blood in his veins sharpening every sense.
He whispered a word into the dark.
[Skill Activated: Ghost Vein II]Cost: -55 Blood, -15 FaithEffect: Veins phase with shadow, movement erased.
The world dulled. His presence sank until even the air ignored him. He stepped across the beam, dropped silent as falling ash, and walked between two of the soldiers. They didn't see him. Their shoulders brushed his cloak without feeling.
He chose the rear man again. One hand, one motion — throat opened, blood drank before the soldier even realized the cold. No cry, no struggle. The body shrank into mist, consumed before it touched the ground.
[Blood Essence Acquired] +65[Faith Essence Acquired] +8[Iron Essence Acquired] +3[Devour Complete]
Three soldiers ran on, never realizing the fourth no longer existed.
Noctis's smile was thin.
Across the barracks, fear multiplied. Whispers spread between squads:"They're taking us one by one.""No bodies left.""I swear he was right behind me—"
Discipline cracked. Some men clutched their faith talismans, muttering prayers until their lips bled. Others tried to stay close, shoulder to shoulder, but even then, eyes darted to the side every few steps, half-expecting the man beside them to vanish.
The captains barked orders louder, desperation threading through their voices. "Hold formation! Double pairs! No man alone!"
But it didn't matter.
Noctis didn't need them alone. He needed them afraid.
Another hall. Another squad. This time he didn't wait. He stepped directly from one patch of darkness to another, bypassing the front four men, materializing behind the rear guard. His hand slid through the man's chest like water, pulling the heart free in a single strike. The man never made a sound before he dissolved into mist.
The others felt nothing. They turned the corner, five becoming four, none the wiser.
[Blood Essence Acquired] +60[Faith Essence Acquired] +7[Iron Essence Acquired] +4
By the time the bell tolled the hour, the barracks had already lost over a dozen men without a single corpse to show. The fear was thicker than the torch smoke now. The guards huddled tighter, glancing into every shadow as though the dark itself held teeth.
From the rafters, Noctis watched.
His smile gleamed faintly in the torchlight before vanishing again.
The hunt had only begun.
The barracks rang with chaos. Boots clattered down halls, captains barked louder, torches hissed in sconces. Men swore they saw shadows moving against the flame. Noctis heard it all, every heartbeat, every gasp. He could have kept hunting. The numbers were in his favor, the fear his ally.
But hunger had been sated. Strength returned. Now he needed something else. Rest.
He slipped away.
A stairwell wound upward, narrow and dark, leading to officer quarters above the yard. He flowed along it, a wraith folded into the stone. Doors lined the corridor, each etched with insignias. He paused at one as a latch clicked.
Inside, a voice muttered. A woman's voice.
The door creaked open. An officer stepped out in her underclothes, hair loose around her shoulders, face pale in the half-light. She looked toward the noise from below — the commotion had stirred even the highest bunks.
Noctis watched her from the shadows within her chamber.
She turned back, shutting the door. Lantern light painted her figure as she crossed the room. She stripped her linen shift and drew a cuirass over her shoulders, buckling it in practiced motions. Greaves followed, bracers snapping into place. She bound her hair, tied her cloak, and buckled a sword at her hip.
She was beautiful, her movements precise, her frame honed from training and duty. For a moment, Noctis's eyes narrowed, fangs glinting faintly. He licked his lips, the taste of fresh prey still lingering in his mouth.
But he stayed still.
When she left, sword clinking, her footsteps faded into the din below.
The chamber was silent again.
Noctis stepped from the shadows. His eyes roved the space. A narrow room, officer's standard: desk, cot, small shrine, and on the far wall a built-in closet of stone and timber, half-hidden behind a shelf of gear.
Perfect.
He crossed the room, fingers brushing along the wall's seam. Essence whispered through his veins. The stone loosened beneath his grip like rotten bark. He pried bricks free one by one, careful, deliberate. A hole opened, just wide enough for his frame.
He climbed inside.
The air was stale, dust clogging his throat, but it was dark and silent. He lay down, folding his body into the cavity, every movement controlled. Then, piece by piece, he rebuilt the wall. Bricks slotted back into place. Mortar dust crumbled and settled. When the last stone slid into line, nothing marked the difference.
The closet stood whole. The room appeared untouched.
Inside, Noctis lay in his hollow, a shadow entombed in stone. His eyes fluttered shut.
The barracks shook with orders and fear outside. But here, in his self-made coffin, there was only stillness.
For the first time since the cathedral fell, Noctis let himself drift into sleep.
The barracks had not calmed.
Every corridor rattled with hurried boots. Squads shuffled into formations and broke apart again. Captains barked until their voices cracked. Torches burned low in sconces, smoke hazing the upper rafters. The air was thick with the sourness of fear.
Men muttered behind their helms. Some swore they saw shapes sliding across walls. Others claimed comrades vanished between one step and the next. The stories twisted with each telling, spreading faster than orders.
In the officers' hall, a council gathered.
A long table of oak stood at the center, its surface scarred by years of duty. Around it sat the barracks commanders, helms laid aside, faces pale in the lamplight. Maps were unfurled, markers set hastily along districts, though no one truly knew what they marked.
Captain Deymar stood at the head, fists braced on the table. "The cathedral is gone. The spire fell. Witnesses report screams — not human. Demonic or worse. We have no bodies, no clarity. Only ruin."
A murmur ran through the chamber.
Another officer, broad-shouldered with scarred jaw, slammed a fist down. "Then it was sabotage! Rebels, heretics, foreign blades! We march, we scour the streets—"
"And walk into what?" Deymar snapped. His eyes burned, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hands. "You didn't hear it. That sound was no man's doing."
Silence fell.
A runner burst through the doors, dust coating his uniform. He saluted, breath ragged. "Report from the city watch! Fires in the lower ward. Ash falling as far as the market square. Priests missing, relics shattered. They ask for reinforcements immediately!"
Deymar's jaw set. He looked around the table. "Volunteers."
Two officers rose at once, saluting. Others followed after brief hesitation. Within moments, half the chamber emptied, boots striking in unison as they left to answer the call.
When the doors shut, fewer remained. Among them, one officer stood quietly, adjusting the strap of her cuirass. Her hair, dark and bound at the nape, gleamed faintly in the lamplight. Her posture was straight, her eyes clear even as the others shifted and muttered.
"Lieutenant Serana," a younger guard whispered to another, not realizing his voice carried. "She didn't flinch when the spire fell. Saints know how she keeps her calm."
"She's stone," another replied under his breath. "Stone dressed as flesh. Don't cross her."
The words weren't cruel. They were edged with respect, with the relief of having someone steady when their own hands shook.
Serana ignored them, gaze fixed on the map, on the red markers clustered too close to the barracks walls.
Outside, the city still roared. Bells tolled, horns blared, the river carried smoke and ash downstream. The barracks stood in the storm's heart, soldiers holding their spears tighter, eyes flicking to every shadow.
And within its walls, one officer watched, unyielding.
Unaware that in her very chamber, the wall itself hid a predator in waiting.