The barracks yard was already alive with movement when Serana emerged.
Boots struck the cobbles in drills, commands barked across the square, armor clattered as men prepared for the day's rotation. Yet when the lieutenant walked into view, silence seemed to spread in her wake.
Her steps were steady, but her frame betrayed strain. Beneath the polish of her armor, her complexion was wan, lips pale, and her eyes carried a faint haze, as though sleep had not claimed her fully. A few strands of dark hair clung damp to her temples.
Officers standing near the well straightened, eyes narrowing. Captain Vorren spoke first. "Lieutenant Serana, you look—" He stopped short of finishing the word. Tired was too soft. Exhausted too kind. Pale was the truth.
Another officer, a younger man named Althis, shifted uncomfortably. "You were on duty through half the night, weren't you? Investigations, patrols… you hardly rested before dawn."
Serana kept her gaze level, voice clipped. "I did my duty. The cathedral collapse. The vanishings. The city needed command."
Her tone silenced immediate protest, but murmurs slipped through the ranks as she moved past.
"She hasn't had a full night's rest in days."
"Drove herself too hard, and now it shows."
"No wonder — she led every patrol herself."
"A strong commander… but she bleeds like any of us."
The whispers trailed behind her like a second shadow.
In the officer's hall, a small circle had gathered. They rose when she entered, their faces tightening at the sight of her.
"You're pale, Serana," one of the senior captains said bluntly. "Have you even eaten? When did you last sleep?"
Her jaw tightened. She set her gauntlets on the table with a measured clink. "I slept. Enough."
But the denial was thin. Even as she said it, her body wavered for the briefest moment before she gripped the edge of the table to steady herself. The captains exchanged glances, but none pressed further.
The truth was obvious: her exhaustion was self-made. The endless patrols, the investigation of missing men, the sleepless vigil at the cathedral's ruins. It had all taken its toll.
They all assumed this weakness was the cost of overwork. Not one dared to imagine the predator who had slipped into her chamber, feeding on her blood while shadows danced on the walls.
Meanwhile, within the stone of her chamber, Noctis rested.
The wall was cold around him, but the hollow he had carved was enough for his body to stretch. He lay still, eyes closed, his breathing shallow but steady. The memory of the night lingered like a fine wine — her blood, her moans, the gift of the Faithbreaker tree etched into his veins.
Above, boots crossed the chamber floor. Beyond, voices carried, officers conferring in urgent tones. He heard every word as though they spoke beside him.
"Her pale look — she's spent."
"She's been on patrol since the cathedral fell. The strain is too much."
"She won't admit it, but she'll break herself if this keeps on."
Noctis smiled faintly in the dark, unseen. Their assumptions were convenient. They blamed duty, not him. They would never suspect.
He shifted, folding his hands across his chest, sinking deeper into his half-slumber. Night would come again. And when it did, he would wake hungry.
Serana stood at the table, steadying herself against the weight of eyes upon her. Her officers waited for orders. Her voice, though strained, did not falter.
"Double the southern watch. Rotate the barracks patrols every three hours. And send another survey to the cathedral ruins — we will not assume the danger is passed."
The officers nodded, scribes making quick notes. The meeting dissolved into action. Yet when Serana turned toward the window, she caught her reflection faintly in the glass — armor polished, but her skin wan, her eyes dull.
She exhaled sharply, forcing her shoulders straight. Whatever haunted her dreams, whatever sapped her strength, she would not let it show further.
By midday, the whispers had reached every corner of the barracks.
In the training yard, soldiers leaned on spears, murmuring while watching her drill the southern patrol.
"She sways when she stands still."
"Her face is too pale. I've seen men look that way after bloodletting."
"She pushes through, but she's slower."
"She's human like us. Maybe too human."
Others defended her with equal fervor.
"She's the only one who didn't rest during the collapse. She carried the burden."
"Better pale and weak than lazy."
"Even if she falls, she's still more steadfast than any of us."
The tension brewed, half concern, half reverence.
Serana carried on. She drilled formations, inspected weapons, and spoke to the quartermaster about supplies. Every task weighed heavier than it should. She caught herself swaying once and pressed her fist against a post to steady herself.
Inwardly, she cursed her body. She had led campaigns before, marched through storms and battles on two hours of rest, yet this fatigue was different. It felt like something hollowed her out from the inside, a subtle drain she could not fight.
By evening, the officers demanded she eat. Bread and salted pork were set before her. She forced herself to chew, though her stomach turned at every bite.
"Better," she lied when asked, though the truth was written in her eyes.
The sun sank beyond the western walls. Shadows stretched long across the barracks. Torches were lit, their flames sputtering in the cool air. Patrols reformed into night rotations.
Serana retreated to her chamber briefly, unfastening her armor with trembling hands. She stared into the mirror above the washbasin. Her skin was ghostly, her lips pale. She leaned close, fingertips brushing her throat — smooth, unmarked. No wound, no scar.
Yet she remembered… something. A warmth at her neck. An embrace. She shut her eyes, shuddering.
A knock at her door interrupted. "Lieutenant, the western patrol is set."
"Good," she answered, voice firm again. "Hold the line. I will join shortly."
She donned her armor once more and stepped back into the torchlight, her weakness hidden beneath steel.
Within the wall, Noctis stirred. His eyes opened in the dark, glowing faintly crimson. The day had passed. The city above remained ignorant. And his hunger returned, sharpened by sleep and memory.
He stretched within the hollow, the stone creaking faintly. His lips curved into a smile.
Night had come again.
The barracks lay quiet behind him, its torches burning steady, its patrols blind to the shadow that slipped past their gates.
Noctis moved with the night, his form dissolving and reforming as he drifted between rooftops. His hunger grew heavier with every breath, coiling in his gut like a serpent. Serana's blood had given him new power, but it had only sharpened his craving. What he wanted now was more.
The city spread before him — stone lanes lined with shuttered homes, alleys where torchlight barely reached, and the distant hum of taverns still awake despite the hour. People moved here, soft and careless, unarmed against the dark.
Perfect prey.
Noctis dropped soundlessly into an alley. A man stumbled past, half-drunk, humming under his breath. He carried a jug in one hand, swaying with each step.
Noctis shadowed him.
When the man turned into a narrow passage, Noctis struck. A hand closed over his mouth, dragging him into the dark. His eyes widened, but no sound escaped.
Fangs pierced his neck. The man convulsed, his jug spilling across the stones. Blood poured into Noctis, hot and bitter with ale.
Then came the final step. Noctis whispered the command.
[Devour]
The body shuddered, dissolved into shadow, and vanished into Noctis's chest like smoke sucked into flame.
[Blood Essence Acquired] +60
[Faith Essence Acquired] +3
The alley was empty. No trace remained but the scent of wine on stone.
Two streets over, a woman hurried with a basket in her arms, glancing nervously into alleys. Noctis appeared before her like a blur. Her basket fell with a clatter. She opened her mouth to scream — but his hand pressed her throat, pinning her against stone.
His fangs sank in. She shuddered, knees buckling.
[Devour]
Her scream never came. Her body dissolved into shadow, her blood absorbed until nothing was left. Only bread rolled across the cobblestones.
[Blood Essence Acquired] +65
[Faith Essence Acquired] +2
By the time he reached the main square, Noctis had drained four more. Each vanished into smoke, erased from existence, leaving only whispers of missing footsteps in the night.
[Resource Update]
Blood: 935 → 1,210
Faith: 142 → 151
Iron: 42Soul: 4
Wraith: 1
His hunger calmed, but his ambition did not. He stood at the edge of the square, the night wind pulling at his hair. The sound of laughter carried from a tavern nearby — raucous, lively, filled with the scent of meat, sweat, and spilled drink.
Through its window he glimpsed them: adventurers. Men and women in leather and mail, their blades stacked by the wall, their mugs raised high.
Noctis tilted his head. His crimson eyes gleamed.
What if I stepped inside? Blended in. Sat among them as one of their own?
The thought amused him. The predator among prey, wearing their skin.
But his armor was too distinct, his presence too sharp. He would need a disguise.
He slipped into a side alley, away from the tavern's glow. Shadows thickened, the city walls closing around him. He raised his hands, essence burning in his veins.
The Sanguine Crucible opened before him, crimson sparks twisting into form. The Marrow Forge followed, shaping flesh and essence into tools.
Piece by piece, he wove his new guise.
A red trench coat, stitched of conjured leather, its tails brushing his boots.
Reinforced leather armor, fitted beneath the coat, flexible yet strong.
Armguards and greaves, patterned with faint runes only he could see.
Black boots, silent as shadow, yet sharp enough for combat.
His long hair he drew back, tying it high at his crown.
Finally, he lifted Gravesong, his blade, and tied it to his belt. In this new attire it looked like nothing more than a wanderer's sword.
His fangs he hid, retracting them, letting his smile seem human once more.
He examined his reflection in a rain-darkened pane. What looked back was no officer, no monster — but a traveler. A man weathered by road and fight, dressed in crimson and black, his eyes softened to a faint amber glow.
A wanderer.
He smiled.
The tavern door creaked open as Noctis entered.
Heat and noise washed over him — laughter, the crash of mugs, the sour-sweet stench of ale. Adventurers turned briefly to look, then turned back, assuming him no different than any other stranger passing through.
He stepped into the crowd, his coat swaying around his boots. For the first time since his escape, he walked among men not as a predator in plain sight, but as one of them.
His hunger was quiet. His mind was sharp. He moved through the tavern like a wolf in a den of sheep, unseen, smiling faintly as he chose where — and how — he would strike next.
The tavern door shut behind him with a heavy thud, sealing Noctis in the warmth of smoke and firelight.
The air inside was thick — sweat, roasted meat, sour ale, damp wool. Voices overlapped in waves, laughter punctuated by the slam of mugs. The walls were lined with adventurers: mercenaries in mismatched gear, young hopefuls still polishing their first swords, veterans with scars and broken noses who spoke louder than the rest.
Noctis moved through the haze, his red trench coat brushing past shoulders. His tied-back hair gleamed faintly under lanterns. To most eyes, he was nothing more than another wanderer come to spend coin.
Perfect.
He chose a seat near the wall, where shadows pooled thick and the light only touched his face at angles. He ordered nothing. A barkeep glanced once at him, shrugged, and moved on.
Listening
He leaned back, eyes half-closed, ears open. Voices bled across the room.
"…the cathedral's gone. Collapsed like a child's toy. They say it was divine punishment.""Divine? You mean demonic. My cousin swore he saw black fire in the sky above it.""Bah. I heard it was sabotage — the Faith angered too many with their taxes. Someone struck back."
Another table:
"Three patrols gone, just vanished. Not a trace left. Not even blood on the stones.""It's the shadows. I heard a guard saw something moving in the alleys, then… nothing.""Ghost stories. Drunks lose their way all the time. City's too big to keep track."
And closer still:
"…Lieutenant Serana herself. Pale as parchment this morning. They say she's been working herself to death since the collapse.""Better her than us.""She's strong, aye, but I'll wager even she can't keep this up forever."
Noctis smiled faintly. Their words slid into his ears like wine. Fear, doubt, ignorance — each one a window into how blind they were.
Interaction
At last, he shifted. A table beside his own had emptied of two drunkards, leaving three men and a woman leaning over their mugs, arguing heatedly.
"…I tell you, it's vampires," one insisted, his eyes wide with drink. "What else drinks men dry and leaves no trace?"
The woman snorted, tossing her braid. "And I tell you, the Faith keeps that word for fairy tales. If there were vampires in the city, half of us would be corpses already."
"Maybe half of us are," another muttered darkly.
Laughter rippled uneasily.
Noctis leaned forward, his voice low, smooth. "Vampires, hm? Dangerous to speak of, unless you've seen one."
They turned, startled by the stranger's tone. The drunk one blinked, then grinned. "And you, traveler — you seen one yourself?"
Noctis smiled, careful to keep his fangs hidden. "Once. On the northern roads. Fast. Silent. You'd never know they were there until your companion was gone. When I turned, there was nothing but empty ground where he stood."
The table hushed. Even the woman's smirk faltered.
"What happened to you?" she asked quietly.
He spread his hands in mock helplessness. "I lived. Barely. Perhaps it had already fed enough. Perhaps it enjoyed letting me run. I never forgot the sound of my friend's scream, cut short like a candle snuffed."
The men shifted uncomfortably. One crossed himself with a Faith sign.
Noctis leaned back again, letting silence thicken. His voice had painted the image for them — shadows swallowing a man whole. He savored the way their eyes flicked toward the tavern door, as though expecting something to slip inside even now.
Testing the Disguise
The barkeep came over, setting a mug on his table. "On the house. For a story well told."
Noctis lifted the mug, nodding once. He did not drink. Instead, he let the firelight touch his face just enough for the adventurers to see a tired wanderer's lines, a man who carried old scars.
They saw what they wanted to see. Not a predator. Not the shadow in their stories. Just another swordsman with too many roads behind him.
Perfect.
The Predator's Reflection
He listened deeper into the night, gathering scraps of rumor:
Faith patrols stretched thin, unable to cover the whole city.
Merchants whispering of caravans turning back rather than risk the roads.
A noble family demanding more soldiers to guard their estate, fearful of thieves — or worse.
Each rumor was an opening. Each fear a crack he could slip into.
Noctis sat among them, silent, his coat brushing the floor, Gravesong hanging quiet at his belt. He imagined how easily he could feed here: a cut throat in the corner, a vanished drunk in the alley, another adventurer never returning from the outhouse.
But he held back. Not yet.
Better to let them trust him first. Better to walk as a wolf among sheep until they forgot he was even there.
Hours passed. The tavern thinned. One by one, adventurers stumbled out into the streets, laughing or bickering, their voices echoing into the night.
Noctis rose at last, leaving the untouched mug behind. He pulled his coat close, tied his sword tighter, and stepped into the cool air.
Above, the moon drifted through clouds, pale and silent.
He vanished into the shadows again, his hunger held in check, his disguise intact. The city did not yet know it, but it had already welcomed him inside.
The tavern door shut behind him with a groan of wood and iron. The laughter inside dimmed into muffled echoes, the night reclaiming its silence. Noctis stepped into the cool air, his crimson coat shifting with the breeze.
He did not move far. Instead, he climbed. The shadows welcomed him as he scaled the side wall, his boots leaving no sound on the shingles. From the roof, the whole street unfolded before him — lanterns swaying on their posts, cobbles gleaming with damp, adventurers spilling from the tavern one by one.
Noctis crouched, waiting. Watching.
Pairs departed together, leaning on each other's shoulders. Groups stumbled loudly, their voices raised in drunken bravado. He let them go. They were too many.
Then came one.
A man with cropped hair, a scar running from brow to cheek, his leather jerkin worn but polished. He carried no lantern, only a sheathed short-sword and a half-empty flask. He walked alone, his head low, his steps steady despite drink.
Perfect prey.
Noctis's eyes glowed faintly in the dark. He slipped from the rooftop, shadows catching his fall, and vanished into the alley ahead.
The man turned the corner.
A whisper of movement. A figure in crimson stepped from the wall itself, too fast to react.
Noctis seized him, one hand clamping his mouth, the other driving him into the shadows. His muffled grunt vanished as fangs pierced his throat.
The adventurer thrashed, fists beating weakly against the coat of his predator. Noctis drank deep. His blood was hot, rich with iron and smoke, the taste of a seasoned fighter who had bled in battle. Strength poured into Noctis's veins.
The man's struggles weakened, his body sagging.
Noctis whispered into his ear. "Your roads end here."
[Devour]
The adventurer's form convulsed once, then dissolved into shadow, sucked into Noctis's chest. No blood spilled. No corpse remained. Only silence.
[Blood Essence Acquired] +70[Faith Essence Acquired] +4[Iron Essence Acquired] +3
Noctis exhaled, wiping his lips with the back of his hand. "Efficient. Clean."
The System chimed.
[System Message]
New Skill Unlocked: Crimson AfterimageTier II — Vampiric Sword ArtEffect: Each rapid dash leaves a shadow-double for 3 seconds. Strikes made from behind an afterimage deal +25% damage.Synergy: Combines with Phantom Dash / Wraith Step for chained illusions.
Noctis's smile sharpened. He flexed his hand, already imagining the battlefield confusion — enemies striking at phantoms while his blade cut from another angle.
"Another gift," he whispered. "From one foolish enough to walk alone."
Above, the rooftops remained silent. The street was empty again, the tavern noise muffled by distance. Noctis melted back into the night, his crimson coat brushing against shadow.
The city had lost another son. And not a soul would ever know how.