Silence.
That was all that remained after the screams.
The village of Carden lay in ruin—houses split open like corpses, the smell of burnt flesh and blood thick in the air. The crimson moon still hung above, unmoving, watching, judging. And amid the wreckage stood Marcus… or what was left of him.
His breath came shallow, each inhale a struggle. The black veins that had crawled up his neck now spread across his arms, glowing faintly beneath the skin. His hands trembled, dripping with a liquid that was neither sweat nor blood, but something darker—something alive.
He stared at them in horror.
Marcus: "What… have I done?"
Bodies surrounded him. Not beasts. Not villagers. Something in between. Their eyes stared blankly, mouths frozen mid-scream. The Blood Moon's light painted them in grotesque beauty, like statues sculpted from suffering.
Marcus took a step back, his boots sinking into blood-soaked earth. The whisper inside his skull had grown quiet now, satisfied… patient.
"You survived."
"You are becoming."
Marcus pressed his hands against his head.
Marcus: "Get out of my mind!"
But the voice only laughed—low, melodic, and cruel.
"You cannot kill the storm once it lives inside you."
From the ruins of the chapel, a faint sound broke the stillness—metal dragging against stone. Marcus turned sharply, his eyes flashing gold.
Out of the darkness stumbled Arnold.
His brother's armor was cracked, his face smeared with ash, but his silver eyes still gleamed—cold and inhuman. He moved with deliberate calm, as though none of this horror surprised him.
Arnold: "I told you, brother… welcome to the hunt."
Marcus's breath caught in his throat. "What have you done, Arnold?!"
Arnold looked around—the burning houses, the dead villagers, the rising mist—and smiled faintly.
Arnold: "What we've done."
Marcus took a step forward, fists clenched. "No. I didn't want this!"
Arnold: "And yet here you stand, bathed in their blood."
Marcus's voice cracked. "They were innocent!"
Arnold's reply came like a blade.
Arnold: "No one is innocent when the curse chooses its vessel."
The two brothers stood in the square, the blood moon between them like a burning eye.
Marcus: "Tell me the truth, Arnold. What is this curse? Why me?"
Arnold's gaze softened for the first time, and something almost human flickered there.
Arnold: "You were chosen long before you were born. Our bloodline carries it. Father knew. Mother knew. That's why they feared you."
Marcus's heart pounded. "Lies."
Arnold: "Did you never wonder why the beasts never attacked our farm? Why every hunter who crossed paths with you died mysteriously? You are not the first to bear this power, Marcus—but you may be the last to control it."
The words struck like thunder. Marcus staggered, memories flooding back—his father's hatred, the villagers' stares, the nightmares that began when he turned twelve.
Marcus: "…No."
Arnold raised his sword, the silver gleam of the Royal Guard shining red under the moon.
Arnold: "You can deny it all you want, brother, but the kingdom will not. They've already branded you a heretic, a monster."
Marcus: "Then they'll come for me?"
Arnold: "They're already on their way."
The ground trembled. From beyond the hills came the sound of marching—armor clattering, horses neighing, the dull rhythm of war drums.
Marcus clenched his fists, his pulse quickening. "So… you brought them here?"
Arnold: "It's mercy, Marcus. Better to die as a man tonight than live as a monster forever."
Marcus's eyes flared gold, brighter than before. "Then let's see which one of us dies first."
The brothers lunged.
Steel met shadow. The clash echoed through the valley like thunder. Sparks flew as blades locked, each strike shaking the broken ground beneath them. Arnold fought with precision—every motion trained, disciplined. Marcus fought with fury—instinct, chaos, the beast within unleashed.
Arnold: "You've grown stronger."
Marcus (gritting his teeth): "And you've grown colder."
Arnold's sword slashed across Marcus's arm—black blood hissed as it hit the ground. Marcus didn't flinch; he swung his blade in a wide arc, the force throwing Arnold back several feet.
Arnold landed on his feet, panting, blood dripping from his lip. "So the beast is awake."
Marcus: "No… not yet."
He raised his hand. Shadows coiled around it, forming claws. The air warped, and the whisper returned—chanting, calling, feeding.
"Heir of the dark blood… let the world remember your name."
The ground split open beneath Marcus's feet. Flames erupted, swirling into a vortex of black smoke. From within, faint shapes moved—faces, hands, fragments of the dead, all screaming in unison.
Arnold shielded his eyes. "Marcus, stop this madness!"
But Marcus didn't hear. His voice was not his own anymore.
Marcus: "If this curse chose me—then let it suffer for its choice!"
He swung his arm forward, and the black storm exploded outward. The shockwave tore through the square, shattering stone and sending Arnold crashing into a wall.
When the dust settled, Marcus stood in the center, glowing veins crawling up his face, eyes blazing red-gold.
He whispered, almost to himself:
Marcus: "This power… it's killing me."
From the rubble, Arnold rose, sword trembling in his hand. "Or it's birthing you."
And above them—the Blood Moon flickered. Once. Twice. Then it shattered like glass.
A red rain began to fall.
To be continued…