Far from the world of Nova…
In a realm shrouded in eternal night, born from the sins of worlds within and beyond its reach, stood Noxvalis — the domain of the cursed undead: vampires.
The twin moons that hovered above were its only source of natural light, their subtle yet strong glow revealing the realm's dark structures.
Noxvalis differed greatly from Nova. Its architecture looked ancient, unchanging, and resilient. Every wall, every tower seemed to carry its own story.
The world was divided among clans — each with its own name, cursed attribute, and core sin. Their histories shifted, twisted, and often disappeared. No one knew exactly where they had come from. Only that they existed — long-lived, but not untouched by time. Though their bodies resisted age, their minds often fractured like glass if pushed beyond endurance.
Yet none of that mattered now.
The twin moons' light fell upon the heart of one of the clans. The continuous ring of metal on metal, the stench of sweat, and the occasional tremble of a great hall spoke of a single thing:
A spar.
The usual.
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In a vast hall, richly adorned with ancient, intricate designs, the sound of metal clashing against metal echoed like the heartbeat of war. Though centuries old, the hall's beauty was untouched — its air thick with the scent of aged timber and the faint ghost of long-absorbed smoke. Above, a dazzling silver chandelier held dozens of candles, their golden light spilling across marble and shadow.
Clank. Clank.
There it was again — the sound. Two weapons meeting with brutal force, their wielders driven apart by the impact. Parts of the hall bore fresh scars, testament to the prolonged battle between them.
The candlelight revealed their faces. Human at first glance — until the glow of crimson eyes betrayed the truth. Vampires.
One stood tall, a lean but muscular physique wrapped round his being, silky dark-blue hair framing his sharp features. A long, thin black sword pulsed faintly in his hand with an aura both cold and alive. The other was shorter but broader, with close-cropped dark-brown hair and a battle axe nearly twice his size gripped in one hand as if it weighed nothing.
Clank! Another violent collision — and then they blurred into motion, moving faster than mortal sight could follow. But to any eye keen, a subtle tremor ran through the blue-haired youth's hands with every clash.
"Why do you bother to fight when it always ends the same way, little brother?" the brown-haired vampire said, his axe swinging lazily, as if this was nothing more than an idle pastime. A smirk curved his lips. "Different patterns, same result." His eyes glinted. "Your defeat."
The words cut deep, but the blue-haired youth's gaze did not waver. His grip tightened around the sword. This time will be different.
The axe came down on his skull, but he slipped aside at the last instant, spinning into a counterattack that ended with his fist slamming into his brother's chest. The blow forced the brown-haired vampire back a single step — no more — before he steadied himself, a vein pulsing at his head.
The blue-haired vampire tossed his sword into the air. Both palms slit open, blood spilling forth — and twisting instantly into twin crimson whips.
"Tsk. Finally using your cursed attribute," the brown-haired vampire remarked.
As usual, the blue-haired youth didn't answer. He inhaled slowly, knuckles whitening around the whips.
Boom. The larger vampire charged, speed like a raging bull. The whips lashed, each strike aimed at a blind spot, flowing seamlessly into the next — a relentless barrage that drove his opponent on the back foot.
Bang! One whip tore a fist-sized hole in his brother's torso.
The brown-haired vampire glanced down at the wound, expression unchanged. Flesh knitted together almost instantly, his crimson eyes darkening to something far more dangerous. A silent warning: enough playing.
The blue-haired youth chuckled under his breath. He knew that look — Derrick was about to unleash his full strength. "Bring your worst," he muttered.
Boom.
Derrick vanished. His speed was overwhelming now. Clank! His fist met resistance — the hovering black sword, its dark aura flaring as it intercepted the strike.
"Annoying weapon," Derrick growled. He needed a new tactic. Then the thought came: Overwhelm.
He stopped abruptly, coming back into view. Confusion flickered across his brother's face.
Crunch. Derrick bit into his own arm, blood spilling to the floor.
Frederick's instincts screamed. He lunged, sword snatching from the air, trying to finish the fight before the use of his cursed attribute took shape. But the crimson liquid surged upward into a towering wall, catching the blade mid-arc.
He leapt back, but the blood closed in, curling like a living cage. Through the haze, Derrick's smirk cut through the red — the look of a man who had already won.
The prison engulfed Frederick in darkness. It constricted with every heartbeat, pain flaring through his body like fire under the skin.
"Master Derrick, do release your brother. Your father wishes to see you both in the throne room," came a calm voice.
Derrick turned to the speaker — an old man in a tailored black suit, grey hair slicked back with precision.
"We'll be there in a moment, Damian," Derrick said, releasing the blood.
Frederick collapsed to the floor, gasping, blue hair hanging wild over his face. "Hello, Damian," he rasped.
"Hello, Master Frederick," the butler replied with a polite nod.
"Father's calls for us," Derrick said, voice flat as stone. No offer to help.
Frederick rose without comment, brushing dust from his clothes, and slid the black sword into its scabbard.
"Where is my father?"he asked
"He's in the throne room," Damian answered before stepping away.
Without another word, Frederick began walking, destination the throne room.