The streets of one of the cities of Syracuse were deserted. All the civilians had hidden in their homes, tightly shutting the shutters, as if the very air outside were poisonous. Even the wind seemed afraid to blow here.
A truck with an open top was driving along the main road — a simple work vehicle, never meant to carry such a cargo. But now, on its rear platform, stood a mountain of muscle: the enormous Lupo held a small Lupo by one leg, carelessly, like a rag doll, and slowly lowered the child's head closer and closer to the asphalt rushing beneath the wheels. It was as if he didn't just want to frighten him — he wanted to savour the sight: in a moment, the child's face would hit the road.
The enormous Lupo wasn't in a hurry. He glanced back, indifferent, even disdainful, at the old Lupo who was chasing the vehicle, slaughtering everyone who escorted it.
The old Lupo was old. Not just old — worn down to the limit. Every bone in his body remembered dozens of battles; every muscle bore the memory of a hundred scars. He could no longer fight as he had in his youth, when his blows shattered destinies, not just bones. Old wounds ached with every breath, every step, reminding him of what he had become — of his helplessness.
Suddenly, as if tiring of the game, the enormous Lupo lightly tossed the child in his hand, caught him more securely, and lowered his head until it was just a couple of centimetres above the trembling asphalt.
And then the old Lupo roared.
It wasn't a scream. It was the howl of a creature that had had the one thing left worth living for torn away. The roar of a wounded beast, torn not from the throat, but from the very depths of his chest, where embers of rage had been smouldering for years, doused by weariness and despair. Now those embers flared up again — hot, burning white-hot, consuming everything: pain, fear, reason.
He was already on the verge of fainting from exhaustion. His body had long been begging him to stop. But he didn't stop. He ran and he roared.
Hearing that sound, the people who had timidly peeked out of their windows backed deeper into their rooms, pressed their hands to their ears, and cowered in primal fear. It seemed to them that it wasn't a living creature racing down the street — it was death itself.
A few minutes passed, and the roar turned into a rasp. His lungs burned; there was no more air left — but the old Lupo kept shouting, hoarsely, raggedly, pouring every last shred of fury into each breath. Blood flowed from his eyes. Old wounds, long healed over the years, began to reopen one by one, and dark stains spread across his clothes.
Now the old Lupo no longer resembled even a man. He was a raw scream of despair and anger, given flesh.
But his recklessness struck him in return. His body finally had its say. The old Lupo collapsed to the ground, unable to move even a finger. He lay on the cold road, greedily gulping air, and could only follow the retreating truck with a gaze that promised more than any words ever could.
He knew who was behind this.
He knew that from this moment on, he was an enemy of the mafia — and thus, of all of Syracuse.
He knew he had gone against the will of Zaao[1].
But he refused to give up.
His body was old. But far from weak.
He would tear his only child from their clutches. And he would kill as many of those bastards as he could.
Syracuse would remember this day.
Ursus.
"P‑p‑please, come in," the servant stammered, trembling like an aspen leaf that had just fallen from a tree. He was so terrified he didn't even dare to lift his eyes to the "Man" standing before him.
"Hmm? So you're not going to puff up with importance or try to kill me? I'm just a 'vagrant,' common scum without a 'lineage,'" came the "Man's" mocking voice.
"H‑how could I? The master allowed you entry. And we know who you are," the servant replied, still not raising his gaze.
"Hmm," the "Man" uttered, and suddenly his pale face with a single eye and a smirk appeared right before the servant's face — the one that had been fixed in fear on the ground.
The servant yelped in terror and collapsed to the floor, staring up at the "Man" in sheer horror. A small puddle of yellow liquid spread beneath him.
A sigh. "Master, did you really have to frighten the man to such an extent?"
"Of course. He serves a vampire. That alone makes him worthy of death. If that vampire were of my 'lineage,' I'd have slaughtered everyone in this estate," the "Man" said with a smirk, making the servant shake even harder.
"But he's not of my 'lineage,' so I politely announced my arrival."
"Don't get up. I'll find your 'master' myself." And with that, the man dissolved into dozens of bats that swarmed into the estate.
"He reminds me of Morgana — just as impatient, just as eager to kill me," the Knight murmured quietly, then stepped over the threshold of the estate, holding Carnelian in his hands.
In the throne room, the vampire sat waiting for his "guest." Until the "guest" arrived, he had been engaged in a discussion with his "apprentice," Talulah.
The old vampire was trying to impress upon the child that fear, resentment, self‑interest, and the lust for power were far more enduring forces than ideals or moral principles. He tried to explain that, in his experience, attempts to reform society through education, compassion, or appeals to justice inevitably ran into the same recurring realities: conflict, hierarchy, and historical violence.
But Talulah disagreed. She challenged the vampire's arguments and advocated for the protection of the "Infected," even in the face of public backlash.
Suddenly, bats flew into the throne room, interrupting their long‑running ideological debate.
And another "Man" appeared in the chamber.
"Hmm. So this is what the local vampires look like," the "Man" said. In the blink of an eye, he was standing right in front of the vampire, examining him closely.
"How rude," the vampire remarked, looking at his "guest."
"What can I say? I despise the aristocrats of Ursus. The fact that I haven't killed you on the spot is already a display of courtesy on my part, vampire."
"Oh, do you really think you could do it as effortlessly as you did with the 'old nobility'?" A pause hung in the air. The vampire stared at the "Man," saying nothing. An instant later, the "Man" was back where he had first appeared.
"I think so. Even though you're a vampire… Why are you so weak? I don't sense even a hint of threat from you. Even if you take up a sword, while I do feel a rather dense flow of 'Art' within your body, it's still not enough to stop me. Or are you counting on the people hiding in the shadows of this place? Or does your 'Art' allow you to infiltrate others' bodies and control them? I can counter that. Do you possess an ability that lets you kill me instantly? That won't help either. Because simply killing me isn't enough. Hmm."
The "Man" observed the vampire, who sat on the throne, with a thoughtful gaze. Suddenly, his single eye blazed with bright green flame.
"Or are you relying on that black haze surrounding your body?" At these words, the vampire's previously relaxed posture tensed, and his serene expression flickered.
"How interesting. I've fought many and killed many. But I've never seen anything like this. The moment I approached, 'it' tried to penetrate my body. Is it a virus? A mind‑control technique? Can you seize other bodies with it? Brainwash them?" The "Man" kept speaking with interest, watching the vampire with a mocking smile, as if waiting for the vampire to make a mistake and confirm his guesses. But the vampire didn't rise to the bait.
"Hmm. What if I do this?" The vampire reappeared in front of him, this time surrounded by a green barrier — the "Phantom Aegis."
"Ooo, it can't even penetrate that? Then you pose no real threat to me."
Then the "Man's" gaze fell on the child in the room. He shifted his eyes to the vampire, then back to the child.
"Hmm. What if I do this?"
Suddenly, the vampire plunged his hand into a rift that opened right before him. He pulled out a small trinket and tossed it to Talulah.
She caught it reflexively. Opening her palm, she saw a little necklace shaped like a flower — with a woman's face in its center.
Talulah raised her eyes to the "Man."
"It's called the 'Serpent's Soul Shard,'" the man said, and the old vampire flinched again at those words.
"It will amplify your 'Art' and give you an advantage in a fight against a vampire. It also holds a few surprises that could save your life in battle. With a great deal of luck, it might even heal you or your allies."
"Hmm. Drip your blood onto it." Without hesitation, she bit her finger and let a drop fall onto the necklace. It glowed faintly, rose above her palms, then settled back down.
"Now the piece is bound to you by blood. No one can take it from you — it will return to you the moment someone tries to steal it."
Just then, the doors to the throne room opened, and the Knight stepped inside.
The "Man" turned to him.
"Master, you're not planning to start another massacre, are you?"
"What do you take me for, Knight? Look! I even gave the child an artifact I created myself!" the "Man" exclaimed indignantly, gesturing toward Talulah.
The Knight seemed about to say something more, but the "Man" froze. He whirled sharply toward the South. He closed his eyes and listened intently to something only he could hear.
The "Man" snapped his single eye open, and that inhuman grin spread across his face once more.
"Such an unmasked scream of rage. Oh, I simply cannot miss this. Farewell, vampire and child."
Without a moment's hesitation, he dashed off in the direction only he knew.
From behind him came the child's shout:
"I'm Talulah! Not just some child!"
The Knight only sighed, then gave a small bow and followed his Master.
[1] The Beastlord of the Lupo.