The rain fell hard in Whitmoor that night—soaked streets, closed shops, and people shuttering themselves indoors as the uneasy feeling in the air thickened like fog. Thunder rolled in from the horizon, distant yet foreboding, as if the heavens themselves were warning the town to prepare.
On a rooftop near the edge of the town's central district, Elias Black crouched under the downpour, drenched to the bone, his crimson eyes glowing faintly through the shadows. The Crimson Sigil pulsed beneath his skin like a living brand.
He wasn't alone.
A hooded figure approached from the darkness behind him, footsteps nearly silent against the slick stone. Elias didn't flinch. He had sensed the stranger long before they arrived.
"Your aura gives you away," Elias said, not looking back.
The figure lowered their hood. A woman—young, her dark hair slick with rain, and her eyes shining an unnatural violet.
"You're learning quickly," she said, voice sharp but calm. "Impressive."
"Who are you?"
"Someone who doesn't want to kill you. Yet." She smiled faintly. "Name's Selene Thorne. I'm a Soul Hunter."
Elias tensed. He'd heard that term only once—from Lucien. The Soul Hunters were real. They were ancient guardians—or assassins, depending on the story—tasked with keeping the balance between realms.
Selene walked closer, resting against the rooftop railing. "You've stirred something very old, Elias. You set the Sigil ablaze. That means the seal has broken. The others will come now… and not all of them are mortal."
Elias clenched his fists. "Then let them come."
"Brave," she said. "Stupid, but brave."
He turned to face her fully. "What do you want?"
"To train you."
That surprised him.
Selene continued, "You have raw strength, but no control. The Devil's System you carry is unstable—volatile. You'll burn yourself out before you even see the battlefield. I can help… if you're willing to listen."
Elias narrowed his eyes, but nodded. "Start talking."
---
Elsewhere…
Deep beneath the ruined catacombs of Whitmoor, where the air stank of sulfur and blood, Steve stood at the center of a circle drawn in ancient runes. His eyes were black voids. His body—barely healed—was surrounded by candles that dripped red wax, burning with cold flames.
The ritual was nearly complete.
All around him, lesser vampires knelt. Some were new-borns, feral and hungry. Others were old—too old—forgotten monsters dragged back to life by Steve's growing power.
Above him, a stone carving of a monstrous entity hung from the ceiling. Its face was serpentine, mouth forever open in a silent scream.
"The Blood Monarch has awakened," Steve growled, blood trickling down his chin. "Which means… so can I."
One of the older vampires stepped forward. "You were burned, My Lord. You nearly died."
"I survived," Steve hissed. "And I grew stronger for it. That boy… Elias… he gave me a gift. A taste of true power."
Steve extended his arm.
A black spear of corrupted blood formed from his palm and shot straight through the vampire's skull. The creature dropped without a sound.
"I'm not going to share this kingdom with a half-born," Steve snarled. "I will ascend. Even if I have to kill the Devil himself."
---
Back in the old church...
Selene and Elias stood in the center aisle. She had led him here for training, claiming it was one of the last holy places untouched by the corruption that now spread across Whitmoor like a virus.
"Focus your breath," she ordered, circling him.
Elias closed his eyes. The Infernal Surge burned within him, hungry to be released.
"Again!"
He grunted, eyes flashing red as the sigil lit up across his chest. This time, he didn't scream. The flames wrapped around him, not wild—controlled.
Selene raised an eyebrow. "You're learning faster than I expected."
Elias exhaled slowly, smoke curling from his lips. "I want to be ready."
"You're not there yet," she replied, stepping closer. "But soon, you might be."
A cold gust of wind slammed the church doors open.
Selene spun.
Three figures stepped inside—drenched in black armor, eyes hollow, mouths sewn shut. They moved like whispers, like death made flesh.
"Damn it," she muttered. "Soul Reavers. They're early."
Elias stepped forward. "Let's see how ready I am."
The first Reaver lunged with inhuman speed. Elias dodged, summoned the Infernal Surge to his palm, and blasted it backward into a burning heap.
The second came from above, leaping down. Selene intercepted it mid-air with twin silver daggers, slicing it in half before it could land.
But the third Reaver was faster—deadlier.
It tackled Elias, slamming him into the stone altar with a sickening crunch. Its claws raked at his throat—but just as the sigil pulsed again, Elias screamed, and a wave of hellfire erupted from his body, disintegrating the Reaver into ashes.
Smoke filled the church.
Silence.
Selene coughed, stepping through the smoke to find Elias panting, hunched over, blood dripping from his lip—but alive.
"Not bad," she said.
Elias looked up, eyes gleaming like embers. "Not enough."
"No," she agreed. "But getting closer."
---
At the edge of Whitmoor...
Mr. Sabastin watched the sky.
It was darker than it should be. The stars seemed… wrong. Like they were rearranging themselves. Forming sigils only he recognized from long-forbidden texts.
He pulled out a sealed envelope. His last resort.
If Elias truly was the next bearer of the Monarch's flame… then the game had changed.
"Let's hope you don't die before you learn the truth, Elias," he muttered.
"Because the real enemy hasn't even arrived yet."