Deacon Frost sauntered over to the Grand Elder, his earlier arrogance suddenly replaced by feigned humility.
"Grand Elder," he said smoothly, "someone destroyed our blood-processing plant. What's the Council planning to do about it?"
The Grand Elder's body was trembling like a leaf, though he did his best to maintain the dignified façade expected of his station.
"Now is not the time to wage war with the humans," he replied weakly. "Besides, the Covenant still binds us, so—"
Bang!
Frost slammed his fist onto the round table, his voice rising with fury.
"The Covenant? You mean that pathetic pact you made with our food? You senile fossils actually signed a treaty with livestock! We are vampires! We are the predators—superior beings who feed upon humanity! They should fear us, not the other way around!"
He spat the words like venom. Frost knew the terms of the treaty well enough, but to him, it was a farce. Humans were nothing more than cattle. What kind of predator begged its prey for peace?
The Grand Elder's lips quivered. "Then… what do you intend to do?"
Frost's eyes gleamed with madness. "The Covenant is null and void. From this day forth, vampires will hunt again. Humans are prey—and prey are meant to be slaughtered."
His tone was calm, but the hatred burning behind it made the elder shrink back in terror. The Grand Elder wanted to object, but the deranged look in Frost's eyes silenced him.
At that moment, a young vampire hurried in and whispered something into Frost's ear.
"Boss, Quinn's dead. There are heavy signs of a fight at the scene. It was the Daywalker."
Frost's expression darkened instantly. Though Quinn wasn't the brightest, he was loyal—one of Frost's most trusted lieutenants. To lose him was infuriating.
"What about the fragments?" Frost asked coldly.
"They were burned, Boss. Nothing usable left."
The underling spoke cautiously, terrified of provoking Frost's wrath.
"Damn that Daywalker!" Frost roared, his voice echoing through the hall. "I should've killed him long ago! Gather every man we have. Bring him to me alive—I'll tear the flesh from his bones myself!"
With a furious punch, he shattered the massive marble table in front of him. The elders cowered in their chairs like frightened children.
"Keep an eye on them," Frost ordered his subordinate, jerking his chin toward the Council. "No one leaves the manor. Not a single step."
He turned sharply and stormed out, his expression as dark as the night outside.
---
Elsewhere, Lucas and the others were preparing to go their separate ways. Before leaving, Lucas pulled Blade aside.
"Blade," he said quietly, "when you get those fragments translated, don't kill the translator. She'll help us lure Deacon Frost out."
Blade froze for a second, then nodded. He didn't need to ask for details—Lucas's tone told him enough. The translator must be connected to Frost, and using her would be the perfect bait.
It was risky, but it was also their best chance to track Frost's movements.
After the group parted ways, Blade returned to his safehouse. Whistler was hunched over a black vintage car, a cigarette dangling from his lips as he tinkered under the hood.
"How'd it go?" Whistler asked without looking up.
"Not bad," Blade said, stripping off his gear. "Quinn's dead."
"So the trail's gone cold again, huh?" Whistler grunted, tossing his wrench aside.
"Not exactly," Blade replied, shaking his head. "I got photos of the Book of Truth. Planning to use them to draw Frost out."
He tossed the camera to Whistler.
"Then we've got something to work with," Whistler said, pulling out the memory card and discarding the camera.
Before they could say more, the voice of the female doctor—Karen—rang out from the lab.
"You two need to see this!" she shouted, barely able to contain her excitement.
Blade and Whistler hurried over. Karen motioned for Blade to look into the microscope.
He leaned in—and his eyes narrowed. The vampire cells under the lens were dying rapidly, consumed by a swirling substance that devoured them from within, triggering violent division and collapse.
BOOM!
The microscope exploded, shattering into pieces. Blade's reflexes saved him from taking a face full of shrapnel.
Smoke filled the air. Whistler's cigarette fell from his mouth as he gawked at the wreckage.
"I thought you were working on a cure, Doc! Since when do cures explode?"
"I was trying to develop a curative serum," Karen said sheepishly, brushing glass off her coat. "I don't know what went wrong—it sort of... mutated into this."
Whistler stared at her in disbelief. "Lady, are you sure you're a hematologist and not a weapons engineer? That thing packs more punch than a UV grenade!"
Blade, however, looked pleased. He didn't care that it wasn't a cure. Whatever this serum had become—it was lethal to vampires.
Injected into a vampire's bloodstream, it would devour cells from within, triggering a chain reaction that ended in a biological explosion. A living bomb at the cellular level. Not even Dracula himself could withstand that.
"How much can you make?" Blade asked coldly, ignoring the ruined microscope.
"With the materials I have right now... maybe two hundred milliliters," Karen said after a quick calculation.
"And how much does it take to kill one vampire?"
"About twenty-five milliliters per dose."
"That's eight shots total," Blade said. "Good. Start making them. I'll need them soon."
Karen sighed, shaking her head as she started cleaning up. Then, rolling up her sleeves, she set to work. Synthesizing the serum wouldn't be difficult now that the formula was established—it would just take time.
By the time the clock struck midnight, Blade was already preparing to leave again. There was one more thing to do tonight—find the vampire who could translate the Book of Truth.
After a brief word with Whistler, Blade hopped on his motorcycle and roared off through the neon-lit streets, stopping in front of a crowded nightclub pulsing with bass.
He had deliberately left his sword behind; it was too recognizable. Tonight, he wanted to move unseen.
Two massive bouncers blocked the entrance. One of them lifted a thin metallic plate toward him.
"Symbol," the guard grunted.
Blade glanced at the plate and said evenly, "Horse."
The guard nodded and stepped aside. "Go on in."
This wasn't an ordinary club—it was an exclusive den for vampires to indulge their darkest pleasures. No humans were allowed inside, not even half-breeds like the Hakkui.
That metal plate wasn't decoration either—it was a scanner. It used heat transfer to display random patterns that could only be seen through a vampire's unique thermal vision. Anyone unable to read it would be turned away—or worse.
And since Blade was half-vampire himself, he had that same heat-sensitive perception. Passing the test was effortless.
He stepped through the doorway, swallowed by the pulsing red lights and the heavy scent of blood and desire that filled the club.
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