Chapter 20
Almost a full day had gone by.
An entire day of humiliating stillness and absolute silence.
Still no information about the thief.
With every hour that passed, Likkus Haskiel's fury grew colder and harder and sharper.
For a man who had walked this planet for over two hundred years, this petty annoyance wasn't just a failed operation — it was a personal blow to his reputation, to his very core.
Unlike most of his brethren, who wallowed in eternity and slowly sank into a swamp of vices, Likkus valued time.
He was a predator, and his defining quality was focus.
The moment a problem materialized in his life — a threat to his power, his ambitions, his flawless order — he mobilized every available resource toward its swift and permanent elimination.
It was almost always fast.
Nearly always bloody.
And without exception, effective.
That ruthless efficiency was what had allowed him, the seventh son of the clan's patriarch, to claim the position of New York governor.
The city was too valuable a prize to hand over through nepotism rather than genuine merit.
"Lord Likkus, the target has been located!"
The office door flew open without a knock.
When Likkus was in the hunt, all ceremonial courtesies were abandoned for speed.
"And furthermore... the boy is in Bowling Green. He's driving his Honda through the area — not hiding at all."
Likkus went still.
Even the subordinate, already braced for punishment, couldn't have anticipated the pure, momentary bewilderment that crossed the Vampire's face.
What in hell?
This petty thief wasn't taking them seriously?
He was mocking them?
The surprise curdled into cold anger, which in turn ignited a primal urge to tear the bastard apart with his own hands.
To steal the sacred flower and then parade himself openly in their territory?
"We're moving," Likkus growled, rising from his chair.
His eyes burned with a light that had no business being in a human face.
"I'm going with you. Personally."
The assembly was swift.
Night was their hour.
Ten minutes later, several black sedans with no plates were cutting through the streets of the Financial District.
Likkus sat in the back, receiving radio reports.
Each update sharpened his anticipation.
And then at last — the boy was cornered, exits blocked.
He was boxed in.
A bloodthirsty smile tugged at Likkus's lips.
Somewhere in the back of his mind, though, an instinct honed through centuries of political intrigue whispered that this was all... a little too easy.
"Hold position. Wait for my signal. I'll greet this bastard personally," he ordered as his car stopped at the mouth of the alley.
Why was that instinct screaming at him?
He pushed the thought aside.
Unnecessary reflection.
He stepped out of the car.
The alley was flooded with the headlights of his men.
At the center, like a cornered animal, sat the old, battered Honda.
Likkus walked slowly, savoring the moment.
Two loyal bodyguards flanked him.
He peered through the windshield at the boy's face.
The thief was looking away, not meeting his gaze.
But there was no fear in him.
No panic.
And now — now he was almost... smiling.
It's a trap.
The thought blazed through Likkus's mind a half-second before the Honda's rear door swung smoothly open.
What stepped out of that car wasn't simply a man.
The darkness itself seemed to condense, take shape, and walk forward.
A silhouette that Vampires told stories about to frighten the newly turned.
A name synonymous with the word "genocide" within their community.
A figure in full combat gear: fitted body armor, a long leather coat catching the night wind.
A katana on the left hip.
That katana, the one that inspired more dread in Vampires than any holy artifact — a blade that, by all accounts, destroyed any creature of darkness it touched.
In that moment, Likkus understood everything.
The boy's smile.
His brazen courage.
The almost insulting ease with which they had been drawn here.
They were not hunters.
They were prey.
The Daywalker had come when they called.
The silence in the alley was heavy and absolute.
It was broken only by the low idle of the black sedans.
"Haskiel clan, is it," Blade said, drawing out each word with deliberate laziness.
He leaned against the roof of the Honda like a man with no pressing concerns, as though he hadn't just walked into the middle of a ring of deadly predators.
"What's the matter — you look a little pale at the sight of me? Oh, right. You're always pale."
He gave a rough chuckle.
The sound, entirely devoid of warmth, bounced off the alley walls and made the Vampires shift uneasily where they stood.
"Blade..." Likkus hissed, barely containing his fury.
Fear and wounded pride fought for space inside him.
He was already rebuilding the calculus in real time.
Any thought of harming the boy was gone.
The sole objective now was to walk out of this alive and preserve whatever scraps of dignity remained.
"You know our clan. You know how we operate. We respect the order."
"Sure, I know you," Blade said.
"But that doesn't explain why you've been hunting my friend here."
He jerked a thumb toward the car.
"He's just a regular person. Not tough like me. He can't fight back. Why are you going after the defenseless? That's not very aristocratic of you."
"He is a thief!"
Steel rang through Likkus's voice.
"He stole what belongs to our clan by right of blood — something a mere mortal should have no way of even perceiving. So don't insult me by calling him a 'regular person.'"
"To steal something, you have to know it belongs to someone!" the "regular person" in question cut in.
He'd climbed out of the car and was standing beside Blade, and he looked — infuriatingly — calm.
"Your Ghost Orchid didn't come with a sign reading: 'Property of the Haskiel Clan. Death to pilferers.'"
"Ignorance is not a defense!" Likkus snarled.
"Alright, both of you, enough!"
Blade's voice cracked through the alley like a whip, and the argument died instantly.
Every trace of lazy nonchalance had evaporated, replaced by a cold, absolute authority.
"Here's how this works. Either I take you all apart and send you to wherever your kind goes when it's permanent — or you swear that you'll leave my friend alone. Forever. You forget he exists."
"What about compensation for damages to the Clan?"
Likkus couldn't afford to fold completely.
Even facing Blade, he had to hold on to something.
"Your life is the compensation," Blade said flatly.
Silence settled back over the alley.
Seemingly from nowhere, Blade produced a silver kunai and began tossing it idly from hand to hand.
The whisper of the blade slicing through the air set the Vampires on edge far more effectively than any direct threat.
"If you kill us, the Patriarch won't let this stand!"
Likkus made one last attempt.
"Pfft. I've already gone a round with old man Alexander. I've picked up quite a bit since then."
Blade grinned, letting his dhampir fangs show.
"I'm more than ready for a rematch."
"The other clans will not tolerate this!"
"You think I came back to America for a holiday? If they all come running to me, that saves me the trouble of tracking them down."
Another grin, just as predatory.
Likkus had no appetite for jokes.
He was cornered.
Blade was right.
The choice was humiliation and survival, or death and dishonor.
He was young by pureblood standards — far too young to stand against this particular killing machine.
"Fine," he forced out through his teeth.
"Agreed. We'll leave the boy alone. I swear on the name of the Haskiel Clan—"
"Hey, hold on."
Blade stopped tossing the kunai.
"No words. Blood."
The oath.
Likkus cursed inwardly.
A Blood Oath — an ancient, unbreakable binding.
It wouldn't simply constrain his will; it would drain him, leave him exposed for weeks.
And if he broke it, his blood would degrade, his purity would be lost, and his rank within the Clan hierarchy would collapse.
It was worse than death.
But he had no choice.
He extended his hand.
He focused.
And he spoke the words that burned through every cell of his body as he uttered them:
"I, Likkus Haskiel, a pureblood Vampire of the second generation, swear by my blood that I will leave the human known as John Thompson and his associates unharmed. I swear by my blood that I will not move against him, either directly or through any third party. I swear by my blood that if I become aware of a direct threat to his life, I will warn him of it."
On the last word, he doubled over.
A clot of dark, near-black blood burst from his mouth and struck the asphalt, hissing like acid, leaving a smoldering symbol that lingered for a moment before fading.
Likkus went paler than usual and seemed to age several years in an instant.
"Now we're talking," Blade said with satisfaction.
"Knew the Haskiels could be reasoned with. Alright. We're done here."
"Wait."
Likkus's voice came out thin, diminished.
"My people. The ones watching him last night. Did you kill them?"
"First — 'people' is the wrong word. Second — none of your business."
Blade walked around the car and settled into the front passenger seat.
Before getting behind the wheel, the boy turned to face Likkus.
"I'd be open to working together in the future, Lord Likkus, if the opportunity arose."
"Go to hell," Likkus spat, the words quiet and venomous, and turned his back.
The boy shrugged, got in, and the Honda rolled out of the alley unchallenged.
Back in his own car, Likkus sat back and focused on breathing.
He ran through the accounting.
A sideblood lost, two or three years shaved from his own energy reserve, three ordinary revenants gone.
In exchange — a kind of immunity.
As long as the boy lived and remained under Blade's protection, the Clan was bound by oath and effectively off the Daywalker's list of priorities.
"Lord... are we really going to leave him alone?" his assistant asked quietly, pulling onto the night street.
"It's the best arrangement available to us," Likkus said, watching the city lights slide past the window.
"Blade didn't come here without a reason. Purges are coming. In the next few months, possibly longer — we need to keep our heads down."
We drove in silence for a while, the adrenaline still leaving its aftertaste, the glow of victory still warm in my chest.
Blade watched the lights of nighttime New York roll past his window, and I had no idea what was going through his head.
Analyzing the meeting, probably.
Analyzing me, what I'd said.
For all his practiced carelessness, the man was a professional right down to the bone.
"'Just shook them in traffic,' you said," he broke the silence, still not turning his head.
Yeah.
The Inventory.
The System.
The meta-knowledge I'd walked into this world carrying.
Secrets that were worth more than my life if the wrong person ever found out.
I stayed quiet.
After a moment or two, Blade slapped himself on the forehead — sharp, not hard.
"Damn. How did you even find out Vampires exist? And how did you find me? That should've been the very first thing I asked. Your damn watch threw me off completely."
"Those are secrets I'd prefer to keep to myself," I said carefully.
He grunted, satisfied enough with that answer, and turned toward me.
"Fair enough. Everyone's got bones in the closet. Don't worry about it — I'm a solid guy. If you keep supplying me with those potions of yours, we'll be proper friends before long. Besides, I'm planning to stay in New York for a while. Time to thin out the local population a bit."
"What about the Haskiels? Are you going to leave them alone?"
"What about them? I only put down the arrogant ones and the outright psychopaths. The ones you just saw — they can be talked to. They're part of the ecosystem, and not the worst part of it. They run businesses, provide a certain kind of protection, pay taxes — their own version of taxes, but still. As long as they stay quiet, I've got no quarrel with them."
"That's good to know. I can breathe again. And for the record — I can supply you with useful things. But it won't be charity."
"Ha! You wound me," Blade smirked.
"Uncle Blade always settles his debts."
"Then we're agreed," I nodded.
The tension had fully bled out of me now, and I let myself shift to what had actually been sitting in the back of my mind since the alley.
"By the way — when Likkus was taking the oath, he said 'pureblood Vampire of the second generation.' What does that actually mean?"
Blade looked at me with genuine surprise.
"You can track me down, but you don't know their internal hierarchy? Interesting. Alright, quick lecture on Vampirology. Might save your life someday. The short version: it all starts with Varnae. The first Vampire. Created by who-the-hell-knows, when-the-hell-knows. Among the bloodsuckers, he's called the Progenitor. Unquestionably a powerful bastard — would tie me in a knot with one finger. Fortunately, we've never met personally."
"Maybe he died a long time ago?"
"No," Blade said, shaking his head.
"That kind of filth doesn't die. Just keeps a low profile. He went dark five centuries ago and passed his power on to his direct Descendants — six of them in total. I personally put one of those six down. Of the remaining five, the best-known is Dracula. He runs the whole Vampire coven and is considered the strongest alive."
"And he lives in a castle somewhere in Romania?"
"Almost. Chernobyl."
That single word knocked the air out of me for a second.
"He likes the atmosphere. Very post-apocalyptic. The first generation of purebloods came directly from the Descendants. Then the second — like our friend Likkus back there — then the third. After that the bloodline dilutes heavily and you get ordinary Vampires. There's no such thing as a fourth-generation pureblood."
"And how do they... reproduce? Through biting?"
"Varnae and his Descendants can do it the traditional way. You know," Blade gave a brief smirk.
"First and second generation purebloods can too. Third generation rarely produces offspring that way. So yes — the majority of new Vampires come from a bite."
"So some of them are... alive, in some sense?"
That question had been nagging at me with particular urgency.
"In some sense, yes. Especially the born ones rather than the turned. For those made through a bite, it's essentially a genetic virus. But there are exceptions. And in cases like the Haskiels, they don't prefer to turn the living at all — they prefer to reanimate dead bodies and bind them to their service. Those are definitely not alive. No soul, no independent thoughts. Just fragments of the personality they carried in life. Empty shells with a puppeteer."
A cold current moved through me.
There it was.
The explanation.
Animated corpses.
The System had classified them without hesitation as "non-living objects" and let me put them in the Inventory.
But Likkus — a pureblood, a born Vampire — I suddenly knew with cold certainty that my touch would have done nothing to him.
My greatest trump card, what I'd started thinking of as close to an ultimate ability, had a blind spot baked right into it.
And I had nearly bet everything on it without ever examining the rules of the game I was playing.
That thought kept pulling threads.
In this world, there were, or would soon be, other forms of life that didn't fit neatly into any conventional definition of "alive."
The System's criteria were clearly strict and literal — but the world it had dropped me into was anything but.
My brain started moving through examples and each new one sent another chill through me.
Take Vision.
A synthetic Vibranium body, a mind running on artificial intelligence, and a soul — or something resembling one — granted by an Infinity Stone.
Was he alive?
By any human ethical standard, absolutely.
But to the System, which dealt in hard categories?
He wasn't born.
He had no DNA.
And his "soul" was, in some sense, engineered.
Could I put him in the Inventory?
The thought alone was monstrous.
Or take Sandman — Flint Marko.
His consciousness, his personality, his humanity — unquestionably alive.
But his body was silicon dioxide.
Animated sand.
What was the System actually measuring?
The biological shell, or the presence of a sentient will?
Could I "collect" him like a pile of loose material, or would his living mind make him off-limits?
And then there was Ben Grimm — the Thing, from the Fantastic Four.
Living stone.
Organic silicate.
He breathed, ate, felt, thought.
Undeniably alive, despite being composed of nothing resembling protein.
So it wasn't about chemistry.
What about the exotic life forms scattered across the wider universe?
Beings of pure energy, crystalloid intelligences, collective minds distributed across thousands of bodies?
The Inventory — what I'd been quietly treating as an ultimate weapon, a kill switch I could flip on any undead threat — was transforming before my eyes into a high-precision surgical instrument with a manual I'd never bothered to read.
Using it blindly was the equivalent of performing brain surgery with a sledgehammer.
From this point on, every new opponent had to be treated as alive until proven otherwise.
Every threat required proper analysis.
Trusting the Inventory as a cure-all was a lethal mistake — one I'd had the luck to recognize before it put me in the ground.
"Here we are," I said, cutting the engine outside the house.
The awareness of how lucky I'd been, and at the same time how exposed I still was, left something bitter on my tongue.
Blade glanced at the modest one-story building.
"Alright. Show me your Resident Evil."
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