Night settled over New York like a living thing, weaving shadows and light into a restless, uneasy balance. The streets glowed faintly under scattered lamps, their dim yellow light stretching across cracked stone pavement that carried the weight of decades.
Two drunken men staggered down the street, arms slung over each other's shoulders as they struggled to keep their balance. Their laughter was uneven, slurred, echoing faintly between the old buildings that lined the road. The air felt thick, almost oppressive, though neither of them noticed at first.
Above them, hidden in the darkness, figures lingered.
Shadows crouched along rooftops, perched on ledges, clinging to walls like silent predators. Their forms blended into the night, their presence subtle but suffocating, as if the entire street had already been claimed.
One of the men suddenly slowed.
His steps faltered as his gaze fixed on something ahead—a lone figure standing in the middle of the road, unmoving. A faint unease crept into his chest, and he frowned slightly, trying to focus through the haze of alcohol.
Something wasn't right.
The air had gone still.
A cold, unnatural stillness wrapped around him, tightening like a noose. Instinctively, he tightened his grip on his companion, preparing to turn back.
But he was too late.
A dark shape dropped from above.
It hit his partner with crushing force, slamming him to the ground so hard that the breath was knocked from his lungs. The man froze, his mind blanking as he stared in horror at the scene unfolding before him.
The attacker leaned down.
Teeth sank into flesh.
For a second, his brain refused to process it. The sound—the wet, tearing sound—echoed in his ears as panic surged through him.
Then instinct kicked in.
He stumbled backward, nearly tripping over his own feet as he tried to escape. But laughter rose around him, low and twisted, coming from every direction.
His head snapped up.
They were everywhere.
Figures in black robes, their skin pale, their eyes gleaming with hunger, surrounded him from all sides. Their expressions were filled with greed, as if he were nothing more than prey already claimed.
"Fuck—!"
His voice cracked, tears mixing with terror.
A figure lunged.
He hit the ground hard, pain exploding through his body. For a brief moment, he saw it—those crimson eyes, burning like embers. Then his neck went numb, and darkness swallowed him whole.
More shadows descended.
One after another, vampires dropped from the walls, joining the feast. The choking, desperate sounds of their victims filled the air as they fed without restraint, tearing and drinking with savage hunger.
Then—
Something changed.
A figure burst into the street, moving with purpose.
One of the vampires at the edge of the group turned in surprise, just in time to see a tall, muscular man already within reach. A blade flashed across his throat.
"Ah—!"
The scream was sharp but brief.
Flames erupted from the wound, consuming him instantly. Within seconds, his body ignited completely, collapsing into ash before it even hit the ground.
The others froze.
Then their eyes shifted.
All of them locked onto the man standing in the middle of the street, a long sword held firmly in his hand. His posture was steady, almost casual, yet there was an unmistakable danger in the way he stood.
"Daywalker!"
The leader's voice cut through the air, filled with rage and recognition. The name alone was enough to ignite fury among the group.
Roars followed.
The vampires surged forward together, their speed explosive as they closed the distance in an instant. To ordinary eyes, they would have seemed like blurs, impossible to track.
But the man didn't move until the last moment.
The sword flashed.
Two heads fell.
The cuts were clean, precise, executed with terrifying efficiency. The man's expression didn't change as he reset his stance, the blade resting calmly before him.
They kept coming.
And he kept cutting.
Each movement was deliberate, each strike lethal. Within moments, the street was filled with ash, drifting through the air like gray snow. The vampires, one by one, fell under his blade without resistance.
Fear finally broke their resolve.
The first one turned to run.
Then another.
And another.
Panic spread quickly, and the remaining vampires scattered in all directions, desperate to escape the slaughter.
The man sheathed his sword slowly, his movements controlled.
Then he drew two silver darts.
With a sharp flick of his wrists, both projectiles shot forward, slicing through the air with deadly accuracy. Two fleeing vampires were struck mid-motion, their bodies igniting as they fell, turning to ash before they even hit the ground.
The man's gaze shifted.
He stepped forward, his heavy strides steady, closing in on the last remaining vampire—the leader.
The creature ran.
Desperation drove him forward, his body moving at full speed as he tried to escape down the street. But the distance between them only shrank.
Then—
A hand caught him.
It clamped around his neck with crushing force, stopping him instantly.
"ROAR!"
He lashed out wildly, claws tearing through the air as he tried to strike the man holding him. But before he could land a single blow, his body was slammed into the ground with overwhelming strength.
A kick followed.
Clean. Casual.
His head separated from his body, flying through the air before landing at the feet of the approaching Daywalker.
The body twitched.
For a moment, it still moved.
Watching it, Locke's eyes flickered with mild surprise. The vitality of these vampires exceeded his expectations.
A few breaths later, the movement stopped completely.
He could feel it then—a gaze.
Locke lifted his head, a faint smile forming as he looked calmly at the man approaching him.
But what happened next caught him off guard.
The Daywalker didn't acknowledge him at all.
He walked straight past, as if Locke didn't exist, and drove his sword into the vampire's chest. The body finally dissolved into ash, leaving nothing behind.
Locke watched silently, thoughtful.
The man continued walking.
No hesitation. No curiosity.
"Hey… brother?"
A trace of awkwardness crossed Locke's face, but the figure ahead didn't stop. If anything, he seemed intent on leaving.
In the next instant, Locke moved.
His body blurred into an afterimage as he shot forward, closing the distance almost instantly. Just as he reached him—
A blade flashed.
Cold steel pressed against his throat.
The silver sword gleamed faintly under the streetlight, held firmly in place.
For the first time, the Daywalker reacted.
His eyes narrowed behind dark lenses as he stared at Locke, who stood with his hands raised slightly, calm and unbothered.
"Vampire?" he asked, his voice low and steady.
"No, no, no," Locke replied easily, a faint smile on his lips. "I'm not one of them."
Under the Daywalker's watchful gaze, Locke reached out slowly and touched the blade resting against his neck.
Nothing happened.
No burning. No reaction.
The air shifted slightly.
"Why are you so fast?" the Daywalker asked, his tone sharper now.
Locke could feel it clearly—the presence in front of him. A powerful, overwhelming aura built from countless battles, from killing more vampires than most could even imagine.
It was the presence of someone who stood at the very top of this hunt.
Locke found himself genuinely impressed.
"How many have you killed to feel like this?" he thought briefly, before meeting the man's gaze with an easy expression.
"Because, technically speaking," Locke said, "I am a vampire."
He paused for a fraction of a second, then added lightly,
"The ancestor of them, actually."
"The ancestor of vampires?" the Daywalker repeated, his eyes narrowing further.
A faint sense of danger stirred within him.
This was new.
He had never encountered anything like this before. Under his enhanced senses, Locke's movement had been nearly indistinguishable from teleportation. That alone was enough to raise alarm.
Slowly, the blade shifted.
Locke gently guided it aside, his smile unchanged.
"I've heard about you for a long time," he said. "Daywalker. I don't mean any harm."
The sword didn't lower completely.
The tension lingered.
Behind his sunglasses, the Daywalker's eyes sharpened, suppressing the instinctive unease rising in his chest. The flicker of fear that had appeared for just a moment was crushed immediately.
He refused to let it take root.
....
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