The darkness of the vampire kingdom's dungeons stretched endlessly, a stifling maze of stone, blood, and despair. The torches on the walls flickered weakly, casting erratic shadows across Kenneth Prince's broken frame. Chains bound him by the wrists and ankles, thick black iron reinforced with ancient spells, bolted deep into the blood-soaked floor. The very air stank of agony and rot. The wounds across his body oozed steadily, his skin a map of lashes, punctures, and bruises.
The vampire knights entered again, thirty this time, armored in black steel with crimson cloaks—their boots thundered on the stone, their eyes glimmering with hatred. Kenneth lifted his head slowly, barely conscious. Blood from his mouth dripped freely, his blue eyes dulled but not empty.
"Beast," one knight snarled, bringing down his iron whip across Kenneth's back. The sound of metal tearing into flesh echoed off the walls.
Another knight spat. "You think you're special? You're filth. A mistake."
More lashes followed. Kicks. Fists. Kenneth's body rattled under the assault, muscles twitching involuntarily. They took turns with knives, branding tools, and enchanted rods that sent lightning crackling through his nerves. Still, Kenneth remained silent, breathing heavily, his eyes simmering beneath a storm of pain.
Then the Elder entered, a thin, robed figure with hands blackened by magic. He carried a small vial filled with a swirling gray-green fluid. His smile was crooked, inhuman.
"The last one didn't work," the Elder said, kneeling in front of Kenneth. "Your will surprised us. But now... now we dampen the mind. Strip away the man. Leave only the beast."
Kenneth glared up at him weakly. The Elder forced the vial between his lips. Kenneth struggled, but his body betrayed him. The liquid poured down his throat, burning all the way.
For several seconds, nothing happened.
Then came the fire.
A roar, guttural and primal, erupted from his chest. His body snapped against the chains. Bones cracked, muscles stretched. His irises flickered red—vampire rage. Then gold—werewolf fury. Then both.
Kenneth Prince bared his fangs, claws extending as the hybrid form surged forth in a tidal wave of power and pain. With a scream that shattered the nearest torch glass, he tore his arms free from the wall. The enchanted chains cracked, blood sprayed, and stone exploded.
The knights stepped back in horror. One screamed, "Contain him!"
Too late.
Kenneth lunged.
His claws ripped through the first knight like paper, cleaving through armor and bone. He grabbed another by the face and crushed the skull into the wall. A third tried to run, but Kenneth tackled him, bit into his neck, and ripped the spine from his back. Blood sprayed like fountains.
They fought back. Swords enchanted with vampire sigils slashed his skin, but the wounds healed as quickly as they appeared. Kenneth moved like a hurricane of rage—silent, precise, and utterly brutal.
A knight leapt on him from behind. Kenneth flung him over his shoulder into a spiked wall. Another came at him with fire magic, but Kenneth's speed was unnatural. He twisted, dodged, and ripped out the knight's heart while the fire was still forming.
Thirty. Forty. Fifty. Slaughtered. Torn apart. Consumed.
Kenneth bit into their necks, feeding instinctively. Every drop of blood strengthened him, fueled the inferno within. His body glowed faintly with vampiric energy, his muscles throbbing with werewolf strength. Flesh melted under his claws. Armor shattered like glass.
When the next wave came—another hundred vampire knights—Kenneth had become a force of nature. They tried formation spells, binding rituals, enchanted cages. Nothing worked.
He descended upon them with inhuman speed. Slicing, devouring, rending. Screams of agony filled the dungeons. Some tried fleeing, but he chased them down, killed them in corners, and painted the stones with their blood.
By the end, 150 vampire knights lay in pieces. The dungeon floor was a sea of gore.
Kenneth stood in the center, body steaming, drenched in blood, breathing heavily like a wild animal. His hair hung like a dark curtain across his face, and his glowing eyes—red and gold—scanned the ruin with no hint of remorse.
Up above, the royal alarm bells rang.
Six shadows descended into the dungeon. Kenneth's elder vampire half-brothers—sons of the king, each one a royal terror in his own right. They were beautiful, powerful, cruel. Together, they formed the elite guard of the vampire throne.
They came with weapons blessed by ancient blood magic. They were fast. Trained. Relentless.
Kenneth met them head-on.
The battle shook the underground. Fists collided with faces. Steel clashed with claws. Blood sprayed like rain.
Kenneth punched one brother so hard his jaw shattered. Another tried to impale him, but Kenneth caught the blade with his bare hand and slammed the attacker into a pillar. A third brother used dark magic to send waves of pressure—but Kenneth roared, his will cutting through the spell like air.
The sixth brother managed to stab Kenneth in the side. Kenneth didn't flinch. Instead, he grabbed the blade, yanked it deeper into himself to trap the brother, then broke his arm.
They screamed, bleeding, retreating.
Kenneth was winning.
Until the Elder, hiding in the shadows, tossed another potion toward him.
It cracked against Kenneth's jaw. The liquid seeped through his lips and nostrils.
Kenneth staggered.
His vision blurred. The world spun. He roared in fury, flailing, trying to stay conscious—but his body betrayed him. The rage flickered. The energy waned. His eyes—red and gold—dimmed.
The six sons seized the moment. Together, they tackled him, slammed him against the floor, and drove steel bindings through his limbs. Kenneth howled, but it faded.
He fell unconscious.
Bound in enchanted iron chains twice as thick as before, Kenneth lay limp in a pool of blood. His body twitched occasionally, as if dreaming of war.
The six sons stood over him, bruised and bloodied.
"Little bastard nearly killed us," one hissed, spitting blood.
Another kicked Kenneth in the ribs. "Let's see how he likes being chained like a dog."
Above the dungeon, in the towering obsidian throne room, the Vampire King watched through a magic mirror. His smile was wide, teeth glinting like daggers.
"So powerful," he whispered, eyes gleaming with greed. "So pure."
The Elder stood beside him, face still swollen from earlier punishment. "The hybrid will make the perfect weapon, Your Majesty. He will burn the werewolves to ash. Crush the witches beneath his claws."
The king laughed, cold and echoing. "We will conquer them all. What centuries could not achieve, my bloodline shall accomplish. He will be the blade that ends their era."
Meanwhile, far from the horror...
Zarek and his group—Kael, Jaxon Pyre, Cassian Veyne, and Malrik—made their way along a narrow trail near the forested outskirts of Valmora. The sky overhead was gray, rain threatening to fall.
They had been traveling for three weeks. Training. Hunting. Enduring. Zarek, now fully healed, walked with confidence, his presence once more commanding.
Their supplies were plentiful, thanks to Kael's connections. His family had sent drones and crates from the capital—top-tier survival tech, weapon modules, food processors. As inventors of nearly all Velmoran tech, Kael's parents wielded significant influence.
Cassian leaned on his staff, grumbling. "Five more weeks of walking? I'm starting to miss teleportation."
Jaxon nodded, stretching his back. "We'll wear through our boots."
Kael shook his head. "We can't risk being tracked. Every kingdom has ears. And the Vampire King has many."
Malrik walked ahead, silent until then. "We'll reach the edge of their lands in five weeks. After that... we go dark."
Zarek's eyes narrowed. "No matter how long it takes—we're getting Kenneth back."
The group paused at a cliff overlooking a vast expanse of forest. Wind rustled their cloaks. Rain began to fall.
They stared ahead.
Determined.
Ready.
Back in the dungeon, Kenneth Prince slept in chains, his breathing shallow. But beneath the surface of that slumber...
A storm was waiting to wake.
And when it did...
Blood would flow again.