Zephyr stepped off the bus into the hospital's back alley, the late afternoon sun slanting orange across sterile walls. His pulse ticked in time with the rune etched beneath his skin—steady, insistent, reminding him of the task ahead. He glanced at the satchel slung over his shoulder, where the rebuilt primer lay nestled beside vials of distilled water and binding herbs.
System Prompt: Quest [004] Feeding: Acquire ≥ 50 HP.
He drew in a steady breath. Fifty Hemaleth Points meant he had to draw significant life-force—more than the stray dogs could supply. His mother's cautions echoed: "Use discretion. Honor what you take." So he chose a target of necessity rather than desperation: the hospital's refrigerated blood bank. Synthetic plasma substitutes didn't register as true Hemaleth—only real blood could replenish his HP.
A flicker of guilt knotted his stomach. But the rune's pulse had become a lifeline. He needed strength to face his enemies—and protect his family.
He sidestepped around garbage bins and parked ambulances, searching for the delivery entrance. A guard lounged by a metal door, clipboard in hand. Zephyr ducked into shadow, pressing his back to the cool brick. The guard's radio crackled; he turned, mouth opening to speak. Zephyr slipped forward, silent as smoke, and pressed a finger to the guard's temple—invoking Veil of Ashes' precursor stealth. The guard's eyes glazed as the rune's hush fell over him, and he slumped quietly.
Zephyr caught him before he hit the ground, lowering him gently. No injury—just a deep, enchanted sleep. He knelt, whispered words of release, and the guard's breathing evened. Zephyr eased him to the ground and softened his voice: "Sorry, friend." Then he slipped through the door.
Inside, the corridor gleamed under fluorescent lights. Nurses bustled past nursing carts; Zephyr melted into the flow, avoiding questions with a lift of his head. He rounded the corner to the blood bank door—keypad lock flashing green. He pulled the flash drive from his pocket and tapped a sequence of access codes Corin had recorded from the stolen recorder. The lock clicked.
He entered a small cooler room where rows of labeled blood bags hung on metal hooks. O− and A+—types he couldn't recall. He swallowed. The blood smelled of cold iron. He pressed a palm to the nearest bag, feeling the hum of life's raw essence.
System Prompt: "Select blood type for maximum Hemaleth yield."
O−: Universal donor—HP gain +15%
A+: Common type—HP gain +10%
B−: Rare—HP gain +20%
He hesitated. B− meant donating others' rarity—but this was stored blood, donated voluntarily, meant for healing. He justified the choice: no living donor needed. He reached for a B− bag, swiped it off the hook, and tucked it into the satchel.
System Notification: "Bloodbag (B−) selected. Expected HP gain: 20."
He closed the refrigerator door and retraced his steps, scanning hallways. He crouched behind a linen cart as two orderlies trundled past. Zephyr reached into the satchel and withdrew a small scalpel from his herbal kit. He flicked the blade open, heart thudding.
In the shelter of a supply closet, he taped the blood bag to a wall hook, needle aimed at a seam. The hemaglyphic runes on the primer pulsed as he whispered the binding incantation: "Hemaleth–Lunis–Aegis." A soft glow traced along the bag's surface, then focused around the puncture site. Zephyr braced himself and slit the bag's plastic—warm blood oozed, then spurted in a controlled pulse.
He pressed the vial under the stream, eyes closed. The vial filled in seconds. Each bead of blood sparkled with ancient energy. The rune beneath his wrist thrummed, drawing the drop of life into his palm.
System Notification: "HP gained: 20. Current HP: 20/100."
Zephyr held the vial clutched against his chest, savoring both the warmth and the weight of what he'd taken. He capped the vial, wiped his blade, and tucked both safely away. He cleaned the closet door panel, slipped the scalpel back, and eased the door open.
He emerged into the corridor, calm as if he'd merely fetched supplies. He rebooted the guard's consciousness spell from memory to cover any disturbance, straightened his posture, and walked briskly back toward the bus stop.
System Prompt: "Additional Feeding Quest Unlocked: Acquire 30 HP from live prey without detection."
His stomach clenched. The system demanded more. He'd hoped stored blood would count, but his HP gauge read 20/100—far from the required 50. He couldn't linger on stored reserves; the runes thirsted for fresh vitality. He needed to face the predator side of his curse with full intent.
He boarded the bus and rode five stops out of hospital district. The streets here curled into the Old Dockyards—abandoned warehouses, rusted cranes, and a small pack of feral dogs rumored to stalk the piers. The scout had shown him their location before, but yesterday's pack had fled in reverence. Tonight, Zephyr would take only what he needed—30 HP—from them. That was three times the amount he'd drawn last night.
He stepped off, heart thudding as he approached the wide-open docks. The moon was high now—a waning crescent—but its pull remained. Zephyr felt the MG gauge tremble, though not enough to shift. He kept to the shadows, clutching the vial of donated blood as an insurance backup.
Under the beams of an old floodlight, he saw four lean dogs circling a scrap pile. Their ribs glinted, fur matted, eyes wary. Zephyr crouched ten feet away, set the vial down, and spoke soft words from the primer: "Sanguine lure—blood's call." He uncorked the vial and let a few drops spill onto the wooden deck. The dogs froze, nostrils flaring as the droplets browned the planks.
He sank to one knee. Heart thudding, he pressed both palms together in the Binding Glyph position, closed his eyes, and let the rune's warmth flood his mind. Memories of his mother's calm ritual guided him. Then, with steady hands, he cut his palm again—this time shallow, a single line. Lashed by pain, he gritted his teeth as a bead of blood welled.
The dogs circled closer. One approached him, head low. Zephyr whispered, "Easy… only enough." He held the vial in one hand, the rune glowing beneath the blood. The dog sniffed, then lapped his palm. Zephyr drew back, letting its village fill his senses: bone, muscle, wildness.
System Notification: "Live feeding: 1/3."
Three more bites to go. Each time, he refocused, channeling the rune to temper his thirst. The second dog took from his forearm; the third from the inside of his wrist. With each sip, his HP gauge climbed—20 → 30 → 45.
Before the fourth could approach, he pulled back the vial: it was nearly empty. He placed the last willful drop into the vial, recapped it, and closed his fist over it.
System Notification: "Live feeding: 3/3. HP gained: 30. Current HP: 50/100."
He exhaled, muscles uncoiling. The dogs sniffed the stale scents, then trotted away into the industrial shadows. Zephyr watched them go, heartbeat slowing as the rune pulsed in harmony with his. He stood, wiped his palms on his jeans, and retrieved the vial of his own blood from the floor.
He climbed the chain-link fence and stood atop a container, watching the first hints of dawn break over the distant skyline. His HP gauge read a steady 50/100. His MG gauge sat at 15%, and his Humanity Meter dipped to 70%—a reminder of cost and consequence.
System Prompt: "Objective Complete: Feeding requirement met. New Quest: Moonlight Exposure – Achieve MG ≥ 50%."
Zephyr closed his eyes, raising his arms in the early light. The spanking wind off the harbor brushed his face. He breathed deeply, channeling what little moonlight remained into the rune beneath his skin. It pulsed once, then twice… but the gauge barely flickered to 20%.
He opened his eyes, resolve sharpening. He pocketed the empty vial and began planning: tonight, he would seek the Gray Court's moonlight sanctum—where the moon's tears pooled and MG could be replenished.
Today, he had paid his blood debt. Tomorrow, he would claim the moon's favor.