Prologue: The Last Vampire

A thick winter fog enveloped the night sky, isolating the magnanimous City of Salish from the outside, the air chilled to the bone. Great waves of the Pacific brushed against the docks of the Fisherman's Wharf, spilling cold water over the edges of sand rocks.

Along the shores, are rolls of furnished villas - a comfort that can only be enjoyed by the rich. Down the mountains, through the bustling hub of the metropolis, and under the shade of commercial lights from the soaring skyscrapers, lies the dark side of the city. Winding dark paths converge here, deep into the crust of the earth, with honeycombs of dungeons and chasms, as if a huge underground maze, or the lair of an unidentified creature. This is a place beyond the reach of daylight - the real underbelly of the city.

The Forsaken thrives in the dark, and a paradise awaits those who are eager for blood and danger.

"Hey buddy, it's time to pay our tribute."

In the dimness, a homeless vagabond got up from a pile of waste to pat his partner on the shoulder. The latter was wrapped in a bunch of discarded newspapers.

There was no response.

The vagabond touched him again, only to be left in disarray as his partner fell straight to the ground. His body had stiffened with no signs of life.

He sighed, "Sorry old bud. Wish you never again, be reborn into this world." With that, he stripped his partner's clothes. Then, looking at his naked thin, but still yet warm body, another thought hit the vagabond's mind.

"Looks like I won't have to pay this month's tribute myself."

From his coat pocket, he took out a pair of rusty scissors. Slowly raising it above his head, he aimed at his former partner's neck, the vagabond's expression gradually grew grim.

Without hesitation, he brought the weapon down mercilessly.

....

About half an hour later, the vagabond reappeared at the entrance of the alley, whistling to the joy of the wind, and with two plastic capsules in his hands, each sealed with a dark red liquid.

He looked haggard, his dried-up skin covered with dense needle holes, as he gasped heavily with each small step he took, leaving an overwhelming stench in the air. His cold, lifeless eyes had long been robbed of happiness, numb from the unempathetic gaze of this city's more privileged.

Under a cluster of neon lights, he turned to a pile of ruins, where he was greeted by a narrow passage of a downward staircase. He stopped and hesitated, though he had been down there one too many times.

Down there, lies both the closest place to hell, and also the only glimmer of hope for them slumdogs.

At the bottom, he squeezed sideways into the tapered corridor, a stinky stench fell upon him. The vagabond just kept numbing himself: a tribute like this can for sure get him a long-yearning hot meal.

He could barely walk when he finally reached the door, an ache in his chest as he was about to knock six times - as the law states. But as soon as his fingers touched the knob, the door pushed open inward by itself.

He stepped into the main hall and was almost immediately confronted by the silhouette of a man, clad in a witch's robe, and sitting at a long, elaborate table. The "man" had a face of bloodless skin, deep eye sockets, and pale lips. His blood-red pupils glared at the vagabond in indescribable anger.

"Anger not my master, your loyal servant is here to offer a tribute!" The vagabond fell to his one knee and held up the two capsules in his hand.

There was a deathly silence. Only the faint sound of ticking drops of liquid coming from not far away.

The vagabond eventually summoned the courage, and slowly glanced up. His "master" still sat there, emotionless under the ghostly light, with a shallow black mark on the neck. The mark expanded rapidly, like a trail of ink scattered in water, until it went around the neck in a circle.

The "master's" head then slipped off and rolled to the floor with a loud "thud".

The vagabond dropped the capsule and scrambled to crawl back towards the door.

He hit his back hard against a pillar.

There was rush of pain down his spine. But what truly sent shivers, was that he did not recall there was a pillar when he first came in.

"I did not think the Sanguines had fallen so low as to make a pact with this filth." A hoarse baritone voice came from right above his head.

He tilted his head, only to see a middle-aged man looking down at him, with eyebrows sharper than a blade, and hairs more silver than the full moon. The man wore an eye patch over his right eye, and bore a ring of broken scruff around his chin.

"Heh, didn't those so-called nobles say themselves, and I quote: "bloodlines are never equal in pureness?" From behind the long table, a firm female voice drifted in.

From the shadows, emerged several other figures, the woman in lead removed her facemask and hood. A waterfall of her radiant blonde hair shone like the blazing sun, something the vagabond had not seen for many years. The light almost lifted the darkness of this pandemonium from where they stand.

The blonde woman bent down and picked up the capsule, shaking it, and then, to the awe of the vagabond, gently pinched a tiny bug from its surface - a winged ant.

"There there, little guy. Since when did you develop a craving for blood, like your good-old, blood-sucking relative: the mosquito? "

Her ocean-blue eyes moved on to the vagabond, filled with disdain, before turning to the silver-haired man, "Hey boss, so we stayed up for the whole night just for this piece of crap?"

The vagabond was not sure if she meant him, or the ant.

Her followers, still concealed within the shadows behind her, were all dressed uniformly, cloaked hoods and thick masks, with a long shield and crossing swords insignia hanging from their shoulders, like the symbol of a medieval order of knights.

"We've already been on this for years, a night more would not have made a difference." One of her followers stepped forward into the light, a short-haired Asian, with fair skin and a face without any expression. She carried a wooden box on her shoulders and judging from her appearance and voice, it was not safe to assume her gender.

She sauntered over to the table and kicked the 'master's' head, like a soccer ball, into the opposite corner of the room.

The vagabond looked over - his "master" did not seem to be alone.

Five bloody heads were laid out horizontally in the corner, neatly facing the door, with hideous faces and baring fangs - a horrific sight. Various bat and canine carcasses were piled up around them.

Back to this side, the silver-hair smiled in relief, "The last lair of the vampires is now destroyed; the last of the sanguines has been eradicated. This millenium-long war has finally come to an end."

The vagabond still silently stared at the decapitated heads, his mind quickly racing to identify them. When reaching the end, he suddenly realized something, and turned his head to the silver-hair, only to meet a murderous gaze.

"Of course, their slaves and these servant mongrels must all be cut down."

The vagabond was about to open his mouth, but it was already too late. The sword hanging from the man's waist was already sheathed, cutting through the thin air. The only thing the vagabond could do, was to wait for a fast deliverance.

Bam--

Between lightning and fire, the metal blades clashed fiercely. The vagabond touched his head - it was still there.

Opening his eyes, he saw that another sword blade had blocked firmly over his head.

The Asian said in a cold, word-for-word tone, "The man still has something to say."

The silver-hair although suspicious, did in the end, seal away his weapon. Seeing this, the vagabond hurriedly stammered: "Actually, there are six "masters" in this place, in addition to the five you beheaded, there should be another female blood master, a woman quite young...Of course, this may not be accurate considering the age standards of the Sanguines... I've only seen her once, but I remember her very well as she bore an unforgettable beauty..."

The Asian and silver-hair looked at each other in disarray, with what's left of the latter's remaining smile fading quickly away.

The blonde laughed coldly from behind them, "If you let go of a queen, then you've let go of a lair, an endless strain of colonies." Before the words could leave her lips, she pulled up her arm to release the flying ant.

The little bug wiggled and wandered frantically in the dark light, as if looking for an exit to escape.

The silver-hair stared at it for a while. Then, without warning, he slid his thumb over the scabbard, and with a quick "slash", before the vagabond could even react, the ant was already cut in half.