A Hunter who Doesn't Care

The ascent to the belfry was as daunting as the thoughts swirling in Sylvan's mind. The steps groaned beneath his boots, each one a reminder of the weight he carried—not just physically, but emotionally. His soul would not rest peacefully after this, and he knew it. But it wasn't peace he sought. No, his purpose was as unrelenting as the hunt itself. He was not a man who allowed himself the luxury of peace or forgiveness.

The boy's lifeless body still haunted him, his pale face and unseeing eyes flashing in Sylvan's memory with each step. The boy's death had been merciful compared to the torment of becoming Venadicta, yet the Priest's accusation lingered in his mind. "What will you leave behind? Just corpses and sorrow?" The answer was simple. He would leave nothing but blood-soaked streets and the faint hope that, somewhere along the way, his efforts would save lives. His sister, Irina, most of all. She was his first and final concern. Sylvan couldn't rest until she was safe—until she was freed from the curse of the Dragon's Blood.

Clutching a dagger in one hand and a vial of resin-infused acid in the other, Sylvan pressed forward. He should have waited for Lemi. She was better at keeping him in check, ensuring he didn't throw himself into situations like this without backup. But there was no time to waste. Irina's fate depended on every lead he could gather, and Sylvan wasn't a man to let anything—or anyone—slow him down.

The belfry was spacious, its high ceiling arching upward like a birdcage made of ancient wood and stone. Embalming tools and alchemical instruments lay scattered across tables, their brass surfaces glinting faintly in the filtered light. The smell of resin and decay lingered in the air, mingling with the faint scent of old blood.

In the center of the room, sitting calmly on a chair as if waiting for him, was a figure cloaked in shimmering gold. Its features were obscured by a mask of molten gold, its hollow eye sockets weeping crimson trails as though the very act of seeing was a torment. The figure didn't move as Sylvan entered, the creaking wood announcing his presence.

The voice that emerged from behind the mask was smooth, detached, and unsettlingly calm. "It seems the Priest finally let his little secret slip."

Sylvan tightened his grip on his dagger, his storm-gray eyes scanning the room for traps. "A Tainted-Blood," he said flatly, his tone laced with disdain.

The golden figure tilted its head slightly, as if amused. "And I have the pleasure of meeting the Grey-Hunter. Your reputation precedes you. They speak of you in whispers—half-man, half-shadow."

Sylvan's lips curled into a grim smile. "A great deal of talk for a monster hiding in a belfry." He stepped forward cautiously, his dagger glinting in the dim light.

"Monster, he says." The Tainted-Blood's monotone voice seemed to dig under Sylvan's skin, like a slow, insidious poison. "I could say the same of you, hunter. I can smell the blood that clings to your hands, hidden under your nails. Tell me—did you kill the boy?"

Sylvan's jaw tightened. "A better death than being trapped in his own body."

The figure rose slightly from its chair, its golden robes flowing like liquid sunlight. "How noble," it said mockingly. "But unnecessary. I could have saved him. A single drop of my blood would have cured him, given him a life free of pain. But you hunters—always so quick to judge, so quick to kill. You call us Tainted-Bloods, but your blood is as tainted as ours."

Sylvan raised his blade, his expression unmoved. "A cure? You call it a cure when you steal their will, turn them into your slaves? You infect them with your poison and call it salvation."

The Tainted-Blood laughed, the sound hollow and echoing through the belfry. "You've done your research, haven't you, hunter? But tell me, do you truly think you can win? You're just a man, a shadow creeping in the dark, and yet you dare stand before me—a member of the House of Blood. I am gilded in perfection, immortal. You are a flickering candle. I will outlast you. I will outlive you. Long after your name is forgotten, I will remain."

Sylvan's voice was as cold as steel. "A dog is still a dog, no matter how much gold you dress it in."

The Tainted-Blood moved faster than Sylvan expected, a blur of golden robes and clawed hands. Sylvan barely had time to react as sharp claws slashed through the air, grazing his sleeves and tearing into the leather of his coat. He retaliated with a precise strike of his dagger, aiming for the creature's heart, but it dodged with unnatural grace.

"You missed, hunter," it taunted, its voice dripping with mockery. "Be grateful I'm not like the others. They would toy with you before ending your miserable existence. I am merciful."

Sylvan said nothing, his focus unbroken. He reached into his belt and hurled a vial at the Tainted-Blood's feet. The glass shattered, spilling a resin-based liquid across the floor. For a moment, the creature hesitated, its crimson tears glinting in the dim light as it assessed the threat.

"You think your alchemy will save you?" it hissed, lunging forward again.

Sylvan braced himself, deflecting a flurry of strikes with his dagger. One clawed hand raked across his chest, tearing through his armor and leaving deep gashes. Blood seeped through the torn leather, staining his shirt. He grunted in pain but held his ground. With a desperate maneuver, he drove his blade into the creature's arm, pinning it to the floor.

The Tainted-Blood screamed, a sound more animal than human, as Sylvan grabbed another vial and smashed it against its legs. The liquid seeped into its golden robes, and with a snap of Sylvan's fingers, the resin ignited, corroding flesh and cloth alike.

The creature's legs dissolved into ash, and it collapsed onto the splintered wood of the floor. Sylvan descended after it, landing beside its writhing form. The fight was far from over—Tainted-Bloods were notoriously resilient, their regenerative abilities capable of knitting together even the most grievous wounds. But Sylvan wasn't finished yet.

He pulled another vial from his belt, pouring its contents over the creature's torso. "You may heal," he said, his voice low and steady, "but not if there's nothing left to heal."

The acid burned through the Tainted-Blood's chest, its golden mask contorting in pain. Yet even as its body began to disintegrate, it spoke, its voice eerily calm. "You haven't killed me yet, hunter. That means you want something from me."

Sylvan crouched beside it, his dagger poised over its heart. "You mentioned a cure. Tell me everything you know."

The creature laughed weakly. "Ah, a loved one, is it? Someone close to you cursed with Dragon's Blood? How poetic. The mighty hunter, brought low by the same pain he inflicts on others."

"Enough," Sylvan growled. "What do you know about curing Dragon's Blood?"

The Tainted-Blood's voice softened, almost pitying. "There is no cure for Dragon's Blood, hunter. It is a divine curse, beyond the reach of mortals. But for the Snake's Blood… there is hope."

Sylvan's grip on his dagger tightened. "Go on."

"There is one way to end the plague," the creature said. "Kill the one who started it all—the founder of the Snake's Blood. His name is Drezditch. You'll find his butler in the D'Aragon Halls. Only he knows the founder's location."

Sylvan's mind raced. The name was unfamiliar, but it was a lead—a thread he could pull on. He rose to his feet, his gaze cold and unyielding. "You knew I'd kill you and still gave me this information. Why?"

The Tainted-Blood chuckled weakly. "Because I would rather see them all fall. I was once adored, revered. Now I'm just another monster. Let them die as I have."

Without another word, Sylvan drove his dagger into the creature's heart, ending its wretched existence. He severed the head, its golden mask glinting in the dim light, and crushed the still-beating heart in his hand.

"A legacy ended," he muttered, wiping the blood from his blade. "Words wasted on a hunter who couldn't care less."

Sylvan pocketed the mask, his trophy and proof of the kill. He didn't look back as he left the belfry. There was no triumph in this hunt, only the faint hope that the name Drezditch would lead him closer to the cure—and closer to saving Irina.