The silence in the cavern weighed like lead. Shadows stretched long and twisted over the corpses of demons, beasts, and vampires strewn across the ground—evidence of a massacre completed by a single man.
Or so they thought.
At the center of the slaughter stood a figure cloaked in blood-stained fabric, the faded symbols of the Hunters and the Reinhardt Family stitched over his chest. His long black hair, slightly disheveled, framed a face carved from cold stone—emotionless, detached.
A massive shadow-dragon coiled lazily around him, tendrils of fog-like darkness rippling through the air, its aura choking the room with dread.
Nick whispered first, voice tinged with disbelief. "One man did all this?"
Gerald's breath hitched, eyes wide. "Cain… do you know who that is?"
Cain's gaze never wavered from the figure. His voice came low, simmering with recognition and rage. "Can't you bastards just stay dead?"