The Dance Of Death.

Lucien, a whirlwind of purposeful motion, packed a meager bag: a few changes of clothes and a surprising number of cookbooks—all focused on the culinary arts of monster meat.

He secured his package, the two precious ores, and slipped out of the academy gates. His next objective: acquiring weapons, armor, and healing potions. The black market seemed the logical choice, but the City of Gold, to his astonishment, lacked such an establishment.

A dwarven enterprise, however, proved readily available, its entrance a maelstrom of bustling activity. He navigated the throng, accidentally colliding with a dwarf. The question tumbled from his lips: "How much to craft armor, using these ores?"

The dwarf's eyes widened, a ripple of stunned silence spreading through the shop. All eyes fixed on Lucien, awaiting his explanation. He produced a crimson ore, the crowd gasping. A nearby noble, mid-argument with the dwarf moments before, was instantly seized by guards.

"He stole that ore! Arrest him!" Ignoring the commotion, Lucien presented ten ores, leaving the guards speechless and the noble's claim hanging in the air.

The dwarf, his initial shock giving way to avarice, stammered, "The price… it depends on the quantity…" Lucien's display of wealth had changed everything. The dwarf, after a moment of stunned silence, declared, "One million galleon's for "A flexible, body-fitted armor," Lucien specified, his gaze unwavering. "And sir," he continued, turning his attention to the dwarf, "what weapon would you recommend?" Lucien considered his options. A sword, his usual weapon of choice, wouldn't allow him to fully utilize his unique abilities. "A gauntlet," he declared.

The dwarf's face split into a wide grin. "Excellent choice! Return next week for collection."

Lucien nodded, a subtle smile playing on his lips. He cast one last, chilling glance at the humiliated noble before turning and leaving the shop. The dwarf's shout, "Shop closed! Everyone out!" echoed behind him, effectively clearing the store.

The noble, his face burning with rage, stormed out, a small contingent of guards trailing him, their eyes fixed on Lucien as he headed towards the city gate. He would return next week, but for now, the City of Gold held no further interest.

Deep within the Forbidden Forest, shrouded in an ancient, primeval gloom, stood the last Dracula's castle.

"Hail the last Dracula of our kind," a voice echoed, breaking the stillness. "I bring urgent news… and it is ill."

"Speak, Damien. I am listening," Selta, the last Dracula, responded, her voice a low, resonant rumble.

"The assassination… it failed, Your Highness. Your niece still lives," Damien reported, his voice strained. "And… all the newborns we dispatched… they are dead. Only two survived."

A heavy silence descended, broken only by the crackling of the fire in the vast hearth. Selta's stillness was more terrifying than any outburst.

"Silence," Selta commanded, her voice laced with barely contained fury. "Send them in. I want to see what transpired."

"Yes, Your Highness." Damien bowed low before retreating from the throne room. Moments later, two figures, pale and trembling, were brought before the last Dracula by a pair of hulking Nosferatu guards.

"Come, my kindred," Selta commanded, her voice resonating with barely controlled rage. "Let me see who inflicted this upon you." The two surviving vampires, captivated by Selta's power and the promise of his favor, obeyed. The female vampire, her eyes blazing with a newfound fury, lifted one of the fallen Nosferatu, her lips brushing against his temple.

She delved into his memories, witnessing Lucien Frost's intervention, his role in saving the Queen, and the subsequent hunt he launched against her kind. Her eyes flashed crimson, a mixture of rage and disgust. Before she could fully process her actions, she had slain both vampires, the act as swift and brutal as a viper's strike. A choked apology escaped her lips as she addressed their lifeless forms.

"A decree!" she declared, her voice echoing through the castle. "All my kindred, prepare yourselves! Anyone who captures Lucien Frost and brings him before me will be rewarded with my hand in marriage. You may do with me as you please!"

The settlement erupted in an uproar. Within minutes, a shared image of Lucien circulated, his face instantly recognizable. A roar went up from the assembled Nosferatu, and the settlement emptied as they scattered to hunt. Only Selta's guards and Damien remained within the castle walls, the air thick with anticipation and the promise of a bloody hunt.

Lucien, oblivious to the unfolding chaos in the vampire settlement, sneezed. The sound was abruptly cut short by the whistling of a spear, passing agonizingly close to his skull. He frowned, a dangerous glint appearing in his eyes as he spun around. There, to his surprise, stood the same noble from the dwarven shop, accompanied by a contingent of heavily armed guards. The noble's laughter echoed, cruel and triumphant.

"Hahaha! You won't see the light of day again! I'm in the Demi-human realms now, and believe me, you'll never see another sunrise!" His laughter was punctuated by the glint of steel, the menacing presence of his guards a clear indication of his intent. The noble's arrogance was palpable, a stark contrast to the deadly seriousness of the situation.

Lucien watched the guards close in, a predatory glint in his eyes. Finally, some entertainment.

The guards, faces contorted in fury, lunged. Spears flashed, a deadly ballet of sharpened steel. Lucien remained motionless, a statue of defiance.

BOOM!

The air erupted in a deafening blast. Dust swirled, obscuring the scene. The guards exchanged triumphant grins. "Serves him right," one sneered.

The dust settled, revealing a figure – clothes tattered, face a mask of grim amusement.

"Nice try, fellas," Lucien chuckled, his voice a low growl. "Now, it's my turn."

With a sudden whoosh, he vanished. The guards, their triumphant expressions frozen, stared in disbelief.

**"BAM!"

One guard was hurled backwards like a ragdoll, slamming into a tree with a sickening thud. He crumpled to the ground, unconscious. The remaining guard and the noble exchanged terrified glances. What in the blazes…?

Before the noble could even register the fear, the second guard was sent flying. He landed with a sickening crunch, blood spurting from his nose.

The noble, panic rising, unleashed his skill – "Thousand Punches." A flurry of invisible blows erupted, a devastating barrage. But to his horror, the attacks passed through empty air.

Then, a chilling realization dawned. He turned, his eyes widening in terror.

A figure stood above the mangled remains of his guards, a chilling grin splitting their face.

The noble felt a cold dread pierce him. Before he could even cry out, a searing pain erupted in his neck. His vision blurred, his body slumping to the ground. He watched in disbelief as his own head rolled away, his eyes wide with terror.

The figure remained standing, a silent, triumphant predator surveying the carnage.