Chapter 8

Michael's eyes snapped open, pain ripping through his chest as his shattered ribs ground against each other, then snapped back into place with sickening cracks. He growled, low and feral, before tearing off the seatbelt. Metal groaned as he kicked the door clean off its hinges, sending it tumbling down the steep hill.

He staggered out, knees buckling before he caught himself on the crumpled frame of the Lamborghini. It lay crushed against a tree, the hood twisted and smoking, shattered glass glinting under the moonlight. Debris was scattered down the slope, tangled with broken branches and churned earth.

Michael's eyes narrowed, jaw tightening. "My car…" His voice was flat, but his fingers curled into fists.

Headlights flared above him, illuminating the hilltop. Tires screeched as cars skidded to a stop. Silhouettes appeared against the bright beams, figures moving swiftly to the edge, their faces shadowed. He heard voices—sharp, urgent—speaking in a language he didn't recognize.

He squinted, raising a hand to shield his eyes from the light. "Hey! Who the hell's paying for this?" His voice echoed up the hill, casual, tinged with annoyance.

One of the figures stepped forward, moonlight catching on silver. A blade gleamed in her hand, long and curved, the edge impossibly sharp. The others followed, metal flashing as they descended the slope, their movements swift and precise.

Michael's eyes hardened. His muscles tensed, rippling under his skin as dark fur began to sprout along his arms. His body contorted, bones shifting with sickening cracks. But before he could fully transform, silver sliced through the air.

Pain exploded in his chest. He looked down, eyes widening at the blade buried deep, the hilt pressed against his ribs. A woman stood before him, her eyes cold and calculating, lips curled in disdain. Yellow light flared along the katana's length, crackling with energy.

"Aaaagh!" The scream tore from his throat, his back arching as the blade pulsed, power surging through him. His muscles seized, transformation reversing as bones snapped back to human form. His knees buckled, darkness closing in.

The last thing he saw was the woman's face, her eyes glowing with cruel satisfaction as his body crumpled to the dirt.

Michael's eyes soon fluttered open, his head throbbing. His vision swam before sharpening, revealing jagged stone walls shrouded in darkness. He was hanging, wrists chained above his head, shoulders burning from his weight. He pulled against the restraints, muscles bulging, but the chains flared with golden light, ancient runes igniting. Agony seared through his body, his limbs locking before the glow faded.

His chest ached, every breath raw and jagged. He looked down and his blood ran cold—the katana was still there, its blade embedded deep, pulsing with faint yellow light. Blood trickled from the wound, his healing slowed to a sluggish crawl.

The door creaked open, light spilling into the chamber. He squinted, vision narrowing as a woman stepped in, her heels clicking against the stone floor. Black leather hugged her form, a katana strapped to her hip. Her eyes were cold, lips curved in a satisfied smirk.

She approached, stopping just out of reach. Her gaze traced the wound, lingering on the glowing blade. "Survived, did you?" Her voice was smooth, laced with amusement. "I suppose the legends weren't exaggerated."

Michael's eyes burned with defiance, but his body sagged, strength draining with each beat of his heart.

The woman's fingers curled around the hilt. Her eyes gleamed as she twisted the blade. Energy crackled, light blazing along the steel. Michael's muscles seized, his back arching as a scream tore from his throat. Fire raced through his veins, his body convulsing, vision shattering.

The pain vanished. He hung limp, chains creaking as his chest heaved. Sweat dripped from his face, muscles twitching.

The woman's smile widened. "Does it hurt?" Her voice was sweet, mocking. "Good."

She wrenched the katana free. Blood gushed, spraying across the floor. Michael's body jolted, head falling forward as darkness threatened to pull him under.

The wound slowly began to close, flesh knitting together at a torturously slow pace. His breaths were ragged, labored.

The door opened again. A man entered, middle-aged with neatly combed black hair and plain, unremarkable clothing—a white shirt and simple pants. He moved with calm precision, eyes devoid of emotion as they settled on Michael.

Your filthy kind has ruled over our country for too long. We're going to take it back by eliminating every last noble in Korea."

Michael's lips twitched, a bitter laugh escaping. He lifted his head just enough to meet the man's gaze before letting it drop. "Then why come for me?"

"Oh, that?" The man's lips curled, but his eyes remained dead. "We were hoping Yeonghon Samkki would kill you while draining your power. But it seems that was too much to hope for." He turned sharply, his footsteps echoing as he walked out.

The others followed, the heavy door slamming shut behind them. Silence settled, heavy and cold.

Michael's eyes drifted to the katana propped against the far wall. Its blade gleamed under the dim light, a sickly yellow glow pulsing along its edge. It seemed to watch him, hungry and patient.

His shoulders sagged, head falling back against the stone wall with a dull thud. His eyes slid shut, exhaustion pulling him under.

He let out a slow breath, his chest aching. They wanted to use that thing to kill nobles? His lips twitched in a faint, bitter smile. Whatever. Not his problem.

His head lolled to the side, eyes half-lidded as darkness closed in. They better let him go soon. He was missing his favorite drama shows.