The First Hunt

Kellvin stood frozen, his breath heavy in the chilling night air.

Scar-cheek's lifeless body lay at his feet, his blood still warm on Kellvin's lips. The taste lingered—a mix of raw power and something primal, a sensation that sent shivers down his spine.

His heart pounded, but not from fear.

From hunger.

[Blood Absorption Complete.]

[Strength +2. Speed +1.]

[New Skill Acquired: Blood Sense.]

The cold, mechanical voice echoed in his mind again.

Kellvin clenched his fists. His muscles felt stronger, his body lighter, his senses sharper. The shadows in the alley were no longer just dark shapes—he could see movement, hear heartbeats, smell fear.

And the remaining thugs were terrified.

"W-What the hell did he just do?!" one of them stammered, backing away.

"He—he drank his blood!" another gasped. "He's a fucking monster!"

A monster.

Kellvin lifted his gaze, his newfound Blood Sense flaring to life. The thugs' pulses pounded like war drums. Erratic. Panicked. Weak.

He had always been the prey in this world.

But now?

Now he was the predator.

Kellvin took a step forward.

The nearest thug, a wiry man with a dagger, cursed and lunged at him. The blade swung fast—faster than a normal human should move. But Kellvin saw it clearly.

Time slowed.

A sharp rush of instinct guided his movements.

He sidestepped the attack effortlessly, twisting his body just enough for the blade to miss. Before the thug could react, Kellvin's hand shot forward, fingers closing around the man's throat.

He lifted him effortlessly off the ground.

The thug gasped, eyes wide with terror as he clawed at Kellvin's grip.

Kellvin's lips curled into a smirk. "Not so tough now, are you?"

He clenched his fingers—bones cracked—and tossed the man aside like a ragdoll.

The last two thugs turned and ran.

Cowards.

Kellvin could have let them go. A few minutes ago, he wouldn't have stood a chance against them.

But now?

Now he was something more.

With a sudden burst of speed, Kellvin dashed forward—his movement so fast it was unnatural. The world blurred around him. In an instant, he was in front of the fleeing men.

They skidded to a stop, eyes filled with horror.

"H-how?!" one of them sputtered.

Kellvin didn't answer. He simply moved.

A quick strike to the first man's chest sent him flying into a wall, the impact knocking him out cold. The last thug barely had time to scream before Kellvin's hand wrapped around his head—and slammed it against the stone pavement.

Silence.

Only the distant hum of the city remained.

He had won.

Kellvin exhaled, his body still thrumming with energy. The Bloodlord's Grimoire had given him something more than just power. It had given him control.

But there was still one thing left to do.

He turned back toward the alley. The old beggar—his original reason for stepping in—was still there, cowering against the wall. His frail body shook as he stared at Kellvin with wide, terrified eyes.

"P-please," the man stammered. "D-don't hurt me…"

Kellvin frowned. Did the man think he would kill him too?

…Maybe that was fair.

He stepped closer. The old man flinched, pressing himself further into the shadows.

Kellvin sighed. "I'm not going to hurt you."

The man hesitated, his eyes darting between Kellvin and the bodies in the alley.

"I… I saw what you did," he whispered. "You… you're one of them, aren't you?"

Kellvin narrowed his eyes. "One of what?"

The beggar swallowed hard. "A Nightborn."

Kellvin had heard the term before.

The Nightborn—beings said to have inherited the blood of the fallen Primordial Vampires. A race that had once ruled over humanity before they were hunted to near extinction.

The Dominion Empire had wiped them out centuries ago. Or at least, that was what the history books said.

Kellvin looked down at his own hands—still stained with blood.

Was that what he had become?

The thought sent a strange shiver through him.

The beggar's voice broke the silence. "If they find out what you are… the Imperial Blood Council will hunt you down."

Kellvin's jaw tightened.

The Imperial Blood Council—the rulers of the Dominion Empire. The ones who held absolute power, whose bloodline abilities made them gods among men.

And they would never allow something like him to exist.

Kellvin knew what this meant.

He could no longer be the nobody scraping for scraps in the slums. His life had changed the moment he absorbed Scar-cheek's blood.

From this moment on, he had two choices:

Run. Hide. Stay weak.

Or…

Embrace what he had become.

Take power. Grow stronger. Rise.

His fingers curled into a fist. There was no choice to make.

The Bloodlord's Grimoire had chosen him.

He would not waste this chance.

Kellvin turned back to the beggar. "What's your name, old man?"

The man hesitated. "Elias."

Kellvin nodded. "You helped me tonight. So I'll give you a warning—stay away from me from now on."

Elias swallowed but nodded. "Understood."

Kellvin took one last look at the alley, then turned and walked away.

He had work to do.