Into the Night

The side door hung slightly open, crooked on its hinges. Cold air slipped in through the gap, carrying the scent of wet stone and something sour from the city outside.

Arven stood in the doorway's shadow, quiet, listening.

Inside the mansion, voices rose in sharp bursts, confused, angry, and uncoordinated.

"You cannot dismiss us like this!"

"The Lord is dead. We demand answers!"

"Where are the guards?"

"Half the staff is fleeing!"

Footsteps echoed hard off the walls, a stuttering rhythm that bounced from corridor to corridor. Somewhere deeper, metal scraped against metal. The guards were still here, at least a few of them, shouting orders and dragging unlucky stragglers aside.

Arven didn't move. He didn't need to. Nobody had noticed him yet, and even if they had, it wasn't like he stood out. Not here.

His heart beat slow. Too slow, maybe. He wasn't even sure what had just happened. Things had gone to hell so fast, he hadn't had time to make sense of it. Something about the Lord dying. Something about betrayal, maybe. It was all blurred together now.

But the strange thing was, he didn't really care.

It should've felt important. A big moment. Something worth remembering.

It didn't.

He watched the hallway a moment longer. A nobleman shouted at no one in particular, spit flying from his mouth. Another man slipped in blood as he tried to run. A shattered vase glimmered beneath the light, useless and beautiful.

It was time.

Arven turned and stepped outside.

The air hit differently the moment he crossed the threshold. Cleaner. Calmer. The door creaked faintly behind him, but he didn't bother closing it.

Let them figure it out without him.

He had his own path to take now.

Darkness wrapped around the capital like a damp blanket, soft and heavy. Pale light spilled from scattered street lamps, casting loose halos over cobblestone alleys. Somewhere far off, a bell chimed the hour.

Arven walked at a steady pace, his cloak drawn tight. The city had quieted. Most doors were shut, windows shuttered. Only the wind stirred between the buildings.

Something was off.

He felt it in the way his feet touched the ground, how each step landed lighter than it should. The breeze brought him scents he didn't usually notice, warm bread, old wood, sweat. He could hear things too. The shuffle of footsteps several streets away. Drunken laughter echoing from an unseen window. A cart creaking as it rolled somewhere distant.

His fingers twitched.

The change was real.

But the more he felt it, the more confused he became. He should be weak. The bite, the blood, whatever Celyne had done,it should have left him trembling. She had warned him. The sun would become a curse. Hunger would be constant. The thirst would own him.

Yet when he'd woken up in that cramped servant's room, crumpled clothes clinging to his skin, he hadn't felt drained or starved. He hadn't felt much at all.

If anything, he felt better.

Stronger.

He clenched and unclenched his hands. The skin felt tighter, the muscle more responsive. His heartbeat slow and deliberate.

Shouldn't I be a vampire now?

The thought bothered him more than he wanted to admit. There should've been pain. Loss. Some dramatic shift. But instead, it was all... subtle. The world hadn't turned upside down. Just clearer.

He turned down a narrower path, boots tapping gently along the edge. As he passed beneath a flickering lantern, something blinked at the edge of his vision. A pale shimmer of blue.

System Alert:

External interference with host DNA detected.

New Race: Vampire, adjusted to meet system progression goals.

Weakness detected: Sunlight vulnerability.

Adjustment applied: Sun resistance increased to functional immunity.

He froze mid-step, breath catching in his throat.

The System had changed him. Not just accepted the transformation, rewritten it. Recalibrated him like a program, cutting out the pieces it didn't like.

Sunlight immunity. No warning. No permission asked.

He leaned against the wall beside him, jaw tight. The stone was cold against his shoulder. For a moment, he let himself just stand there, breathing, thinking.

It had rewritten his body. Edited away a vampire's greatest flaw like it was flipping a switch. If it could do that... what else could it do?

Could it fix wounds? Regrow limbs? Stop aging entirely?

A thrill ran through his spine.

And then, a heavier thought followed. If it could fix him so easily, could it break him too? Could it take things away just as fast?

His stomach soured.

One worry pressed harder than the rest. It wasn't survival or sunlight or even strength.

It was fertility.

He had slept with Daisy. Then Mariel. Both nights full of heat, of need, of release. Not once had there been a change. No reaction in their bodies. No signs. No aftermath beyond sweat and satisfaction.

Am I sterile?

The question hit colder than the wind.

Was it an accident of the transformation? Some hidden cost? Or had the System made another quiet decision on his behalf?

He thought again of Daisy, soft and trembling in his arms, eyes fluttering shut as Celyne's touch lingered on her skin. He remembered Mariel too, how demanding she'd been, how many times they'd collapsed into each other, only for her to smirk afterward like nothing had taken root.

Not even a hint of consequence.

He swallowed hard.

Was it just luck, or something deeper? A design? A rule?

He took a breath and stepped forward.

Whatever the truth was, it would come in time. Right now, all he could do was keep moving.

One street at a time.

The city stretched out before him, a maze of crooked alleys and sloping avenues, lit by lamps that sputtered in the wind. Buildings leaned close, their stone faces worn and pitted from time and smoke. Somewhere in the distance, a dog barked once, then fell silent.

Arven moved like a shadow, slipping through narrow paths and under low arches without pause. His cloak dragged faintly behind him, blending with the dark. No one looked his way. No one even noticed.

As he passed a cramped little square, the sound of shouting caught his attention. Two guards stood toe to toe with a balding merchant, jabbing fingers and tossing accusations. The merchant barked something about extortion. The guards answered with talk of unpaid taxes. Neither side looked like they'd back down.

Arven didn't stop. He slid past the commotion, letting their voices fade behind him.

Further on, a warm red glow painted the stones beneath his feet. A hanging lantern, cracked but burning strong, swung above a low doorway. Beneath it stood a cluster of women in short dresses and thin cloaks. One leaned forward, voice light and teasing.

"Looking for company, stranger?"

Arven didn't even glance her way.

His mind was far from the offer. He had no coin. No home. Nothing of value tucked in his pockets or waiting at some safehouse. He was just another drifter in a city that chewed men up and spat them out.

But he had strength now. Real strength. And in a place like this, that counted for something.

He turned another corner, boots silent on the worn stone. The streets had emptied some as the night deepened. Wind tugged at torn flags and loose sheets of paper that clung to the walls.

One wall in particular made him pause.

It was covered in notices, lost pets, missing workers, sales for things no one wanted. But one poster stood out. Bright ink. Clean parchment. Someone had spent coin to make sure it caught the eye.

NEED COINS? JOIN THE ARENA!

Strength and Skill bring Glory and Gold!

Sign up at Dawnlight Arena – All Races Welcome!

No experience required.

Arven stepped closer. The parchment flapped once as the wind pushed against it, then stilled.

An arena.

He could already see it in his mind. The thud of heavy boots on sand. The clang of steel and bone. The crowd screaming for blood. A place where the strong thrived and the weak bled. No lords. No games of court and coin. Just blades, fists, and the weight of your own body.

That, he understood.

He could make this work. No connections needed. Just guts.

He lifted a hand to his mouth and pressed a finger gently against one of his canines. A sharp edge kissed his skin.

Stronger now. Faster too.

Whatever he was becoming, it gave him an edge. One he planned to use.

A slow smile crept across his face.

He could fight. And he could win.

And gods knew, he needed the money.

His gaze lingered on the poster for a long moment before he turned away.

Tomorrow, then.

Dawnlight Arena.

Let the city learn his name.

Let them see what Arven Kayn could do.