The crowd was electric. The atmosphere in the Velmora Arena vibrated with pure energy—cheers, screams, stomps on the stadium floors. After all the brutal rounds, broken bones, surprising upsets, and moments of glory, the final rankings had been decided.
All eyes turned toward the stage as the announcement echoed from the stadium's central tower.
"In fifth place… Zarek Volen!"
Muted applause rippled across the crowd. Zarek, as always, gave no reaction. His icy stare scanned the audience with the same unreadable calm. He didn't cheer, didn't frown, didn't even blink. Kael, standing among the spectators, offered a subtle nod of acknowledgment, devoid of emotion.
"In fourth place… Jaxon Pyre!"
The cheers came louder this time. Jaxon stepped forward with a soft smile and a modest bow. His flame-patterned coat fluttered gently with the breeze, and his fingers ran through his brown curls as he looked up at the crowd, soaking in the moment—not with arrogance, but quiet pride. A soft chant of his name rose for a few moments before the announcer continued.
"In third place… Kenneth Prince!"
The entire arena roared. Kenneth stood motionless for a moment, caught off guard by the sheer volume of the cheer. He exhaled quietly, trying to stay calm, but a small, stunned smile escaped him. His fists were clenched at his sides—not from tension, but a realization that everything he had endured was finally paying off. The fear. The blood. The pain. This was the beginning of something bigger.
"In second place… Cassian Veyne!"
Cassian stepped forward to thunderous applause. His body still bore the fresh marks of the final battle, but he stood tall, chin slightly raised, golden eyes steady. There was no shame in being second. He had held his own in a match that shook the entire academy. If anything, his reputation had only grown stronger.
"And finally… the number one student of Velmora… Aeron Vale!"
The eruption from the crowd was a mixture of awe and intimidation. Aeron stepped forward, cape fluttering behind him like the wings of a predator. His arms were folded, and he didn't even glance at the cheering crowd. His lips barely moved. No smile. No bow. Only a sharp glance toward Cassian, and then toward Kenneth.
He wasn't satisfied.
The cheers continued for a few more seconds, but even in celebration, the air grew colder around Aeron's presence. His position as number one was undeniable—but so was the pressure that came with it.
From the stage, the top five stood side by side, looking out at the rest of Velmora. For the first time in years, the academy had a team that made even instructors feel a shiver of fear. These were not just students. They were weapons.
But elsewhere, in a kingdom far removed from cheers and glory, shadows whispered through bloodstained halls.
Deep in the Vampire Kingdom, within the high obsidian walls of the royal palace, the throne room was silent but heavy. The crimson glass ceiling filtered light into red beams that crisscrossed the black stone floor. The Vampire King sat on his throne—tall, imposing, draped in midnight armor. His eyes were narrowed, fangs slightly exposed, bored and agitated all at once.
The large double doors creaked open. A messenger ran in and dropped to his knees, breath hitching.
"My king," the messenger stammered, head bowed so low his nose brushed the marble floor. "I bear urgent news."
"Speak," the king said, his voice a gravelled growl.
"The Shadow Squad… they've been destroyed."
The king's eyes widened for a split second. Silence fell over the throne room like the hush before a storm.
"Destroyed?" he repeated.
"Yes, my king. All of them. We received confirmation from the last scrying report. Not a single survivor."
In a flash of blurred movement, the king vanished from the throne and appeared right in front of the messenger, grabbing him by the neck and lifting him off the floor with one hand. The messenger's legs flailed as he choked, struggling to speak.
"You bring failure into my court as though it's a message worth surviving?" the king snarled, claws beginning to extend.
Before he could strike, a calm voice interrupted him.
"Father."
The Firstborn Prince stepped forward from the shadows, tall and composed in his ornate black coat lined with silver thread. His red eyes locked with the king's, unflinching.
"Killing the messenger won't undo the loss."
The king's jaw tightened. His claws retracted as he dropped the gasping messenger to the floor. The prince glanced at him with mild disgust.
"I'll handle it," the Firstborn said flatly. "Send me, and I'll deploy my personal unit. They'll finish what the Shadow Squad couldn't. They won't fail."
The king returned to his throne with a snarl, fingers tapping slowly on the armrest. "Kenneth Prince was with them," he said.
The Firstborn nodded. "I know. He's grown stronger."
"He'll die."
Before the Firstborn could respond, one of the ancient elders stepped from the side of the throne room. He wore thick crimson robes and his voice rasped like old parchment.
"My king… killing him would be a mistake."
The king's head turned slightly. "Explain."
The elder smiled, sharp and unsettling. "A hybrid as rare as him… is not a threat. He is an opportunity. His blood is the key to tipping the scales in our favor. With his power, we could crush the werewolves. The witches. And, in time, the humans."
The king's eyes narrowed. "And how do you propose we do that?"
"I can craft a potion," the elder said. "One strong enough to initiate the slave bond ritual. With it, he will obey. Body and soul. He will serve you until his death."
The idea lingered in the air, dark and intoxicating.
"Even a hybrid can be broken," the elder whispered. "All we need… is to capture him alive."
The king gave it a long, dangerous pause. Then, he turned to the Firstborn Prince again.
"Capture him," he ordered. "Alive. No matter the cost. Bring me the boy."
The Firstborn bowed. "It will be done."
As the throne room returned to silence, only one thought ran through the king's mind:
The hybrid would kneel—or bleed.