Angel turned his head swiftly toward the familiar, yet strangely distant voice that echoed through the corridor. It was Cain.
"But this is a Winged Guard! There's no way I can defeat it at my level!" Malachi's voice rang out from the memory fragment, laced with anxiety and disbelief.
Cain stood tall beside him, calm and resolute. "I believe you can do it. After all… you're my brother," he said, his tone warm yet unwavering.
"Ah!" Angel snapped back to the present just in time to dodge another brutal swipe from the ghoul. The talons sliced through the air where his head had just been. His breath was shallow, heart pounding.
Drawing from the memory like a soldier relying on an old battlefield tale, Angel observed closely—watching the younger Malachi's approach. The moment was clear. Cain, from the memory, handed Malachi a weapon: a slender cane that shimmered with crimson energy. As it extended into a spear, Angel could feel the nostalgia and pride radiating from the blood-crafted weapon.
"You always preferred the spear during training. So I thought you'd like this," Cain said with a smile that, for a brief moment, softened the world around him.
Malachi took the spear reverently, nodding with newfound resolve. "It feels… right. Thanks, brother. I won't fail you."
Then, with a quiet gesture, Cain unleashed the blood-forged chains that held the Winged Guard in place.
Angel mirrored Malachi's stance instinctively, even before realizing it. The ghoul lunged toward him with terrifying speed, wings flaring as it emitted a roar that cracked the nearby glass. Angel's crimson eyes lit up fully, his vision sharpening—but with it came the struggle: the pull of uncontrollable thirst, a beast gnawing at his sanity. Still, he stood his ground.
He dropped the blood projectiles, trusting the spear instead. With a trained motion, he parried the ghoul's razor-sharp talon strike, though the force of the blow reverberated through his arms. The Winged Guard flapped its leathery wings violently, stirring winds strong enough to stagger Angel.
He was clearly outmatched—just as Malachi had been. But the memory had left him a clue.
Angel inhaled slowly, steadying himself. As the memory revealed, Malachi had succeeded by focusing, tuning into the fight rather than reacting blindly. Angel did the same, narrowing his awareness to the rhythm of the battle. And then he saw it—there it was: a hitch in the ghoul's movement, a subtle irregularity in the beat of its left wing. A flaw.
With a surge of will, Angel commanded the spear to change. The smooth shaft twisted and lengthened, the tip splitting into a barbed trident. The blood obeyed without hesitation. The weapon responded like an extension of his soul.
He spun with precision and struck. The trident lashed across the Winged Guard's left wing, slicing into the weaker joint. A howl of pain followed, the creature's aerial dominance broken.
Angel planted the trident into the ground, using it to anchor the beast in place. With his free hand, he summoned a storm of blood projectiles, flinging them toward the ghoul's exposed arms, then its head. One after another, they hit true.
The Winged Guard collapsed with a final screech, its body convulsing as demonic energy dissipated from its core. The threat was vanquished.
The blood spear melted back into Angel's bloodstream. He exhaled, finally lowering his guard. Quiet once again filled the corridor.
Angel proceeded forward, stepping cautiously until he arrived at a pair of darkened doors. Inside lay a modest office with a bed pushed against the wall, and an old wooden desk near the window. Something inside the desk pulsed faintly.
Opening the drawer, Angel's eyes narrowed as they landed on a dark ruby-colored key—its aura unmistakably sinister.
Before he could touch it, a voice startled him.
"Who are you?" Angel asked coldly, instinctively forming a new spear.
A man stood at the doorway, clad in black, his presence heavy. He didn't speak at first—just walked toward the window and stared out.
"So you're that boy? I'm looking forward to seeing how you develop." The man gave a small smile, then vanished—melting into Angel's shadow as though he had never been there.
Angel stood frozen, the pressure from the encounter still lingering like smoke after a fire. His mind reeled.
As his senses gradually returned, he gripped the key, which reacted instantly—transporting him away in a beam of crimson light.
Moments later, he appeared at the ceremony site, where the other students had long gathered. The nobles and prodigies turned their gazes toward him.
"Congra—" Theodore, one of the vampire elders, stopped mid-sentence. His expression shifted sharply as he sensed the key's energy—unsettling, ancient, and raw.
Evander noticed the change. "Theodore, you look… pale all of a sudden."
"It's nothing," Theodore muttered. "It's just… a trait we all recognize."
The ceremony ended with a banquet beneath the moonlight. Angel kept to himself, avoiding the crowds—and Latisha. He knew she'd be an opponent one day. Better to keep his distance now.
Later that night, Angel inspected the key. As he infused it with demonic energy, it shimmered and twisted, forming into a dark ruby bracelet around his wrist.
"So this is my exclusive room," Angel chuckled softly as he looked around the office-bedroom once more. "To think I'd be the one to find the vampire's hidden key."
He laid on the bed, his body finally succumbing to the fatigue. He reached over and turned off the lamp. Darkness enveloped the room.
High above, on the rooftop under the pale moon, two figures stood.
"You're as overprotective as ever, aren't you, Lance?" Malachi mused.
"I'm only following my master's orders," the man replied coolly.
"You'll need to return to the campus eventually. You are a professor, remember?" Malachi said with a smirk.
"I'll stay for a bit. It's been a while since I've watched someone from the shadows," Lance answered, unmoving.
"Suit yourself." Malachi disappeared, leaving Lance alone in the moonlight.
Lance sighed. "Just what was the Lord thinking… making me his mentor?"
---
The next morning arrived.
The students were separated into their respective classrooms. Angel sat at his desk, and immediately recognized a certain someone nearby.
"Seriously… What is with my luck?" Angel groaned, slouching over as Latisha smirked from the seat beside him.
Before he could protest, a student burst into the classroom. "The professor's coming!"
Angel looked up, then froze. That face—the man from before.
"It's him," he muttered under his breath. "The man at the doorway…"
Chaos erupted in the class. Gasps, whispers, and excitement filled the air.
"What's going on?" Angel asked. "Why is everyone so riled up?"
Latisha raised a brow. "You're a vampire and you don't know him?"
"What? Why are you even here?" Angel shot back.
"Well, it's easier to sit with someone I know," Latisha said casually.
"But… I don't know you."
"Details," she waved it off. "Anyway, how do you not know him!?"
"I just don't, okay?"
Latisha huffed. "You're strange. But fine, I'll tell you."
She leaned in slightly. "That man is Lance Corvin. He's a half-blood, sure—but he's also the captain of the vampire faction's elite unit: The Shadow Hounds."
Angel blinked. Slowly, he turned his eyes back to Lance—who, at that moment, looked straight into his soul with a piercing gaze.
Then Lance spoke, voice calm, deliberate, and commanding:
"Hello everyone. I am Lance Corvin, and I'll be your professor for the rest of the year."