"Three days! Three whole days!" Rose O'Hara's voice rang through the halls of Howlett Manor, sharp and indignant. She stood with her hands planted firmly on her hips, her boot tapping against the wooden floor in an erratic rhythm of frustration. Her fiery curls, usually neat, were slightly disheveled from pacing. "Uncle Wayne, the young master hasn't come out for three days!"
Wayne, the ever-dutiful butler, sighed as he rubbed the bridge of his nose, weariness weighing on his usually composed features. He had been subjected to O'Hara's relentless complaints for two days straight. "I never realized how loud this girl could be," he muttered under his breath before composing himself.
"The young master eats like a lion—seven or eight pounds of steak and lamb chops a day, not to mention vegetables, fruit, desserts, and those infernal iced drinks of his," O'Hara continued, arms flailing in exasperation. "He's locked himself away without food or water! How is he even surviving?"
Wayne sighed, offering what little reassurance he could. "Victor checks on him daily," he said, though even he wasn't entirely sure what that entailed. "He just told me, 'Don't worry about him.'"
O'Hara scoffed. "Oh, because Victor is such a reliable source of information?" She threw her hands in the air. "That thick-headed brute thinks with his fists. What does he know? The young master reads to me every night. Without him, I can't sleep!"
Wayne muttered under his breath, "More like you're looking for an excuse to pester him." But aloud, he only said, "Miss O'Hara, the young master is more resilient than you give him credit for. He'll come out when he's ready."
But deep down, even Wayne was a little uneasy. The events of that terrifying night still haunted him, as if the manor itself had been tainted by shadows.
---
The Underground Training Hall
The thunderous echoes of Victor's training reverberated through the underground chambers.
Boom. Boom. Boom.
The entire stone floor trembled beneath his relentless movements. Sweat glistened on his skin, muscles rippling under the candlelit glow of the torches lining the cavernous space.
Victor had always been strong, but strength alone was no longer enough. That battle, that humiliating night, had shown him the growing chasm between himself and James.
He couldn't stand it.
His obsession with surpassing James burned in his blood. It was something primal, instinctual, inescapable.
Another reason for his intensity lay in the ominous presence lurking behind the sealed stone door. James had locked himself away, and in those three days, the air had grown thick with something unnatural.
The sound that came from within was not just the impact of fists against stone.
It was a roar—a deep, resonating growl, like a lion's thunderous call, rattling through the underground chamber. The very walls seemed to shudder beneath the force of it, dust falling in small cascades from the ceiling.
Victor had tried to mimic it.
He had lain on the ground, pressing his body against the cold stone, listening, trying to understand the source of that sound. The way James described it—"Hu Bao Lei Yin"—sounded absurd. But the power it carried was undeniable.
And then… silence.
A sharp, unnatural silence.
For the first time in three days, Victor could no longer feel James.
His head snapped up.
Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, the stone door trembled and began to open.
Victor could smell him before he saw him.
James stepped out, his expression calm, his movements fluid, effortless. His skin, once rough from battle, now held a polished glow, almost like carved jade.
"Ah, Victor," James said, his voice smooth, his golden eyes gleaming in the dim light. "How many days has it been?"
Victor exhaled heavily through his nose. He could feel the difference in James, and that knowledge infuriated him.
James saw the challenge in Victor's eyes and smirked. "Do you want to fight?"
Victor snorted. He wanted to—oh, he wanted to—but not yet. He needed more time. Without a word, he turned on his heel and stormed toward the training area.
James chuckled softly and strode toward the exit. It was time to return to the surface.
---
A Nation at War
August, 1862.
The war that had erupted in April of the previous year had plunged the nation into chaos.
On the surface, the North had the advantage—industrial power, population, resources. But the South… the South had something else.
Veterans.
These were men who had fought in the Mexican-American War, hardened warriors led by Robert E. Lee, a strategist unlike any other. He did not fight like the North expected. Instead of defending, he attacked. He sought to annihilate the Union forces before they could truly mobilize.
The North, by contrast, had been slow. McClellan, their general, was hesitant, too sympathetic to the slave-owning South.
O'Hara leaned over James' desk, her brow furrowed as she read the latest reports.
"If this keeps up, Lincoln is going to lose!" she blurted out, anxiety lacing her words.
James, who was meticulously writing a letter, tapped her head lightly with the sealed envelope.
"It's President Lincoln," he corrected with a smirk. "You'd do well to remember that if you ever meet him. I don't want to be embarrassed by your bad manners."
O'Hara pouted but said nothing.
"Lincoln's goal is reunification, not abolition," James continued, his tone more serious. "He's hesitant to alienate the border states. But mark my words—he will abolish slavery. The tide of history demands it."
O'Hara tilted her head. "You sound so certain."
James sealed the letter with his wax insignia—the Howlett family crest, a bold "H" with deep claw-like scratches carved into the design.
"Because I know men like Lincoln," he said simply. "Now, take this to Washington."
O'Hara accepted the letter with a mischievous smile. "Yes, sir."
With a playful twirl, she sauntered out of the room.
But James' thoughts drifted elsewhere.
He wasn't worried about the war. The South would lose. That much was inevitable.
No… what concerned him lay in the dungeon beneath his feet.
---
The Monster Below
A hollow rasping sound filled the dimly lit dungeon.
Hiss… Hiss…
The gaunt, skeletal figure hunched over a dying rooster, its talons gripping the lifeless bird as its lips greedily sucked at the last remnants of blood.
Marcus.
Once, he had been plump, strong, formidable. Now, he looked withered, like a corpse unearthed from its grave. His greasy, tangled hair hung in limp strands around his pallid face, his red eyes flickering with a sick hunger.
"Tell me something I don't know," James said lazily, watching the vampire through the thick iron bars. He held a silk handkerchief to his nose, the stench of decay unbearable.
Marcus shuddered, clinging to the bars like a desperate dog.
"I swear, there's nothing left to tell!" he rasped. "I've lived over a century—I've given you everything!"
James smirked.
"Then why do I feel like you're still hiding something?"