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He drifted in and out of consciousness, the pain carving through him like jagged glass. His hunger gnawed at his insides, rendering his body useless, his wounds refusing to knit, his life force spilling freely onto the mat. The figures tending to him moved cautiously, avoiding his touch as if he were a rabid beast. But he barely registered them.
His mind had fled elsewhere. Home, Mongolia, a lifetime ago. The dust-swept plains lay beneath a red blood moon, an ill omen for mortals, but a familiar sight for those teetering between life and death.
And then, the five appeared again, his lineage, the vampires of his bloodline. Each bore their own power, their own curse, yet all shared the same expression as they loomed over him: pity and disgust. Not a single word passed between them, not even from Cecilia, whose revulsion at the fangless one was plain.
Bold tried to stand, but even in this dream, his body betrayed him. A fangless vampire. A broken warrior. A worthless thing. He had been given a single chance to carve his name into legend, but the deck was stacked, the game rigged, and he lost everything.
The necrotic one stepped forward, shedding dust like the remains of a dying star. He crouched, whispered something in a tongue Bold did not understand, then rose and turned away. One by one, the others followed, retreating into the void beyond the crimson glow, where even the blood moon refused to cast its light.
Bold lay on the plains, wrestling against the pain, against the grief. Everything he fought for was stolen. The Yakuza had set the board, played their game, and fed him to the scorpion. But no more. No more would the wolves bow to the sheep. No more would he be shackled by the whims of men. No more would he suffer for the amusement of shadows and their dealings.
And yet, he could not move. The thought of fighting back was an ember in the dark, but his body would not follow. He was still bleeding. His face was shattered. His mouth was ruined. A pulped mass of flesh where his fangs once were. And he could not heal.
He needed to feed.
His vision wavered, the world returning in uneven, fractured glimpses. Silhouettes shifted above him, blurred and unrecognizable. Then motion. He was being moved, fast. Wind, cold against his ruined skin.
???: "Take him to my lab. I will handle the patient."
The voice was distinct, calculated and forceful. It allowed no room for hesitation.
Darkness claimed him again. He surfaced in jagged moments: blood-filled vials, strange machines, restraints biting into his skin. Time lost meaning, slipping away in the sound of drills, grinders, and the bone-deep vibrations that rattled his skull. Metal on metal shrieked. The high-pitched whine of machinery burrowed into his mind, shaking loose thoughts he couldn't hold onto.
Then silence.
A silence so pure, so absolute, it was almost holy. No pain. No hunger. No sound. Just nothingness.
For the first time in what felt like an eternity, he felt… calm.
His eyes fluttered open, the real world seeping in. The cold steel of restraints bound his arms and legs. To his side, a cart of blood packets, each one whispering to the primal hunger in his core. He did not think. He did not hesitate.
A hiss. A click. His right wrist was released.
His hand shot forward, snatching the nearest packet and sinking his teeth into it. Blood flooded his mouth. It was warm, thick, divine. He drained it in seconds, but something felt… wrong.
As the empty packet fell from his lips, his fingers touched his mouth. His fangs—no longer his own.
Metal.
Sharp, jagged, unnatural.
Stronger.
Foreign.
He forced himself to think. He had been brutalized. He had been strapped to a table. He had been experimented on. Someone had torn out his ruined fangs and replaced them with these... things. And they were watching. Somewhere in the unseen corners of the room, they waited. Studying him. Gauging his reaction. They knew he was a vampire. His thoughts danced quickly. They knew his ailment, and yet, they let him feed and replaced his fangs. They weren’t a Van Helsing type, otherwise he would already be dead. Were they wanting power? Were they kindred? Were they yet another slaver ready to shackle the undead warrior?
Movement nearby caught Bold’s attention, as a figure emerged from the far side of the room, surrounded by thick shadows. They moved like oil across the water, smooth, fluid, and unsettling. Their coat trailed behind him, the hem just brushing the floor, and his face, pale and sharp, remained in shadow except for a faint glint in their eyes. They stepped forward, his figure cutting through the haze of shadows. The light hit him just enough to reveal his pale complexion, the hollows of his cheeks, and the faintest glimmer of something red in his irises.
Vaughn Skirnov: "Ah, excellent. The specimen stirs and feeds. Tell me, how do you find my augmentation?"
Bold turned his head, the motion sluggish but deliberate, his muscles still weak from trauma. His loathing was unmistakable, he had been bound, tampered with, reduced to a caged beast at the mercy of another.
Chuluun Bold: "I didn’t ask for this. I will not be indebted to you."
A thin smile crept across the pale features of the figure standing before him, as if savoring a private amusement.
Vaughn Skirnov: "Indebted? My dear subject, if servitude had been my aim, I would have done more than replace mere teeth. No, had I wished to break you, I would have entwined your flesh with wire, hollowed your bones for circuitry, and rewritten your instincts into code. But I do not seek a puppet, not you at least."
Skirnov stepped closer, long fingers brushing against the edges of the cart beside Bold, selecting a blood packet with dispassionate curiosity. He turned it in his grip, feeling the warmth, before letting it slip from his fingers, discarded and irrelevant.
Vaughn Skirnov: "You see, perfection is a rare commodity in this world of crude, decaying vessels. Your kind teeters so dangerously close to that ideal. And yet, even the finest creations have flaws."
He gestured toward Bold's mouth, his voice a purr of satisfaction.
Vaughn Skirnov: "Your fangs were weak, prone to destruction. I merely refined them, reforged them into something… enduring. A necessary correction, nothing more."
Bold remained silent, his mind sharpening past the haze of pain. This man had meddled with him, not out of mercy, but because it amused him.
Skirnov tilted his head, studying him like an artist assessing unfinished work.
Vaughn Skirnov: "Do not mistake my actions for benevolence. I am no savior, nor am I your captor. I am a man of foresight, and foresight dictates that alliances are a matter of function, not sentiment. You have enemies. I have enemies. Our paths will intersect, whether by design or by happenstance."
He spread his arms in an almost theatrical gesture.
Vaughn Skirnov: "Alone, you may endure. Together, we thrive. A convergence of instinct and intellect, of chaos and precision. But of course, you are free to crawl from this table and face your adversaries as you are. I merely offer a superior alternative."
The words lingered in the air, clinical yet laced with an undeniable gravity. The offer was not one of servitude, but of purpose. A cold, calculated investment.
Bold exhaled sharply, his tongue tracing over the unfamiliar metal that had replaced his fangs. The taste of blood still lingered, but there was something else. A coldness, a weight. His body ached, but his strength was slowly returning, piece by piece.
He pushed himself upright, straining against the last of the restraints, which released with a small hiss before finally sliding his feet onto the floor. His movements were slow, deliberate, but there was no mistaking the look in his eyes: not submission, not gratitude, but determination.
His gaze locked onto Vaughn, expression unreadable. No sudden moves. No weakness. The scientist had the air of a man who had seen many things bleed before him and never flinched. Bold wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of looking fragile. He flexed his fingers, testing his limbs. The hunger was still there, simmering, but the blood had settled his body enough to move. His voice, though laced with exhaustion, remained cold.
Chuluun Bold: "I’ll give you this, whatever you did, it held me together long enough to keep me breathing."
He took a step forward, unsteady but firm. A caged beast walking free, but only for now.
Chuluun Bold: "But don’t mistake my presence here for trust. I didn’t ask for this, and I don’t owe you a damn thing."
Vaughn chuckled softly, folding his hands behind his back, unbothered by the hostility.
Vaughn Skirnov: "Ah, such tenacity. You wear defiance well Bold, but do not let your pride blind you. I have no need for gratitude, nor do I seek to chain you. I require only what is logical. Opportunity. And in that, we are in agreement, yes?"
He gestured vaguely toward the dimly lit room, the hum of unseen machinery still ever-present.
Vaughn Skirnov: "The Yakuza will not leave you be. They saw you as a pawn, disposable. I saw you as something far more interesting."
Bold clenched his jaw, then winced slightly as he felt the metallic fangs shift unnaturally against his mouth.
Chuluun Bold: "Spare me the speeches, doctor. I don’t need to be reminded of what they did."
He cracked his neck, exhaling through his nose before continuing.
Chuluun Bold: "But you’re right about one thing. I’m not finished yet. I have debts to settle, and I have no intention of dying before I do."
Vaughn’s smile didn’t widen, but the glint in his eyes sharpened.
Vaughn Skirnov: "Good. Then we proceed with clarity. I am Vaughn Skirnov, your new doctor. You will regain your strength. You will find your footing again. And should the time come when our interests align…"
His voice lowered, the promise of something dangerous beneath it.
Vaughn Skirnov: "You will find me most accommodating."
Bold exhaled sharply through his nose, his mind already moving ahead to what came next. He needed to leave this place. He needed more blood, more time. He would rebuild, stronger than before.
But as he took another step, he could still feel it. The weight of what Vaughn had done. The unnatural presence of steel where his own fangs should be. He would live with it.
—
Hours passed, proper feeding had been obtained, but it did not remove the unease from Bold’s mind. In the span of days, his status and life had been turned upside down. He had been made to look weak to both AAPW and UOW. Someone that could be beaten and struck down with ease. He lost the main title, handing it over to the enemy. But he cannot let his loss distract him from the fight ahead.
Bold looked at the card. A man named Shingo Hara, a very skilled mortal who can go toe to toe with the best of them. It would be a difficult fight without the Yokai blood, but the addiction was slowly releasing its hold from withdrawal. Shingo was not alone, he had allies, but it was likely to stay as a one on one. Bold needed to go in strong, and finish strong if he were to prove he had no weakness left. It was a tall task, still weakened from the blows in his previous match and the withdrawal. If the match went on much longer, Shingo could get the upper hand. But even as shown in his previous match, a vampire doesn’t roll over and tap out, they have to be beaten completely to submit. Bold broke into a smile for the first time in a long time.
A worthy competitor was ahead. Time to prove his worth once again.