[Main POV]
I hear a sound beside me that pulls me from my thoughts.
A man dressed in black, with equally dark hair and skin the color of sun-kissed Egyptian bronze, stands nearby. He looks to be about 5 feet 3 inches tall and weighs around 121 pounds. That's Amenadiel—or rather, Agent 3. He's my bodyguard and is always close by. Members of the vampire guard I'm building are known by their numerical designations. In his case, he's Agent 3—and yes, I took inspiration from Hitman.
He had appeared silently at the entrance of the training center. With a subtle gesture, he taps his closed fist against his chest—a signal that something requires my attention. After his appearance and salute, he speaks:
— "Sir, the engineers are awaiting your presence at the docks. They said the vessel is ready for its christening on the Nile."
He's repeating what some of the servants already mentioned earlier. I find it amusing… Everyone keeps reminding me of things—even though I never forget. Thank you, perfect memory, I think to myself with a slight smirk.
Agent Number Three positions himself two steps behind me, as usual, and I begin walking toward the training bays—with him following close behind.
The training center is vast, partially covered by rough stone columns, and bathed in golden sunlight that pours through the upper crevices. The metallic clash of swords echoes through the space, mixed with grunts of exertion and the sharp commands of instructors. My eyes remain locked on the young ones training before me. This group has been with me for a few years—not quite as skilled as the first generation, but good enough to catch my attention.
Each one of them is drenched in sweat, hair disheveled, minor bruises scattered across their bodies—clear signs of the intense training they endure. Their effort, though silent, resonates throughout the space, a testament to the privilege and burden of belonging to my personal guard.
The moment they notice my presence, the young warriors stop immediately. In perfect sync, dozens of trainees drop to one knee and shout in unison:
— "My lord!"
Along with them, the instructors also bow in respect.
I scan them with a sharp gaze, observing the sweaty, breathless faces in front of me. They're exhausted—yet focused. I let out a light sigh and speak the words they were clearly hoping to hear:
— "Well done, all of you. From what I see, there's been improvement."
I pause briefly, letting the recognition sink in before continuing:
— "And since we're speaking of progress, I have a few announcements. I plan to intensify your training over the next two weeks. We'll also be hosting a few internal tournaments. Consider this an official decree."
I hear a few hushed murmurs and notice glances exchanged among them—a mix of apprehension and excitement. The increased training intensity worries the younger ones, but the idea of competition sparks something in their eyes. I go on:
— "There will be two main competitions: one in boxing, another in capoeira. And in addition to those, a mixed martial arts tournament. The winners will be rewarded. Prizes include higher ranks within the guard, access to special equipment, and… a seat at my table for dinner."
I say this with a faint smile—and the atmosphere shifts instantly. A seat at my table isn't just an honor; it's a symbol. Of respect. Of ascension. Of desire.
— "I expect all of you to give it your best. Remember: rewards are earned through effort. So take this seriously."
As I speak, an old memory flashes through me like lightning.
I remember myself, young, in a ring. Nervous, fists clenched beneath linen wraps, the metallic scent of sweat and adrenaline thick in the air. It was a local boxing match—simple, raw, but full of spirit. I fought like the world depended on it. The roar of the crowd, the thrill of combat, the silence before the first punch… it shaped me.
That memory is what inspired this idea. Because I know what a tournament can do—how it can mold someone into something greater.
Snapping back to the present, I spot a tall, dark-skinned man, sweaty, kneeling in the arena. I recall the stance he held before kneeling, and it draws my attention again.
I speak firmly:
— "Nessian, your guard is dropping for too long. Fix that—or adopt a different boxing style. A low, stiff guard will only kill your precision. If you truly want to fight that way, then adapt your stance to sucram. Remember: movement is everything."
After I say that to Nessian, he remains kneeling and responds with the utmost reverence:
— "I will correct it without fail, my lord. Forgive this humble servant for dishonoring your image and greatness by displaying such a sloppy and disgraceful style."
He finishes the sentence by lowering his head even further—nearly touching his forehead to the floor in a clear sign of shame. I'm pleased—perhaps he's truly learned his lesson.
I do this often, especially with instructors. Whenever I visit the training center, I offer a tip or two. Even the best make mistakes sometimes. It's part of the process.
But I'm strict with them. They cannot teach incorrectly. Failing on their own is bad enough—misleading others is unforgivable.
After delivering my message, I take the opportunity to visit the most precious jewels of my vampire guard. With steady steps, I head toward a darker corner of the arena.
There, in the shadows, I stop in front of a statue—a likeness of myself, carved from black stone with polished gold detailing. With precision, I press a small hidden fissure at the base of the sculpture.
Man's POV
At my touch, the statue shifts smoothly, as if moved by magic. But it isn't magic—it's an ingenious mechanism, driven by gravity and hidden counterweights beneath the ground.
Behind it, a passage reveals itself. The entrance is narrow, lined with ancient stone and creeping moss along the edges. It opens to a spiral staircase drenched in shadows. The air here is cooler, almost damp, carrying a mineral scent—a clear sign that we are descending into something deep and old.
I take the steps slowly, with Agent 03 right behind me, silent and alert as always. Beneath the arena, far from curious eyes, lie the true pillars of the force I'm building—newborn vampires, shaped not just by thirst but by discipline.
After a few minutes of descent, the silence that once dominated is broken—first by the growing noise of combat halfway down, then by a deafening roar as we reach the bottom. Before us stretches a corridor carved in sandstone, the flickering torchlight dancing along mineral veins in the walls. They gleam faintly, pulsing as if alive with the energy of those who came before. The place breathes an ancestral aura—a temple of evolution.
Unlike the hidden passage behind the statue, this hallway was designed by me to be a reminder: Destruction here is deliberate. The predator becomes a soldier. The monster, a conscious weapon.
As soon as my foot hits the corridor, I speak aloud:
— "Halt the training."
My voice cuts through the space with commanding clarity.
The sounds stop immediately. No more impacts. No more blades clashing. The bodies align in perfect formation. One by one, they kneel. Their skin glimmers under the torchlight—a cold, immortal sheen unique to the newly turned.
Their eyes, red as rubies, avoid mine.
I let silence stretch for a moment, letting the weight of my presence settle over them.
Then, as is my custom—praise first, criticism after—I begin:
— "Your loyalty is admirable," I say as I walk between the columns. "But don't mistake strength for power. Brute force is merely the instinct of the beast. True power requires control, strategy… purpose."
I step forward, eyes locked on theirs.
— "Starting tomorrow, night simulations. Ambushes. Stealth. I want hunters, not mindless beasts. Be intelligent monsters… or die like stupid animals."
My voice echoes against the sandstone, blending with the crackling of the torches and the tense stillness that settles over the chamber.
I scan each of the ten before me. One by one.
Then my gaze locks onto Agent 5.
— "Stand."
He obeys.
Tall, broad, skin dark and presence even darker. His muscles remain defined, even after transformation. The vampire's chill is there—but beneath it, I see the remnants of a man who's survived too much to ever be ordinary.
— "You've evolved. But you're still predictable."
I remember what he said the last time we spoke—that he was training in capoeira with Agent 7, right?
He hesitates—perhaps searching for the right words, perhaps out of respect—then replies with steady voice and unwavering eye contact, hiding any trace of nervousness:
— "Yes, sir. And sword training with Agent 2."
— "Good. Use that. Your gift isn't speed—it's impact. Learn to be unexpected. Use your strength as an end, not as the easy path. The world fears what it doesn't understand—be that fear."
He nods in acknowledgement.
I turn to the group once more and speak to the rest:
— "Continue. I'll be watching."
And they do. For hours, they train—while I observe, adjusting every flaw, every misstep. Shaping each of them into something sharper. Deadlier.
After spending three hours below, I leave the underground chamber—still thinking about Agent 05. Abnadiel. Brother of my bodyguard.
I walk in silence, mind deep in memory.
Before the transformation, Abnadiel was just another boy lost in the alleys of a crumbling empire. An orphan among thieves. Tall, strong, with fists that bled more often than they hurt—at first. But those same fists would soon be feared in back alleys and marketplaces.
He fought for food, for shelter, for space. Every punch was a scream for existence. He stole what he needed—and sometimes more. Not out of greed… but because he didn't trust tomorrow.
It was during one of those fights—sweaty, bloodied, and victorious more often than not—that one of my agents found him. Still human. His eyes wild, like a feral dog—but with reason behind them. Strategy. Rage, focused like a blade.
He was taken to the orphanage—the front I use to shelter those who might one day serve in my guard. With time, Abnadiel endured trials, trained hard… until the day of his turning.
…Lost in those thoughts, I'm pulled back to the present by a voice at my side:
— "The sails of the Nox Caelestis were raised this morning. The scribes request your presence to formally record its christening," says Amenadiel—Agent Number 03—while we walk under the now-orange midday sky.
— "Good," I murmur. "And the scouts?"
— "Sparta has been moving, my lord. No confirmation yet, but… they might be regrouping militias."
It's a troubling statement—but nothing I can't handle.
— "Sparta never forgets," I reply coldly. "But it's not time for war. Not yet."
As we exit the palace, two carriages await us. We climb in without ceremony and head toward the docks.
The Egyptian landscape passes before us: dunes, palm trees, towers of stone and bronze… and finally, the Nile. And resting on its banks—a colossal creature: the Nox Caelestis.
The vessel rises against the sky like a shadow of war: black sails, dragon-headed prow, hull carved from ebony wood, detailed in blood-red gold. A floating jewel. A weapon.
Amun is already there, arms crossed.
— "The ship awaits only your word, my lord."
— "Then let's launch her. And may the gods hear the names that echo beneath these—"
To be continued…
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[N/A] If you've read this far, thank you! And since I'm terrible at handling compliments, please, insult me instead!