Chapter 1: He Who Hunt The Night

[The world is soaked in blood, candlelight, and irony...]

The wind howls like a damned soul across the desolate highlands. Beneath a sky choked with ash and sunlight, a solitary figure trudges through the mire—cloak torn, boots mud-caked, and mood perpetually awful.

In the Year of the Withered Lamb, when the moon bled red for seven nights and the priests began drinking holy water just to forget their sins, there walked a man...

William Sparda. Vampire hunter. Last heir to a name now whispered with venom and forgotten like a bad dream in a cold bed. His family—once aristocrats with a penchant for impaling the undead—was betrayed, butchered, and burned by those they protected.

Now, William hunts not for glory, nor for gold... but because, frankly, it gives him something to do between hangovers.

As he approaches the decrepit village of Grimhollow, a place that smells like wet dog and bad decisions.

The town is quite, too quiet. A few scattered people here and there, most of them eyeing you like you’ve just walked into a hornet’s nest. But the streets are empty, the kind of emptiness that gnaws at the back of your skull.

William (muttering):

"Something's off, this town looks... too quiet."

The town’s center is dominated by a large tavern—its sign hanging crooked, a faded logo of a half-moon and a black bird. Sounds like the perfect place to start. he push the door open, the smell of stale ale and firewood wafting out into the cold morning air.

Inside, the tavern is dim, but you can make out a few patrons sitting at tables, whispering amongst themselves. They fall silent when He enter. And then-

A man at the bar, a heavyset figure wearing a tattered cloak, stands and slowly turns to face you. His eyes are too wide, his grin too sharp, but his voice is smooth—too smooth.

Man at the bar:

"Well, well, well… A traveler. we rarely got a guest here. Tell me, traveler… what brings you to our humble town?"

He decide to play it cool. He can’t afford to jump into anything too quickly—at least not without knowing the lay of the land. A little casual observation goes a long way.

William (walking to the bar and taking a seat):

"I’ll take something strong.

And let’s make it a quiet one—just getting the lay of the land."

The bartender, a thin man with sunken eyes and an expression that could use a few more smiles, pours Him a drink without a word. He slides it over to Him with a grunt.

Man at the bar (still watching him, his grin widening slightly):

"Come for the harvest? Or just passing through? It’s a good time for travelers, if you’ve got the right coin."

He let the words hang in the air for a moment, casually glancing around the room. People are looking at Him now—not overtly, but enough to make you feel like they’re waiting for something.

William (leaning back, nonchalant):

"Just passing through. But you’re right—this place doesn’t seem like it gets a lot of travelers.

What’s the deal with the quiet around here? Seems like everyone’s waiting for something."

The man’s smile falters just the slightest bit, but he recovers quickly, leaning in closer.

Man at the bar:

"Quiet’s better than the alternative, friend.

You wouldn’t believe the things that stir in the night.

Best not to ask too many questions. Trust me."

Willian narrow His eyes slightly, studying the man at the bar as he tries to recover his composure. His fingers twitch nervously around his glass, betraying a hint of unease.

William (leaning in, voice low and firm):

"You mentioned the ‘things that stir in the night.’

Care to elaborate?

Because I’m getting the feeling there’s more to this town than the locals are letting on."

The man’s smile drops, just a little. He looks around the tavern, as if gauging whether anyone’s listening. Then, with a sigh, he leans closer, his voice dropping to a near whisper.

Man at the bar:

"There’s something dark stirring in these woods.

Something older than the town itself. People go missing. Livestock, too. And there’s... whispers of a creature—something that feeds at night, but doesn’t leave a trace. Not a bite. Just... disappears."

William know what he means.

He seen it before: the signs of something ancient, something primal, lurking at the edge of human memory. A creature like that doesn’t show itself often—too smart for that. But it leaves marks, even if they’re hard to see.

Man at the bar:

"If you’re smart, you’ll leave before it gets hungry again. Some things are better left forgotten."

William:

"Sounds like Vampire to me... and

why don't you leave this town too? you know things weren't good here"

The man left a slight gasp and open wide his brown eye facing straight to the beer cup in his hand.

Man at the bar:

"I've been here since birth, this is my hometown, childhood, family.

and do you see how I look friend? do I look like someone that have enough gold to travel and live in the another town, this is a poor village. We better stay and protect what we have."

William leave a coin for the beer and stand up

ignoring the uneasy glances from the patrons in the tavern. The man at the bar doesn’t protest further, only watches William as He turn toward the door, the weight of his warning lingering in the air like smoke.

The cool air hits Him as He step outside the tavern, and the sounds of the town seem to fall away. The forest looms ahead—a dark tangle of trees and shifting shadows, a place that feels alive in a way that makes your skin crawl. The locals avoid looking in that direction. They know better.

William (muttering):

"Now lets find some salt and get prepared, time to get some exercise"

While William getting prepared, The sun slowly sinking down while the moon starting too show its light, at the middle of night William Sparda is ready to Confront the Creature.

The woods are dense, thick with ancient trees that seem to whisper on the wind. The path is narrow, barely wide enough for William to walk side by side. A few scattered moonbeams filter through the canopy, but the deeper He go, the darker it becomes. You can almost feel the weight of the old magic pressing down on you.

William press forward, moving with purpose. The air grows colder as He venture deeper into the woods, and the sounds of the night—owls, insects, the occasional rustle—start to fade, replaced by a sickening silence. He pause, sensing that something is watching.

William stop. Everything’s still. Too still. The hairs on the back of His neck rise, and the atmosphere around Him shifts. The forest feels wrong now. As if the shadows themselves are stretching toward you.

From the corner of His eye, He see it—movement in the dark. A figure, just a flicker, almost imperceptible, but it’s there. And it’s watching Him.

How do you approach this, Sparda? The night is thick with something hungry, and you're closing in on it.

William don’t hesitate. With one fluid motion, His hand goes to His side and His weapon is drawn—a gleam of silver in the dark, a comfort in the shadow-soaked silence. The forest responds with a breathless stillness, as if even it is holding its breath.

William (grim):

"I don’t like being watched.

If You wants to play hunter, You better be ready to bleed."

The tension thickens. The flicker in the trees moves again—closer now. Quicker. It circles, testing William reactions. Whatever it is, it’s not human. Not even close.

The shadows bend unnaturally, curling toward William like tendrils. You catch a glimpse—a gaunt figure, pale skin stretched taut over a lean frame, eyes that glow faintly red in the dark, sharp fang like its ready to crush it prey. A Vampire.

It moves like smoke, slipping through the trees with impossible speed, then—

It Strike.

But He's Ready.

Combat Begins!

The vampire lashes out with razor-sharp claw

William parry and counter, striking across its ribs-his blade cuts deep, It hisses.

William (smirks):

"You confused? chuckles I'm not just a ordinary villager you usually eat dumbass, those are slash wraped with salt, now you can't use those cheap trick regeneration ahh ability."

It vanishes again, reappearing behind you in a blink—fangs aimed for your throat.

Time to remind this thing why the Sparda name is feared.

William twist just in time, His instincts kicking in before thought. The Vampire lunges, a blur of death and teeth—

William (gritted teeth):

"Bad move, freak."

William drop low, planting His foot hard into the earth, and drive His sword up with all the force He can muster. The steel finds its mark—

SHUNK

—straight into its chest, punching through bone and sinew with a wet, snapping sound. The creature jerks back, shrieking in a voice that shouldn’t exist—like dry leaves howling in a hurricane.

The Vampire claws wildly, flailing in agony. Its blood is red and thick, sizzling against William blade. But He don’t let go. He push, forcing the steel deeper until the hilt hits bone and the light in its red eyes flickers—then dies.

And just like that, it collapses. A thousand years of hunger, rage, and malice crumbling into rot and dust. Willian pull His blade free as its body begins to decay unnaturally fast, disintegrating into the soil. All that remains is a faint shimmer of cursed magic, fading like smoke on the wind.

William:

"Hell... I really should start betting on this thing, bet against thing like this ever learning"

William clean his blade on a patch of moss, eyeing the shadows. The forest is quiet again. Not peaceful—never that—but it’s no longer holding its breath. Whatever ancient horror lived here, it’s gone.

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