A few minutes passed as Yourupt sat at one of the bars in the main hall, lost in thought as he tried to figure out his next move. His fingers idly traced the rim of his glass, his mind going over every possibility.

  Just as he was about to settle on a plan, he felt a hand rest on his right shoulder, pulling him out of his thoughts.

  An older man’s voice broke through Yourupt’s thoughts.

  Older Man: "Hey, you gonna order something or just sit there all night?"

  Yourupt looked up, snapping out of his contemplation. His eyes met the bartender’s, a seasoned man with the wear of years etched into his face.

  Yourupt: "Sorry about that," Yourupt said, offering a small nod. "I’ll take an Osculum Entropiae."

  The bartender gave a quick grunt of acknowledgment, already reaching for the bottles.

  Older Man: "One Osculum Entropiae, coming right up."

  As the old man got to work mixing the drink, Yourupt leaned back slightly, waiting. According to Isabella”s memories, somewhere amidst the crowd, a maid would be arriving soon, carrying a briefcase with the contract—along with the exact location of the deal. Until then, all he could do was bide his time.

  Yourupt now sat alone at the farthest table in the grand banquet hall, his fingers idly tracing the rim of his untouched glass. The air was thick with the scent of roasted meats, spiced wines, and expensive perfumes, but beneath all the pleasantries, there was something far more potent in the air—resentment.

  He had felt it the moment he entered. The stiff greetings. The lingering stares. The way conversations would pause for a fraction of a second when he walked by, only to resume with lowered voices.

  They were talking about him.

  And they weren’t even trying to hide it.

  Across the hall, a vampire noblewoman in a sapphire gown leaned toward her companion, speaking just loud enough for those around her to hear.

  Vampire Noblewoman: “Lady Chihaya really thinks this ridiculous party is going to make us forget?”

  Vampire Nobleman: “Forget?” the man beside her scoffed. “No. She just wants us to act like we have. She wants us to sip cocktails, smile, and pretend we’re all fine with letting that thing sit among us like he’s one of us.”

  Yourupt didn’t flinch. He continued staring at the glass in his hands, as if the conversation had nothing to do with him.

  Another vampire noble, draped in crimson robes embroidered with the crest of a once-proud warrior family, shook his head.

  Vampire Nobleman: “This is how it always goes. Ten years of slaughter, and now, what? A trial?” He let out a bitter laugh. “It’s a joke. We all know how this ends. A slap on the wrist. Maybe some grand speech about second chances. And then what? He walks free?”

  An werebeast let out a sharp exhale through their nose, barely containing their disdain.

  Werebeast 1#: “Twelve years ago, at least there was outrage. Now? Now they tell us to understand him.”

  Another werebeast , lower, rougher, filled with barely suppressed anger.

  Werebeast 2#: “A trial for him? What, so we can hear some nonsense about how he’s changed? How does he regrets it?” The speaker scoffed. “Regret doesn’t bring back the Valcaris Clan. It doesn’t rebuild the Xyphar Hiveclan. It doesn’t erase the decade of hell he put us through.”

  Yourupt exhaled slowly, his grip tightening ever so slightly around the glass.

  He was used to the hatred. It had followed him for years, whispering from every corner, every shadow. But tonight, it was different.

  Tonight, they weren’t just angry.

  Tonight, they were emboldened.

  An Orivoxian noble spoke, voice sharp as a blade.

  Orivoxian Noble 1#: “You know what the worst part is? It’s not just him. It’s her.”

  A murmur of agreement spread through the group.

  Orivoxian Noble 2#: “Lady Chihaya thinks she can protect him forever,” someone said, their voice laced with contempt. “She thinks that if she throws us a feast and tells us to move on, we’ll just accept it.”

  Orivoxian Noble 3#: “She wants us to accept it,” another voice added darkly. “Because if we don’t, she’ll have to admit she’s made a mistake. That she’s sheltering a murderer.”

  More hushed voices joined in, as if the very act of speaking it aloud gave them more confidence.

  Random Noble: “If the Feranthis beast-kings hear of this, they will take action.”

  Random Noble 2#: “That’s what she doesn’t understand. She thinks she’s keeping him safe. But all she’s doing is painting a target on her own back.”

  Yourupt swallowed down a laugh. Idiots. As if Chihaya didn’t know exactly what she was doing.

  But then, the conversation took another turn.

  Random Noble 3#: “I heard a rumor,” one noble said in a hushed tone. “That he hasn’t changed. That he still dreams about it.”

  A pause.

  Random Noble 4# :“If Chihaya weren’t keeping him in check, he’d do it all over again.”

  The words slid through the air like a blade through silk.

  Another silence followed, heavier than the last. Then, someone whispered,

  Random Noble 5#:“Wouldn’t surprise me.”

  Yourupt lifted his glass and looked around it as he was playing with it while thinking to himself .

  Yourupt: They think they know me. They thought they knew the depths of his mind, the weight of the blood on his hands, the ghosts that followed him even now. They didn’t. They only knew the stories. The wreckage. The aftermath. But they hadn’t been there. They hadn’t seen what he had seen. They hadn’t felt the sheer, intoxicating clarity of battle. The way time slowed, the way the world sharpened, the way the screams blended into something almost beautiful”.

  Yourupt set his glass down with a quiet clink.

  The whispers continued, but he wasn’t listening anymore.

  The voices grew louder, swelling into a cacophony that pounded against Yourupt’s skull. His head throbbed, and beneath the murmurs of the crowd, something far more sinister crept in—whispers from the countless lives he had taken.

  The Victims: "You can't hide from us."

  "Murderer."

  "Monster."

  "Our blood is on your hands.”

  “Stop”

  "My children..."

  “You can’t protect no one.”

  “Everyone hates you.”

  “Shouldn’t ever have been born in the first place.”

  Each voice slithered through his mind like a vengeful echo, dragging him deeper into their torment. Then, cutting through the chaos like a blade, another voice emerged—one far too familiar.

  Dark Yourupt: "Just end it all, Yourupt."

  It was his own shadow.

  Dark Yourupt: "Kill them all. Show them how strong we are. Stop pretending to be something you're not."

  A sharp, lingering pain coiled in his chest as his hands clenched into fists. He could feel it—his power stirring, feeding off his turmoil. The darkness inside him was waiting, eager to be unleashed.

  Before the voices could drag him any deeper, a sharp, single bang cut through the noise, yanking him back to reality.

  Yourupt's eyes snapped open, his breath uneven as he quickly scanned his surroundings. The whispers vanished like smoke in the wind, leaving only the dim, flickering lights of the lounge and the low murmur of conversation.

  The old man stood before him, setting a glass down on the counter with deliberate finality.

  Older Man: "Here’s your drink, young man," he said, his gruff voice steady, unfazed.

  Yourupt hesitated for a moment before reaching for the glass, his fingers still tense. He nodded, more to ground himself than as a sign of gratitude, before taking a slow sip of the Osculum Entropiae. The bitter burn of the drink forced him to focus, anchoring him back in the present.

  The old man wiped a glass with practiced ease, his weathered hands moving methodically as he spoke.

  Older Man: “You seem troubled, young man. That drink should help calm your nerves.”

  Yourupt exhaled slowly, rolling the glass between his fingers before taking another sip.

  If you stumble upon this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

  Yourupt: “Thanks, old man. This drink really hits the spot.”

  The bartender gave a knowing nod before turning away, reaching for another bottle. By the time he turned back, a fresh drink was already waiting in front of Yourupt.

  Older Man: “Care to tell me what’s been bothering you lately?”

  Yourupt’s brow furrowed.

  Yourupt: “Why the sudden interest?”

  The old man set the glass he had been cleaning onto the bar with a quiet clink.

  Older Man: “Not much business at this hour. Won’t be seeing too many people until later. And besides,” he added, meeting Yourupt’s gaze, “you look a lot more troubled than my usual customers. I’ve always had a habit of listening to people’s problems.”

  Yourupt let out a dry chuckle, shaking his head.

  Yourupt: “Is it that obvious?”

  The bartender smirked, pushing the new drink closer.

  Older Man: “I’ve been doing this job for a thousand years, so you tell me. Maybe I can help.”

  Yourupt stared at the glass for a moment before finally picking it up.

  Yourupt: “Sure, I’m waiting here for someone anyways.”

  The drink was smooth, a welcome distraction from the lingering voices clawing at the edges of his mind. Yourupt swirled the liquid in his glass, watching the way the dim bar lights reflected off its surface.

  The old man leaned forward slightly, resting his arms on the counter.

  Older Man: “So, what’s weighing on you?”

  Yourupt let out a slow breath.

  Yourupt: “Just ghosts,” he muttered. “Ones that never seem to leave me alone.”

  The bartender gave a small, knowing nod.

  Older Man: “Ah. The kind that don’t stay in the grave.”

  Yourupt’s grip on the glass tightened for a brief second.

  Yourupt: “Something like that.”

  The old man hummed in understanding, his hands idly wiping down the bar.

  Older Man: “I’ve seen plenty of men drown themselves in drink, hoping to silence the past. But ghosts don’t die so easily, do they?”

  Yourupt scoffed, taking a slow sip of his drink.

  Yourupt: “No, they don’t.” His voice was quieter now, almost lost beneath the ambient murmurs of the bar. “They cling to you, whispering, scratching at your mind until you start to wonder if they were ever just ghosts to begin with.”

  The old man studied him for a moment before sliding another glass closer.

  Older Man: “And what do these ghosts say to you, young man?”

  Yourupt hesitated, his fingers tapping against the rim of his glass. The whispers still lingered at the edge of his thoughts, but he pushed them back—just for now.

  Yourupt: “That I don’t belong,” he finally said. “That I’m a monster. That no matter what I do, I’ll never be anything else.”

  The bartender exhaled slowly, as if weighing his next words.

  Older Man: “And do you believe them?”

  Yourupt chuckled, but there was no humor in it. He glanced at the drink in his hand before setting it down.

  Yourupt: “Some days, it’s hard not to.”

  The old man nodded, his expression unreadable as he leaned against the bar.

  Older Man: “I see.” He picked up another glass, polishing it with slow, deliberate movements. “And what do you plan to do about it?”

  Yourupt exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head.

  Yourupt: “What can I do?” He gestured vaguely around the bar. “Half the people in this house would rather have my head than this party, and the other half wish I didn’t exist in the first place.”

  The bartender let out a low chuckle.

  Older Man: “Ah, so you’re just going to sit here and let the world decide who you are?” His gaze flicked up, sharp beneath his bushy brows. “Sounds like a coward’s way out.”

  Yourupt’s grip on the glass tightened, his jaw clenching.

  Yourupt: “Watch your mouth, old man.”

  The bartender raised his hands in mock surrender.

  Older Man: “Just calling it as I see it. You’re drinking like a man trying to escape, but you and I both know that never works. The past follows, no matter how fast you run.”

  Yourupt scoffed, tilting his head back to drain the rest of his drink before setting the glass down with a dull clink.

  Yourupt: “And what would you suggest, then?”

  The old man shrugged.

  Older Man: “That depends. Do you actually want to change? Or are you just here to wallow in self-pity until those voices in your head finally drown you?”

  Yourupt said nothing, but the weight of the question settled heavily in his chest. He could still hear the whispers—ghostly, accusing, relentless. Monster. Killer. You’ll never belong.

  And yet, for the first time in a long while, another voice—one quieter, but stubborn—asked something else.

  What if they’re wrong?

  Yourupt took a slow sip of his drink, the burn settling in his throat as he leaned back against the bar. The old man, still drying another glass, gave him a sideways glance.

  Older Man: "So, you gonna tell me what’s got you lookin’ like you’ve got the weight of the world on your shoulders, or you just gonna sit there brooding all night?"

  Yourupt exhaled through his nose, setting the glass down with a dull clink.

  Yourupt: "Just thinking."

  The old man chuckled.

  Older Man: "Thinking’s dangerous if you do too much of it." He placed the clean glass on the shelf behind him. "Especially for men like you."

  Yourupt smirked but said nothing. The old man was sharper than he let on—too sharp.

  Before the conversation could go any further, the sound of approaching footsteps interrupted them. A woman in a crisp, black-and-white maid uniform walked through the hall, moving with quiet confidence. A sleek black briefcase was secured in her gloved hand, its polished surface catching the dim light of the chandeliers above.

  She stopped just beside him, setting the briefcase down with precision.

  Unknown Maid: "You’re needed," she said simply, her tone professional but firm.

  Yourupt cast a glance at the maid before shifting his gaze to the old man, who smirked knowingly.

  Older Man: “Looks like your night’s about to get interesting.”

  With a quiet exhale, Yourupt downed the last of his drink and set the glass back on the bar. He gave the old man a respectful nod.

  Yourupt: “Appreciate it. The drinks… and the talk.”

  The bartender chuckled, wiping down the counter.

  Older Man: “Anytime, kid. Just don’t be a stranger.”

  Yourupt turned back to the maid, who stood patiently, briefcase in hand. Without another word, he fell in step beside her, leaving the bar and the old man behind.

  As they walked through the grand hall, weaving between the clusters of guests, Yourupt glanced at the maid beside him. He had barely spared her a second thought until now, but if she was here to escort him, she was likely more than just a regular servant.

  Yourupt: “What’s your name?” he asked, his tone neutral but direct.

  The maid didn’t falter in her stride.

  Giselle: “Giselle,” she answered smoothly. “I serve as the assistant to Head Maid Rose.”

  Yourupt raised a brow.

  Yourupt: “Assistant to s head maid, huh? That’s a high rank. What does that make you, second-in-command of the maids?”

  Giselle gave the faintest smirk, her eyes forward as they navigated through the shifting crowd.

  Giselle: “Something like that. I handle what Lady Rose doesn’t have time for, which includes ensuring important guests make it to their scheduled meetings.”

  Yourupt: “Important guests, huh?” Yourupt echoed dryly.

  She glanced at him briefly, her expression unreadable.

  Giselle: “You are important tonight. Whether or not that’s a good thing is up to you.”

  Yourupt huffed but didn’t argue. Instead, he shifted the topic.

  Yourupt: “So, where’s this meeting?”

  Giselle: “The garden, near the Te Whaea Rākau tree,” Giselle said. “No one should be there right now. It was chosen specifically for its privacy.”

  Yourupt nodded in understanding. It made sense—no unwanted ears, no wandering eyes. Deals like this required discretion.

  As they continued walking, the murmur of the crowd thickened. Yourupt paid little attention to the lavish guests, the clinking of glasses, or the

  flickering candlelight—until he accidentally brushed shoulders with someone.

  A young woman with striking snow-white hair stumbled slightly, and he instinctively reached out to steady her.

  Yourupt: "Ah—sorry about that," Yourupt said, releasing her as soon as she regained her balance.

  The woman looked up at him with cool blue eyes, studying him briefly before offering a small, polite smile.

  Young Woman: "It’s alright. No harm done."

  There was something about her gaze that lingered, but before he could dwell on it, Giselle pressed forward, unbothered by the interaction.

  Yourupt gave a short nod before turning to follow.

  Gisella: “Once the deal is done,” Giselle continued as if nothing had happened, “return to Lady Chihaya’s office and drop off the documents. Then,

  wait in the main hall.”

  Yourupt glanced at her.

  Yourupt: “And?”

  Gisella: “Someone will escort you to the basement, where the trial is being held.”

  He let out a slow exhale.

  Yourupt: “Great. More fun to look forward to.”

  Giselle: “Consider it part of your responsibilities,” Giselle replied, her tone unshaken.

  After parting ways with Giselle, who handed him the briefcase containing the documents, Yourupt made his way toward the gardens. As he walked, he kept his posture relaxed, blending in with the flow of people moving through the halls. But instead of heading straight for the meeting spot, he took a slight detour.

  With a subtle flicker of power, he manipulated the layout of the house, shifting the walls just enough to create a hidden passage that only he could access. Slipping inside, he moved unseen into a secluded room—a quiet space tucked away from prying eyes.

  To ensure no one grew suspicious of his absence, Yourupt created a shadow clone. The duplicate, identical in every way, continued walking toward the garden, carrying the briefcase as if nothing was out of the ordinary. The clone would keep up appearances, allowing him to observe things from the shadows without drawing unnecessary attention.

  Settling into the small room, dimly lit with only a sliver of light seeping through the cracks, Yourupt listened carefully, keeping his senses sharp. He wasn’t expecting trouble, but in his world, it was always better to be prepared. The deal had to go smoothly, and from here, he could make sure nothing unexpected happened.

  Now that he had a moment to himself, Yourupt could move freely—at least until the maids realized he was missing. He leaned against the wall of the hidden room, fingers tapping idly against the briefcase. Something about tonight’s party felt… off. It had been gnawing at him since he arrived, an unease he couldn’t shake.

  The way the maids carried themselves, the way even Lady Chihaya spoke to him—it was all too vague, too carefully worded. She was hiding something from him. That much, he was sure of. But what?

  He wasn’t about to sit around and wait for answers to fall into his lap. If something was going on, he needed to find out before it was too late.

  With a flick of his wrist, dark tendrils slithered out from his shadow, twisting and stretching as they took form. He summoned them in silence, his expression unreadable as he gave his commands. Some shadows were sent to weave through the halls, slipping into conversations and listening for anything that might mention him—or him. Others were dispatched beyond the house, stretching toward the edges of the Singularity Line. If there were any threats approaching from the unknown, he wanted to know about it before they reached him.

  As the last of his shadows disappeared into the darkness, he exhaled slowly, rolling his shoulders.

  Yourupt: “I hope whatever Lady Chihaya is hiding… it’s because of him.” His voice was quiet, almost a whisper, but laced with something sharp—something dangerous.

  And if it was about him? Then he needed to be ready.