The manager of Goldspring Bank in Frankfurt City was a portly, middle-aged man with a belly that hung over his waistband. At this moment, he was sitting on the plush sofa of the VIP room, legs crossed, impatiently swirling a whiskey glass filled with ice.
Damn it, why hasn't it arrived yet?
He cursed and slammed the glass down onto the table.
As a promising billionaire, he was a distinguished guest of this nightclub and enjoyed permanent use of this VIP room. To facilitate his business, the room's walls were lined with a thick layer of soundproofing padding, ensuring that no matter how loud it became inside, nothing could be heard from outside.
According to usual practice, the nightclub's director would send screenshots of the surveillance footage to a private chat group every ten minutes. This group consisted of influential figures like the bank manager. If any of them took an interest in a particular guest, they merely had to notify the director, who would then dispatch the security team.
But now, the bank manager had been sitting on the sofa for over twenty minutes. He had seen neither the "goods" he'd ordered nor a single person coming to apologize.
Shit.
Annoyance flared within him. He slapped the armrest, stood up, and shuffled his cumbersome body toward the suite's door.
Just as his hand touched the doorknob, the door was violently pushed open. A security guard, drenched in blood, his chest carved open with a deep vertical gash, staggered against the door and tumbled in.
The bank manager, who had been irritable moments before, instantly sobered up. He bent down, covering the security guard's mouth to stifle his cries, dragged him inside, and then quietly closed the door without making a sound, locking it from within.
As an ordinary human, the bank manager pressed his ear to the door, listening intently. Hearing nothing, he looked down at the guard lying on the floor and asked in a gloomy whisper, "What's happening outside?"
This security guard, a Blood Slave, was still struggling to live, even with his guts spilled and blood pooling on the floor. Incredibly, the massive wound on his abdomen was even slowly healing.
The bank manager, of course, knew what kind of entities the Miller Family, the operators of this nightclub, were. In fact, in a few more years, when his good friend Felix Miller was promoted to Viscount of the Blood Clan, he too would gain the qualification for the "Embrace," to be transformed into a true member of the Blood Clan. He would then toil for the Miller Family in exchange for a chance at immortality—after all, even the Blood Clan needed "clean hands" to manage their wealth accumulation.
Sweat coated the Blood Slave guard's forehead. His face was a mask of contorted agony, and he desperately clutched his abdomen to prevent his insides from spilling out.
Upon hearing the manager's question, he said in a hoarse, low voice, "Outside, there's..."
THUD—
A Bonetip Spear, its osseous blade gleaming, punctured the thick, sturdy soundproof wall. Its momentum undiminished, it precisely impaled the guard's head. With a casual twist, it was yanked back, taking only the head, then gradually withdrew.
The scene resembled someone spearing a strawberry with a toothpick.
The bank manager's heart hammered as if it would explode. He immediately dropped to the floor, not crawling toward the bathroom, but toward the front corner of the room, his substantial frame cowering directly beneath the gaping hole left by the spear shaft.
As the spear was retracted from the room, the guard's head—still bearing an expression of terror—hit the wall and, with a soft thud, fell, by sheer chance, right into the manager's embrace.
Their eyes met. The manager felt as if his very soul was about to detach and fly away.
An eye peeked through the round hole in the wall left by the spear.
"Is no one else here?..."
Hearing a low, terrifying old woman's voice from outside, the manager quickly clamped his hand over his mouth, desperate to muffle the chattering of his teeth.
After a long while, he heard the TAP, TAP, TAP of footsteps fading into the distance. The unknown entity wielding the spear seemed to have left.
The manager removed his hand from his mouth, a cold dread seeping into him as he felt the dampness spreading through his trousers. He had wet himself.
Thankfully, I survived...
He let out a shaky breath, fighting the urge to fling the head away. Instead, he carefully, slowly placed it on the floor. Then, moving as if in slow motion, he began to crawl to the other side of the room.
His phone was there. If he could just reach it, he could grab it, hide in the bathroom, and call for help.
He crawled on all fours like a dog, abjectly making his way across the floor. He had only moved a few steps when his scalp prickled.
That feeling... of being watched.
The bank manager froze as if turned to ice. Slowly, painstakingly (he could even hear his neck creak as if rusted), he turned his head to look behind him.
On the wall nearest the corridor, an eye, peering through the hole the spear had made, was coldly observing him.
"There's another one."
The old woman's voice sounded again.
The bank manager collapsed, scrambling backward on all fours, an instinctive scream building in his throat.
CLANG—
The Triangular Bone Tipped Spear once again pierced the wall. Its bony spine extended a great distance, driving the spearhead directly into the manager's neck. It paused there for several seconds, as if granting the manager time to meticulously savor the experience.
SWOOSH!
As the spearhead snapped back, a torrent of blood erupted from the manager's neck.
His eyes bulged. His chubby fingers desperately clutched at his throat, but they were utterly useless against the crimson tide gushing from his body, splattering against the ceiling, painting a grotesque, scarlet fresco.
THUD.
His heavy body crumpled to the ground. He breathed no more.
————
Walking down the corridor, Li Ang casually twirled the spear, flicking droplets of crimson from its blade. He lightly rested the Triangular Bone Tipped Spear against a wall, then, with effortless grace, launched the spearhead through the paneling, reaping the lives of those within each room—souls long past the point of being considered human.
————
In the private room at the end of the corridor, the few remaining security guards, armed with rifles and shotguns, clustered protectively around Felix Miller, who stood at the far end of the room.
Felix, possessing the Bloodline of The Blood Clan, had hair that shone like the sun and handsome, effeminate features. His eyes were deep and a striking dark blue. However, an indelible air of rebelliousness and a dissipated, haggard look always lingered between his brows.
A few spoiled scions of wealthy mortal families stood trembling beside Felix. Some, having indulged too excessively in their recent revelries, weren't even fully dressed.
Felix didn't deign to spare these so-called "friends" a glance. His face was sullen as he softly called out the name of the bodyguard his father had assigned him, "Paul, what's happening outside?"
The man named Paul had a long, horse-like face and held two long, slender machetes with deep blood grooves. Hearing Felix's call, Paul, who was standing at the edge of the wall with his blade pressed against it, turned his head and shook it somberly. "Young Master, reinforcements are on the way. You should take the secret passage first."
"Mm," Felix acknowledged with a nod, wasting no words.
Although Paul was an elder who had watched him grow up, a Blood Slave was, in the end, just a Blood Slave. An unbridgeable chasm separated them from their masters; they were expendable commodities, to be discarded at will.
Escorted by his bodyguards, Felix entered the private room's bathroom. With a light flick of his finger beneath the mirror, he activated a mechanism, and a secret door slid open.
After the door opened, he had several bodyguards enter the passage first, then followed them in himself.
The longevity of the Blood Clan did not grant true immortality. Their extended lives hadn't made them indifferent to the mortal world; instead, they had become more fearful of death. This was why they needed secret doors and hidden escape routes, even in nightclubs and bars under their own control.
Paul watched until Felix's figure completely vanished. He shook his head slightly and refocused his attention on the wall.
His Blood Clan abilities allowed him to sense, even through the thick soundproof walls, the low thud of footsteps. Someone was sprinting down the distant corridor, accelerating as they rushed toward this very room!
Now!
Paul's body suddenly swelled. His already elongated face contorted into a hideous, ugly visage. His nostrils flared and curled inward, his ears elongated backward, and a layer of fine black fur sprouted on his skin.
In less than half a second, he transformed into a half-human, half-bat creature, standing over two meters tall. His muscular frame burst through his suit jacket. The two somewhat cumbersome, long machetes now felt light and nimble in his hands.
The monstrous creature gripped the hilts and thrust forward fiercely. The sharp tips of the machetes pierced the wall, positioning the slender blades to intercept the attacker. Driven by his immense strength, the blades tore through the wall, slashing horizontally forward, intent on severing the enemy's head!