“Fire,” the general whispered to himself, as he watched the roaring flames dancing over the burning town, “it really is the loveliest magic, isn't it?”.

Gray smoke and floating embers covered the dark skies, painting the evening with orange, red, and shadows. Crackling sounds of wood, stone, and people being slaughtered provided music for the general. He took his flask of wine, sipped, took a deep breath, then sighed. He hated killing people — unless it was by burning. Fire makes everything beautiful, he thought to himself.

A lieutenant approached the general, dragging a battered old man. “Sir. I found someone."

The old man trembled. “Spare me, my lord… please! I…”

The general studied the old man. The general sighed, and gestured for him to continue. "Speak."

The old man whispered. “At the bar. The townsfolks. They called him Aruviel. He came a week ago.” He hesitated, nursing his broken arm. “But I recognized him. From the War.”

Fear flickered in his eyes as he stared at burning town, but his words echoed hate more. "He was one of those filthy blood mages."

“Vlads. That’s what they are called.” The general laughed. “And no, I don't believe you. You’re lying to save yourself. Or him. Whoever he is.”

The old man whimpered in protest. “How can I lie right now? Please, I am telling you the truth! I saw him with my own eyes, as he stood against the angel!”

The general studied his nails. I need to have my nails trimmed when I get back to the kingdom, he thought. Then, he snapped his fingers. Flames from a burning house nearby rose to the air and formed a pulsating ball of fire. The lieutenant saw it, and instinctively took several steps back. The old man started screaming. “PLEASE SPARE ME!”

“Then stop wasting my time,” the general impatiently shouted. “What was his weapon? Was it red, silver, or gold?!”

“But I really did not— AHHH!” The old man shrieked. The ball of fire had elongated and transformed into a firesnake, which quickly slithered on ground, scorching the grass as it raced towards the old man. Before he could move, it coiled around his foot, and bit off his toe. The smell of burning flesh reminded the general of barbecued boar. He raised his hand; the snake snacked on a second toe.

“BLACK! HE WAS HOLDING SOMETHING HORRIBLY BLACK!” The old man cried out.

The lieutenant wanted to laugh, but stopped. The general’s face had suddenly become passive and emotionless — but the shock was obvious in his eyes. A lone perspiration formed on the side of his head, and slid down his cheek.

“You lie.” The general spoke, almost growling.

“It was black, I swear! Sir, I—“

The general flicked his hand, as if to dismiss the old man’s words. The fire snake quickly wrapped itself over the old man, then bursted into a blaze. The extreme heat melted the old man’s bones in an instant. It was a merciful death, and an efficient method to silence him.

Lieutenant. “Sir, what did he mean—“

The general angrily turned towards his subordinate. “Do you want me to execute you as well?” The lieutenant anxiously shook his head. The general stared at the glowing remains of the old man. “Then speak no more. And tell no one about this.”

“But… what will we tell the Aerch Angel?” The lieutenant asked. “How do we explain this incident? Angels can’t be killed by any normal means.”

“True. Even magic can only do so much.” The general sighed. “I really was hoping to get my hands on one of those divine weapons — the only other thing that can really hurt an angel.”

“The only other thing?”

The general smirked. “You really don’t know? One can only hurt an angel using a divine-class weapon… or blood magic.” He paused, as if in deep thought. “Come to think of it, even divine-class weapons are actually by-products of blood magic.”

“I don’t understand.” The lieutenant said.

“All magic,” the general cautiously explained, “is formed with a contract. Fire, water, earth, air — we are able to control them through a magic covenant. But blood magic is far more powerful. It allows a person not only to move and mold the element, but to transform it.”

“Like what you did when you created that fire snake?”

The general laughed. “Oh, that? That’s a simple trick, though only highly-skilled practitioners like me can achieve it. Yes, I imbued it with my own soul, concentrating its form to make it more lethal — but in the end, it’s nothing more than fire. It can only harm what is in the physical realm.” He stopped again, as if checking if someone was eavesdropping. “Blood… it is both the core and the aggregate of all elements. It is both created… and creator.” The general’s voice was filled with both awe and dread as he said those words, his tone wishful yet regretful.

The lieutenant was about to say something, but the general cut him off. “I know what you’re about to ask, 'Why not learn blood magic, then?' Fool! I would have, if I could. But it’s not that simple, nor easy. In order to learn and master blood magic, one must have a special blood affinity.” The general grimly gazed at the town. The afterglow has started to dim, and so did the distant screaming. “That is why the divine weapons are important — weapons soaked in or smithed with blood. Yet not just any blood, but with the blood of angels, even gods!”

“So the divine weapons were heaven’s gifts to us?” the lieutenant looked confused, “But if so, why would they give man something that could kill them?”

The general laughed so hard, clapping his lieutenant on the back. “It was because of the Nephilim.”

The lieutenant stared at his general. Are you mad?! “Sir, I may be your subordinate, but I am not a fool. Nephilims don’t exist.”

“Of course not… at least, not anymore.” The general whispered bitterly. “The angels… gave us weapons for us to help them kill their enemies… then after the Nephilim were wiped out, they forcibly took it all back. And now, we are nothing more than mere servants under heaven’s mercy.”

“I can’t recall if the Nephilim was an angelic tribe who chose to live on earth, or were exiled from heaven. But still, why would the angels want to kill their own kind?” the lieutenant asked. The general sighed. “You sure ask too many questions, and the dangerous ones at that.”

“I— I’m sorry, sir. Please forget what I said.”

“Good. Tell the men to start packing, we’re heading back to—“

The glow had been fading gradually for quite some time, but the sudden darkness sent chills to the general. It was as if something sucked all the flames, all the embers, from the town. The fire in his own blood quickened like goosebumps, warning him instinctively of grave threat.

“Run.” The general said quietly to his lieutenant.

“Sir?”

“I SAID RUN! TELL GENERAL CALIDERA: THE VLAD LIVES!”

“He? Who? What? How about our troops—”

The general kicked the lieutenant with all his might. His subordinate tumbled down the hill. He turned around quickly. A figure strolled calmly towards him from the smoking remains of the town. A person clad in smoke and embers. In his hand was a blade of obsidian with an aura of unholy red iridescence.

Not embers, the general thought, as shivers ran through his spine. Blood.

“So it was you.” The general said. “You were supposed to be dead.”

“I was. Maybe I still am.” The person spoke. “But now, you will be. As you should have been years ago.”

“I will not be afraid of you, you filthy vlad!” The general snarled. He stretched his arms wide, then crossed them together. His crimson bracers were specially crafted to ignite and create flames through friction. Without a pause, he launched his attack at Aruviel. Three massive fire snakes undulated and swirled into a vortex. Aruviel smirked.

“Fiat Sanguis: Let there be blood.”

The world turned scarlet — like fire, enveloping and staining the skies and earth and everything in between. Fire always filled the general with a mixture of awe, fear and respect. Within the red world, the general could only feel emptiness. And it was beautiful.

For the first time since the war ended, the general prayed.

“Amen.”

* * *

Reinforcements came the next day. As the soldiers scoured the town ruins for loot and survivors, the lieutenant hurried back to where he last saw his general.

He only found the general’s bracers: one was broken, the other warped but still wearable. A faint trace of blood was left on the straps. The lieutenant thought of those stories told at night when he was still a child. A monster, he bitterly thought. Vlads are monsters.

He wrapped the bracers in cloth and hid them on his horse. Nobody must find out what really happened last night, he reminded himself, as he fled away from everyone.

Glaudvein was a small town at the kingdom’s northwestern border, but it was a prosperous place. It was a merchant’s paradise, both legitimate and opportunists. From fresh produce to antiquities, from weaponry to junk items, from slave trade to mercenary work — everything came with the right price, just as everything came with their own respective risks. Trust intermingled with caution as oil mixed with water; it was not uncommon to see hostilities rise as a seller is accused of bad goods, or a customer blamed for damaging one’s wares.

It was in such conditions that new classes and guilds were created: the Appraisers, mages with psychic baseline affinity, were invaluable not just to check the authenticity of each item and payment, but also to serve as investigator, prosecutor and judge in case of conflicts; and the Adjudicators, retired mercenaries and deserters from the war whose warped sense of justice and a longing for violence turned them into de facto marshals and executioners of Glaudvein. Often, the Appraisers and the Adjudicators avoid each other; there had only been one instance when they did… and the resulting disagreement led to the Massacre of Breunt Alley.

“Hey, have you heard?” A drunk chubby soldier said, as he plopped on a chair. His companions, seated around the table, barely raised their eyebrows. They had been stationed as border patrol in this area for almost two years, and they were bored. The chubby soldier continued, “General Dracien died.”

“So what? He’s old. Maybe it’s just his time.” One of his drinking buddies retorted. “Hell, I’d be excited to hear that if it means we can get reassigned elsewhere.”

“Dude. We’re talking about General Dracien here. The legendary Seven-Headed Serpent from the Nephilim War.” Chubby gulped his mug of beer. “Word is, he got murdered. Big time. Like, his whole squad got wiped out.”

The soldiers around the table laughed. “Oh, man! You must be really drunk to believe that crap!”

“But everyone’s talking about it!” Chubby protested. “The general came to rescue Eldenburg from a monster, who had attacked the town…”

Suddenly, everyone was quiet. Not just their table, but everyone within earshot.

“Eldenburg? That hill of farms just a day’s ride from here?” Asked someone from the other table.

Hervius, the sergeant, gripped Chubby by his collar. “Where did you here this from?”

“Down at the town square. Just about an hour ago.”

The beerhouse was rumbling with murmurings now. Should we pack up and leave? whispered one patron. What if the monster comes here? said another. Don’t worry, we have the Adjudicators; they definitely can destroy an entire horde, another comment, scornful yet afraid.

Without a word, the squad stood up, left money of the table, and hurriedly marched towards the town’s entrance. Gone were the years’ worth of idleness and carefree lifestyle; as if conjured, their military spirits burned again.

Several other squads must have heard similar news, as Hervius observed the rest of their company gather towards the gate. I should’ve shaved this morning, he thought wistfully, as he scratched his chin absent-mindedly. It’s been a month since he stopped shaving, to impress a local girl. Sigh. I didn’t even get to—

*“*ASSEMBLE!” An adjutant shouted.

The Captain Commander’s face was still wet; whether it was from sweat or from hurriedly washing his face, Hervius couldn’t tell. Not that it mattered. The Captain Commander was a laidback, kind person; once, Hervius squad caught some illegal immigrants trying to sneak into the border, who they promptly presented to him. The Captain Commander studied them: two families of five and seven, three of which were elderlies.

He kept both families in his quarters as prisoners; but in reality, he employed them as caretakers of the headquarters to do the cleaning, cooking, and other menial tasks he can think of. After six months, he endorsed the families to the town mayor, who grudgingly allowed them to stay and live in Glaudvein.

A soldier escorted a disheveled merchant towards the Captain Commander.

“I heard the stories. Now, tell me the truth.” the Captain Commander spoke so softly yet so adamantly, even the soldier holding the merchant trembled.

The merchant looked around her, then stared at the Captain Commander’s eyes. She cleared her throat.

“I had barely left Eldenburg when I saw the general and his men ride towards the town. I lingered for a while, out of curiosity. Then, I saw the town burning.”

“Burning?”

“Yes. Smoke rose as soon as the general came. There was screaming. Awful screaming…” the merchant paused, shivering. “It was the general. He killed the people of Eldenburg.”

Angry murmurs came from the ranks. Someone spat towards the merchant.

The captain commander raised his hand, and immediately, the soldiers quieted down.

“Why would the general do such an evil thing?” he asked, though it didn’t surprise him. He had been guilty of far worse crimes during the war. But even the worst of deeds had their fair reason, no matter how illogical it may sound or seem.

The merchant hesitated. “Because… because I… an angel… was killed in Eldenburg.”

The soldiers murmured loudly among themselves, and it took more effort for the captain commander to hush them. “That cannot be possible. Only divine weapons can harm angels, and those had been returned, or confiscated, after the war.”

Except—

The captain commander’s eyes went wide. He was about to stop the merchant from speaking further, but he was too late.

“It was a vlad, ser!” The merchant cried out. And like a frightened child, she slumped down on her knees and trembled at the captain commander’s feet. “The vlad killed an angel to protect me!”

She raised her eyes to the kind commander, but her dead eyes never had a chance to meet his again, as her head fell to the ground. It was a clean strike, a merciful strike. The captain commander passively wiped her blood from his sword.

“Ser,” The soldier who escorted the merchant interrupted, “there’s something in her cart that you should see…”

The captain commander approached the cart. He nodded at the soldier, who carefully lifted the dirty sheet of sewn sackcloth covering her belongings.

The captain commander was disciplined enough not to betray his emotions. But this was one of those instances beyond what he was trained for.

“Fuck.” the captain commander whispered.

“Ser?” the soldier asked.

“Has anyone else seen this?” the captain commander anxiously asked. “Have you shown or told this to others?”

“O-only you, ser!”

The captain commander resisted the urge to pull his sword and decapitate another human being. The soldier saw the commander clenching his fist over the sword hilt. The captain commander sighed and wiped his face in dejection. “Fuckfuckfuck.”

After a couple of minutes, the captain commander turned to the soldier. “Put everyone on alert.”

“Ser?” The soldier reacted, both in confusion and relief. I thought I was going to die! he thought. I should go visit the brothel and have my first before I die—

“Have every soldier armed and ready. Warn the mayor. Send the word to the Adjudicators: a thousand pieces of gold halos to the one who slays our enemy. And have someone from the Appraisers Guild to come to me at once.”

“Aye, ser!” The soldier saluted, and was about to leave. “But… what do I tell them?”

The captain commander glared at the soldier.

“Red moon.”

The soldier nodded, and left.

The captain commander stared at the cart, unsure and afraid of what to do next.

On it, a humanoid creature slept peacefully and comfortably among the bags of wares and produce. He could see that it had four small, yet-undeveloped wings tucked behind its back. Fine hair like spiderwebs matted its small head. And all around it, a surreal iridescent aura that made his skin glow like molten metal.

It was a Nephilim, alright. Somewhat bigger than a human toddler, but the captain commander could tell it had only been days since it was born.

Was the angel trying to kill this Nephilim?

Why would the vlad protect a Nephilim?

He carefully wrapped the Nephilim in the sackcloth, making sure the glowing creature would not be noticeable. Satisfied, he went back to his horse and galloped back to his quarters.

His mind tried to regurgitate the faint memories of the war. He wanted to vomit, but even that had to wait. He needed answers; better yet, he needed to know what to do. Because he knew what was coming. What was going to happen.

Zendarvel hated the angels, but as captain commander, he had to respect and obey them. That night, he prayed that the angels won’t come — because then, this little town that taught him how to be human again would become nothing more than another field of blood.