"Everyone, attention on me."
The cold voice of Professor Lance echoed through the marble-walled lecture hall. The students, chattering moments before, froze instantly. The air thickened with tension as his boots clicked across the floor, carrying him toward the blackboard. With precise movement, he plucked a piece of chalk from the tray and scrawled in clean, angular letters:
Vampiric Origins.
"We'll begin today's lesson with our roots," he said, voice sharp, controlled. "Our foundation. The beginning of the vampire race."
He turned around, his eyes as cold as obsidian, scanning the crowd of students who sat rigid at their desks. "But before I start... I want to know if any of you are even aware of your own history."
Silence.
The students glanced at each other—some uncertain, others disinterested. Then, a hand hesitantly rose.
"Yes, Lina Fontaine," Professor Lance acknowledged.
Lina stood up slowly, fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve as she spoke. "The vampire origins trace back about 3,000 years... to the day of the Great Plague."
A few students nodded absently.
Professor Lance raised a brow. "Is that all, Miss Lina?"
Her lips parted, but no words came. She sat down quietly, lowering her gaze to the desk in front of her.
A whisper slithered through the rows.
"Heh, as expected of a half-blood. How could she possibly know our true history?" Latisha sneered, casting a sideways glance at the quiet boy beside her.
Angel didn't respond. He stared forward, unblinking, the quiet insult washing over him like a passing breeze.
The professor snapped his fingers—this time with a sharp bang that reverberated through the hall, drawing startled gasps.
"Thank you for your attempt, Miss Lina." He looked back at the class, voice louder now. "Anyone else? A more precise answer, perhaps?"
Angel turned to Latisha and muttered, "Why don't you give it a try?"
"What?! Why me?!" she hissed, flustered.
Lance's sharp gaze fell on them. "You, Angel. As someone born of noble blood, I expect something more substantial than Miss Lina's surface-level knowledge."
Without hesitation, Angel stood. His sudden movement startled some of the others—his composure, almost regal in nature, radiated calm authority.
"The Great Plague was the cause of the vampires," Angel began.
Lance's expression darkened. "Miss Lina already stated that. Is that all you have?"
Angel remained unmoved. "I'm not finished."
A pause. "Then continue."
The room seemed to hold its breath as Angel's tone shifted, deeper, firmer.
"If a plague caused the birth of vampires, the real question is: what—or who—caused the plague?"
Murmurs rippled across the room.
Angel's mind flashed with memories—cloaked evenings in the library, candlelit conversations, and Malachi's whispered truths beneath a sky veiled in blood-red moonlight.
"It was no accident. The plague was created. By a man born of greed and ambition."
He looked up, voice unwavering. "It was the prince of the Moriarty Kingdom himself."
The professor blinked. His posture stiffened. "So Lord Malachi has taught you that far..." he murmured under his breath, a strange smile curling his lips. "You may sit down, Angel."
The smile didn't go unnoticed. Whispers broke out again.
"The professor... smiled?" someone said in disbelief.
Latisha blinked in confusion. "But... that's not written in any of the official texts..."
"How the hell does he know something like that?" Noah Veilwright muttered, brows furrowed, voice tinged with irritation.
Lance snapped his fingers once more. A deafening crack burst through the air, a sound that didn't just silence—it froze.
"One more outburst," he said coldly, "and it'll be expulsion. I won't repeat myself."
He paused, letting the silence settle again before he spoke.
"As Angel correctly stated, the Great Plague originated from an act of royal folly. The ambitious prince of the Moriarty Kingdom, seeking to conquer death, sought a forbidden power. What he created instead was a biological curse."
Latisha's eyes widened. "Wait... Moriarty? That means—"
"Yes." Lance turned. "Cain Moriarty. The late Blood Lord. The first of our kind. The progenitor of our faction."
Gasps followed. Even students from other factions looked on with newfound attention.
"Before the other two vampire lords ever rose, there was Cain. A man obsessed with the idea of eternity."
He returned to the board and wrote another word beneath the previous:
Crimson Virus.
"The plague wasn't a natural illness. Our researchers later classified it as a symbiotic bio-agent—not a disease, but a companion. One that offered immense power in exchange for a single cost: sustenance. Blood."
He turned back to them. "This is why we were named vampires—creatures of blood. But I will not go further into the biology of it. That is a matter for your next instructor."
Lance placed the chalk down. "Now... before I continue, who here can explain the difference between a half-blood and a noble blood?"
Latisha stood without hesitation, brushing her golden curls behind her shoulder. "Isn't it obvious? We, the noble bloods, are superior in every way. Strength. Ability. Intelligence."
Snickers followed.
"Seriously, this is the problem with you purebloods," someone muttered from behind Angel. "I don't even understand why our factions don't just exterminate yours."
Angel glanced back, curious. "And you are?"
"Moira Volkov. Second daughter of the Volkov clan, Hunter faction."
She extended a hand, and he shook it.
"Angel Hughes," he replied simply.
Lance interrupted their brief exchange with a sharp look. "Miss Latisha, when you said we, who were you referring to?"
Latisha blinked, caught off guard. "E-eh? But Professor, aren't you also a noble blood?"
He laughed once—humorless and dry. "No. I am not."
A chill swept the room.
"Though yes, purebloods hold certain advantages. But tell me, Miss Latisha, how would you explain my ability to kill purebloods during my years as one of the Shadow Hound Captains?"
Latisha's mouth opened, but no sound came out.
Lance returned to the board and wrote again, the final two terms underlining the day's lesson:
Purebloods and Half-Bloods: Origins.