His Brother's Everlasting Mark

Chapter 1. Blood Under the Oak

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“Kraack!”

“Rat-tat-tat!”

Two gunshots.

A malevolent owl roared, its rainbow, elastic wings spread in the darkness, and brown leaves cracked under its weight. Its formidable eyes scrutinized them.

A sharp groaning cry followed, blended with frantic, tremulous voices. Lycan staggered over the dead oak leaves, bracing himself to his feet, but the man fired another bullet through his chest.

“Who are you?”

Lycan sighed heavily, pivoted, and stiffened.

Seeing him here was such a wonder.

However, the ancient, weathered man stood rigid, jaws set high and tight, and hands firmly crossed on his chest.

“Ask what I am—not who I am!”

For the first time, Lycan felt the need to reply, but it got swallowed by a faint, wavering, vacant space he couldn't locate. The smell of decay, putrefaction...

Something worse.

Seeing his eyes glowing like flames in the darkness, he grew curious. “So, it's true...” his voice trembled. Lycan tottered back. “You are not human? Y–You are one of us?”

“One of you?” Draven sneered, puffing air tauntingly.

“You know, I've kept track of you for eighteen good years to know what you would become. But if this was your fate... It's so unfortunate!” Draven cackled, his voice velvety and ironical.

“Why, grandpa—?”

Draven's voice was suddenly cut short by a sharp, eagle-like glance that sent shivers down his spine.

Meanwhile, the old man brushed a bit of bark off his sleeved shirt casually and angled his hat to one edge with a tap on its crown.

“You are too weak to marry my granddaughter,” he began, eerily calm. “But you wouldn't know what I'm talking about until I tell you how weak your father was before I killed him. He was begging for mercy like a pathetic kid!”

“And now... here you are, rewriting your father's tragic tale—” he curled his lips playfully.

Lycan's eyes widened.

“You killed him? That night... Y–You are the man who killed my father?” Lycan stammered, reeling from the mud-smelling ground and leaning weakly on an oak tree.

“Careful, son. I know how it hurts,” Draven mocked, forcing his composure. “Filter your words, otherwise I will not endure you tonight!”

His voice struck like lightning.

“What do you want with me?” Lycan struggled, his expression flaring with anger. “You killed my father—do you want to do the same with me?”

“If you like your fate to be short, kid. I know you are scared she'll leave you as soon as I expose your dark vampire desire—”

The man wasn't frail anymore.

His body flourished like a winter flower, bones stood high, jaws tightened, veins roared with evil energy, and nostrils flared for the scent of his blood, while his claws curved tight for a snatch.

“Don't involve her!” Lycan bellowed.

“Woah! Woah! Look at how anguished you are at the mere mention of your little, charming damsel?” he clasped his hands on his chest to attain a fashionable, eligible pose.

“Now that she caught you red-handed, feeding—sucking her servant’s blood to satisfy your dark passion—do you think she'll ever want to see you?” he advanced, his expression startlingly dynamic.

“I didn't do it!” he bellowed, straightening on his blood-soaked feet. “You killed her and tried to frame me!” Draven protested, veins boiling with rage.

“Are you sure you didn't have a taste of her blood?” Draven asked, chuckling derisively.

“Careful, son. What if we shared her blood? When I inhaled her scent, she had two of your fangs deeply rooted.”

Upon hearing that, he struggled another step, lurching towards his fate. “Do I look like an idiot? I will not abide this tonight, either! Ever!”

“I know you are mad, son. Relax,” Draven forced a grin, growing impatient.

He added, “If you won't cooperate, there are many ways of killing a rat. Your little charming girl can taste how a bullet feels through her heart. Save her some mercy.”

At the mention of her, the fury inside him coalesced, seemingly poisoning one spot. “Keep her away from this, Draven!”

His eyes flamed with bitterness and his voice turned venomous, causing Draven to tilt his hat tighter, viewing him as a target.

“I knew you were watching us, but stay away from her! If you dare touch her, you'll regret it—”

The old man suddenly laughed derisively at him, pointing and shaking his head in a contemptuous manner. “Kill me? But you can't even save yourself. Like father, like son, I guess...”

He struggled to ball his knuckles for a fight, but he couldn't. The man had just fed on the girl and become immortal. After uncrossing his hands, he prowled closer, smirking.

He wanted to do it—leap like lightning and wreck that beautiful, arrogant grin with a single punch. If not, tearing his throat apart would at least ease his raging nerves, or his piercing fangs slicing through his neck...

Barely controlling his anger, he roared, “You are right about one thing—that you are stronger. But don't forget the prophecy. And now I know what exactly you are, I feel revolted!”

“Prophecy?” Draven jeered, laughing derisively at him. “What kind of prophecy, son? You can't even sustain three silver bullets, and now you're bragging about some arcane prophecy?” he couldn't stop cackling sarcastically.

His eyes lifted, burning.

“You might try to separate us, but you can't win! Now that she knows what I am, don't you think she might find my real darkness more to her taste than your feeble thoughts?”

“But I worry if your ill-fed body will lure her enough. You don't look good,” he warned, closing in further.

Lycan swallowed hard.

“Dot it! Do it!”

Rip off his throat. Wreck—spilt his skull. Lick—have a taste of his blood. Rupture his veins. His mind demanded, but moving a finger was a struggle. He was an empty shell compared to him.

“Kill him! Now!”

But he never obeyed, frightened, his breathes stiffening, thoughts scattered, vision blurred and muscles weaker than ever.

Especially with three silver bullets draining his powers, he couldn't even strike him without his bones getting cracked, or a few tones of his blood going through the devil's hungry throat.

In contrast, the old man's skin looked pulsing, virtually shining with the blood and life he'd taken.

“I never liked you, anyway,” Draven began. “I eagerly waited for this day to kill you. A century back, I knew you would die tonight!”

While he struggled to block his throbbing veins from leaking life out of him, he only saw a shimmer of motion, like a flicker of a flashlight. The old man was gone, gulped by darkness like a shadow.

He pivoted to the tall branches, trying to locate him, but he couldn't.

“Up here, son!” he suddenly called, waving his hand faintly in the darkness.

When he turned, he had flickered again, his speed breathtaking that he couldn't spot his shadow. Lycan gasped, turning his head reflexively with the whistling branches.

“Here, son!” he was now poised between a valley of branches, his feet spread in the air. Again, there was another whistle, and he vanished.

“You are so weak!” his voice suddenly came from his back.

At a gentle tap on his shoulder, he shut his eyes, geared his vampire speed with a reflexive spin—but not enough to capture his shadow.

Again, the shadow brushed around him like shadow, mocking his speed, leaving only his voice to infuriate him with wrath.

When he slowly turned, his eyes blurry, he found the man's lips stretched into a scornful grin, his eyes cut into a threatening slits.

The humor in his dark eyes suddenly got replaced by a wrath he hadn't seen before—dark, terrifying, and abyssal. With his lips stretching into a straight line, the man flashed again.

“Hold on, son!”

“Time to fly!”

He tried to resist his impact, but the man hoisted him into the sky, grabbing him like an eagle clutching a python before letting it fall.

He couldn't shift his powers.

“And now you die!” his voice echoed in the calm midnight air.

The man saved him from wrecking the ground—slamming him into a tree trunk. When his eyes opened, a stake had gone through his heart, leaving him pinned to the wood, crucified.

“I told you you would die tonight!” Draven roared, sliding smoothly along his hanging body. “Your fate is granted, son.”

Blood coursed down the back of the oak’s trunk, inscribing Lycan’s fate in bold letters. His vision dissolved into unsettling blurs, then the slits of his eyes sealed like curtains.

After chortling triumphantly, Draven murmured, shaking his head slightly, “That was an effortless fight, warrior. Rest easy, champion.”

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Chapter 2. The Bite That Ended Him

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A year ago, his mother didn’t just perish—she was brutally murdered by unknown storm. She wasn't innocent, however, her death was a mistake.

Not once had he recited her exquisite eulogy while she was alive; a brief note of valiant, heartfelt blend of words for a wonderfully dismissed soul.

“The woman in this casket was a champion...”

His throat constricted, striving to restrain his tears, the note quivering violently, yet he found himself merely fixating on the mute, thronged crowd, tears cascading down his quivering cheeks.

“She sacrificed her own life for the sake of many souls, frantically yearning for peace and love, but...” he finally faltered, his lips shivering.

“She was my only family...” his mind intoned.

That day, the sweet words he'd been familiar with never escaped his lips. Instead, they were overwhelmed by seething anger, disoriented emotions, and a violent rupture of chaos from