Chapter Text
The shotgun trembled slightly in Sunoo’s hands, its barrel aimed at the wooden target ahead—splintered and peppered with buckshot scars from previous trainees. The air around him was sharp with cold and the faint metallic scent of gunpowder. Sweat clung to the back of his neck despite the early morning chill, and he blinked rapidly, trying to keep his focus.
His finger hovered near the trigger.
Focus. Breathe. Exhale. Shoot.
“Again, Sunoo,” barked the instructor, his voice cutting across the range like a whip. “You're not breathing with your shot. You’re hesitating.”
Sunoo swallowed, his jaw tightening.
He’d missed.
Again.
The tall grass beyond the board was shifting from the impact—he’d hit the edge, just barely grazing the outer circle. It wasn’t enough. Not for him. Not for the respected Kim’s family descendants.
Behind him, some of the other trainees whispered quietly, their voices like thorns pricking at his pride. Most of them were older. Stronger. They didn’t come from a bloodline with centuries of history. They weren’t carrying the weight of a legacy forged in vampire blood.
But Sunoo was.
The Kims were a name known in hushed reverence—an old bloodline of elite hunters gifted with something not everyone had: vampiric sensitivity . It ran in their blood like a curse, or a gift, depending on who you asked. A psychic edge. An instinct that flared when a vampire was near. Not perfect. Not always reliable. But powerful enough that the elders considered it sacred.
Sunoo had always felt it—faint, under the surface, like a ripple in still water whenever a vampire passed through the town's history books. His father said it would grow stronger with time, sharpen with pain and experience. But all he felt now was pressure. The expectation to be perfect.
Because he wasn’t just anyone . He was a hunter in training, yes—but more than that, he was his father’s son.
“Keep your stance firm,” his father used to say during their weekend practices back home, out in the woods behind their house. “Don’t let the weapon control you. You control the weapon. Vampires don’t give second chances.”
But in the safety of the camp’s range, Sunoo was still trying to earn his first.
He squared his feet again, adjusting his grip. The shotgun was heavy. Not just in weight, but in purpose. Every shot he fired was supposed to bring him closer to what his family expected him to be—a protector, a warrior, someone who would never flinch in the face of blood or death.
And yet here he was, flinching.
He remembered his father’s hands guiding his younger self. “ There’s more to vampires than fangs and their blood hunger, ” he had said once, voice low as they polished weapons together. “ They're clever. They remember faces. They charm. They mimic. They survive. That’s why we must be sharper. Smarter. ”
That was the kind of hunter Sunoo was supposed to become. Cold. Efficient. A legacy weapon passed down through generations.
But it was hard to feel like a weapon when the steel in your hands trembled slightly with each breath.
The training camp sprawled across the hills just outside of town, surrounded by forest on all sides. It wasn’t luxurious—just rows of cabins, a weapons bunker, and a handful of instructors hardened by experience. This place wasn’t about comfort. It was about survival. It was the kind of place people only came to if they were meant to kill things that couldn’t die easily.
And yet, the town itself had been peaceful for years. Too peaceful.
No new attacks. No confirmed sightings. No blood-drained bodies in alleyways or stories of silver-eyed strangers in the night.
The other trainees sometimes joked that they were being prepared for a war that ended decades ago. But Sunoo’s parents didn’t believe that peace would last. Especially his father.
“You don’t train for now ,” his dad had told him, voice low and firm as he packed Sunoo’s gear for camp. “You train for what will come.”
So Sunoo had come here. Missing school. Missing normal teenage things. Missing birthdays and weekends and the warmth of home. All to prepare for a threat that hadn’t shown itself in years. All to not disappoint the ghosts of his bloodline.
“Ready?” the instructor called again.
Sunoo didn’t respond with words. He narrowed his eyes at the target and inhaled slowly, shoulders rising and falling with careful rhythm. He aligned his sight. This time, he didn’t let the nervous thoughts distract him. He didn’t think about what his father would say, or the whispers of the others, or the echo of missed shots.
He exhaled.
Pulled the trigger.
The blast tore through the still air, deafening and final.
Smoke curled from the barrel.
When the dust settled, he finally looked.
The buckshot had landed—not perfectly, but this time it struck the inner circle. A marked improvement.
Someone behind him let out a soft whistle. Another muttered, “Took him long enough.”
But the instructor only nodded. “Better. Again.”
And so Sunoo reloaded, fingers moving faster now, more certain. His heart still beat a little too fast, and his arms still felt sore from the weight of expectations—but the shot had landed. That was enough for today.
He wasn’t a full-fledged hunter yet.
But he was on his way.
And somewhere, far beyond the hills, in the shadows of a world he hadn’t touched yet— something was waiting .
Something that would change everything he thought he knew about the cold ones.
–
The training session had ended just before sunset. The sky, once clear and pale, was now soaked in warm strokes of pink and deep amber. The air cooled quickly in the hills surrounding the hunter’s camp, and by the time Sunoo stepped into the shower, the mountain chill had already begun to settle into his skin.
He let the warm water run down his back, scrubbing the gunpowder residue from his hands, his face, the back of his neck. His muscles ached—thighs sore from stance drills, arms heavy from the weight of the shotgun. He’d improved, sure, but every shot felt like dragging the sun out of his body. He leaned his head against the tiled wall, letting the heat seep into his bones.
Fifteen minutes later, towel-dried and dressed in soft clothes that didn’t smell like sweat or gun oil, Sunoo made his way back down the dirt path to the main house.
Unlike the utilitarian barracks where the other trainees stayed, the Kim family home was built like a fortress disguised as a farmhouse—wooden walls reinforced with cold steel, runes etched into every doorway, and a silver-embedded threshold. It sat just a few paces from the training camp, positioned strategically so that his father could supervise everything with a glance.
Inside, the smell of warm rice, grilled meat, and spiced broth greeted him like a memory. The dining table was already set, the yellow overhead light casting a soft glow across the space.
“Evening,” his mother said gently as he entered. She wore an apron over her clothes, her dark hair pulled into a low braid. Her smile was weary but proud, the kind that tried to make up for the life their family was bound to.
Sunoo gave a short nod, not quite smiling back.
He slid into his usual seat without a word, grabbing a plate and spooning rice onto it. His younger cousin, a bright-eyed girl who hadn’t yet been inducted into training, sat at the far end of the table, swinging her legs and sneaking bites before grace was said.
His father entered last, as always. Broad-shouldered and silent, still dressed in his work clothes from the day—boots with traces of dirt, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his presence alone commanding attention. He sat across from Sunoo, eyes scanning the table, then landing on his son.
“Well?” he asked.
Sunoo didn’t look up. “Fine.”
“Did you hit your marks?”
“I said it was fine .”
There was a silence. His mother paused, looking between them.
“You look tired,” she offered softly, trying to smooth the edges. “Eat more. You’ll feel better.”
But Sunoo barely responded. His chopsticks moved listlessly across his plate, and his shoulders felt stiff and cold despite the warm food.
“I just don’t get why I have to do all this,” he muttered suddenly, almost to himself—but loud enough that the entire table went still.
His father looked up. “What?”
“The shooting. The training. The tracking drills.” Sunoo looked directly at him now, his voice rising, frustration bubbling out in sharp corners. “It’s not like the vampires are coming back. This town hasn’t seen anything in years. The gates are protected, there’s no sign of a breach. So what’s the point?”
His cousin stopped chewing. His mother set her spoon down.
His father didn’t speak immediately. He let the silence sit—long, cold, deliberate—before leaning back in his chair with a deep exhale. That sigh alone told Sunoo what was coming.
“Have I told you,” his father began slowly, voice low and even, “about the year they did come?”
“Yes,” Sunoo said flatly.
“I’ll tell you again.”
Sunoo rolled his eyes and looked down at his plate, jaw clenched. He didn’t want to hear it again. The same story. The same fear disguised as duty. But his father’s voice cut through the air anyway.
“It was twenty years ago. During the Spring Festival. The whole town was out—lights strung across the streets, music playing, the carnival rides in full swing. People danced in the square. Laughed. Ate candy from the booths.”
He paused, looking far past the dinner table, eyes distant.
“And then, around dusk… the screaming started.”
His mother closed her eyes for a moment, quietly reliving it too.
“It was chaos,” his father continued. “People dropping where they stood. Blood on their throats. Some were dragged away so fast, it was like they vanished. No one knew what was happening. Not until I saw their eyes. Red. Glowing. Starved. They tore through the fair like wolves in a pen full of sheep.”
Sunoo’s grip on his chopsticks tightened slightly.
“I ran home,” his father went on, voice colder now. “Grabbed what I could—silver blades, stakes, the flint launcher. I remember opening the front door and seeing my neighbor’s son dead on the porch. Just lying there. His mouth open like he’d been trying to scream. But he couldn’t. His throat was already gone.”
The table was deathly quiet now.
“There were only five of us in the town who knew how to fight vampires. Just five. The rest of them—we had to hide them in the town hall, board up the windows, hold them there while we fought through the night. If we hadn’t, that town wouldn’t exist anymore. None of us would.”
He looked at Sunoo then—hard, unwavering.
“That’s why you learn to shoot. That’s why you train , Sunoo. Because when it happens again—and it will —I need to know that you won’t hesitate.”
Sunoo stared at his plate, lips drawn in a tight line. He heard every word. Every terrifying detail. And yet, a bitter thought still burned in his chest.
“That was twenty years ago,” he said under his breath. “They’re gone.”
“Do you know that?” his father challenged, leaning forward now. “Do you know what’s hiding beyond the woods? Behind the borders? What blood is waiting in silence?”
Sunoo said nothing. He just chewed slowly, swallowing anger along with his rice. The room didn’t breathe.
When he finally finished his plate, he stood quietly.
“I’m done.”
His mother reached for his arm, concerned, but he stepped away.
And with that, he retreated to the back hall and climbed the stairs to the loft where his bunk was tucked beneath a slanted ceiling. The wooden walls creaked with age, whispering the voices of a home built on old blood.
He collapsed onto the mattress and reached under his pillow, pulling out the thick, worn book he'd been reading for weeks now. Its leather cover was cracked, and the pages smelled of dust and candle wax. The title etched in faded ink: Vampyra: Nature, Weakness, and Evolution.
He flipped to a bookmarked page.
"A vampire’s hunger is never truly sated. It sleeps, yes—but only for a time. And when it wakes, it remembers where it last fed."
He read that line twice.
And despite everything—his anger, his exhaustion—Sunoo felt a cold ripple in the back of his mind.
His family legacy wasn't just blood and pride.
It was preparation.
It was a warning.
Even peace had teeth, if you waited long enough.
–
The sun rose pale and reluctant over the hills, casting long shadows through the trees that surrounded the hunter training camp. Mist still clung low to the forest floor, curling like ghostly fingers around the base of the cabins and training grounds. Birds chirped somewhere high above, but their songs were muffled—like the camp itself was holding its breath.
Sunoo tugged the zipper of his jacket up to his chin and shoved his hands into his pockets as he walked the gravel path toward the mess cabin. His boots crunched the frost-bitten leaves beneath him, and his muscles ached from yesterday’s drills. Sleep had come slowly, broken up by strange dreams and too many thoughts clawing at his brain like claws scratching against a closed door.
He didn’t notice Jake waiting by the camp gate until a rock landed near his boot.
“Hey, princess,” Jake grinned, his voice warm in the cool air. “The world’s ending and you’re walking like it’s Sunday brunch.”
Sunoo blinked, startled out of his thoughts, then rolled his eyes with a tired smile. “It’s too early for you to be this loud.”
Jake straightened from where he’d been leaning against the wooden post, brushing back the stray strands of blonde hair that always fell into his eyes. He was wearing his usual half-zipped uniform jacket, sleeves rolled to the elbows, and boots still a bit muddy from yesterday’s survival training.
“Come on,” he said, falling into step beside Sunoo. “Schedule for today?”
Sunoo exhaled through his nose. “Weapon maintenance, blood tracking drills, and then sparring in the pit after lunch.”
Jake winced. “That pit’s hell. Especially with In-gyu running today’s matchups.”
“Yeah,” Sunoo muttered. “He loves breaking noses.”
They walked together past the barracks and the target range where fresh boards had already been set up. A few trainees were dragging their feet to the mess hall while others jogged past them with a little too much energy. Sunoo rubbed the back of his neck absently. His body was awake, but his mind still felt like it was trying to crawl back under his blanket.
“Oh,” Jake said suddenly, nudging Sunoo’s shoulder. “Congrats, by the way.”
Sunoo looked at him, puzzled.
“You didn’t check?”
“Check what?”
Jake smirked. “Evaluation results came out this morning. You’re in the top five. Again.”
Sunoo blinked, stopping mid-step. “Wait. What?”
Jake pulled out a folded printout from his jacket pocket and waved it at him. “Look. Right there. Kim Sunoo. Ranked fourth overall. One of the instructors posted it outside the admin cabin.”
Sunoo stared at the list as Jake opened it.
There it was.
#4 - Kim Sunoo
Right below someone named Seungmin, and above two others he vaguely recognized. Jake’s name was further down—not by much, but enough to earn some smugness.
“Huh,” Sunoo muttered. “Didn’t think I’d make it.”
Jake raised an eyebrow. “You hit your mark yesterday, didn’t you?”
“Barely.”
“But you did. You’re just too used to being perfect.”
Sunoo didn’t respond right away. He kept walking, folding his arms tightly over his chest. For a moment, the cool air felt heavier. He could still hear his dad’s voice from last night echoing in his mind, the blood-soaked memory of the Spring Festival, and the image of the neighbor’s son dead on the porch.
“Last night,” he said after a long pause, “my dad told me the story again.”
Jake glanced over.
“About the attack?”
“Yeah. The festival. The fair. All of it.” Sunoo kicked a stray rock off the path. “I’ve heard it before, but this time it felt… different. I don’t know. He talked like it could happen any day again. Like it’s inevitable.”
“It is,” Jake replied simply.
Sunoo looked over at him. “How can you be so sure?”
Jake shrugged. “Because evil doesn’t vanish. It sleeps. It waits. That’s what all the elders say, right?”
Sunoo sighed, loud and exasperated. “That’s just it, though. There are a hundred towns out there. Hundreds of cities, villages, abandoned places. If vampires really are coming back, why would they come here? What is it about this stupid town that makes it such a perfect buffet?”
He was rambling now, hands gesturing as if they could shape his frustration into something solid. “I mean—we have the gates, the runes, the guards. The barriers are blessed monthly. The church rings the old bells. No one even talks about vampires anymore. So why are we still training like we’re on the brink of war?”
Jake was quiet for a beat, watching him carefully.
“Because,” he said slowly, “when the war does come back… I’d rather be the one holding the blade than the one hiding behind a table.”
Sunoo’s mouth pressed into a thin line.
Jake continued, his tone gentler now. “I know it sucks. Missing everything. Growing up like this. But we’re not doing this because we’re cursed. We’re doing this because no one else can.”
Sunoo looked away, jaw clenched. “Feels like a curse.”
“Maybe it is,” Jake admitted. “But at least we can turn it into something useful.”
They reached the edge of the training grounds, where instructors were setting up for the first session. Other students filtered in, weapons slung over shoulders and chatter echoing faintly through the trees.
Jake gave him a nudge. “Come on. Fourth place. You should be proud.”
Sunoo let out a breath. “Not until I beat you.”
Jake grinned. “You wish.”
They stood there for a moment, side by side, as the early morning fog lifted just slightly, revealing the clear sky above. Somewhere in the distance, the faint cry of a bird pierced the quiet—high, strange, and not entirely familiar.
Sunoo glanced toward the forest.
Something in his chest shifted.
A faint ripple. A tug.
Like something brushing the edge of his consciousness.
But it faded just as quickly.
He blinked. Shook it off.
Just the wind.
“Let’s go,” he said, pushing the thought away. “We’ve got vampires to kill.”
Jake laughed. “That’s the spirit.”
And together, they stepped onto the training field—two sons of the old blood, readying themselves for monsters they hoped would never come.