Chapter 140: Bloodline Guild

Chapter 140: Bloodline GuildLower Manhattan – Two Hours After the Incident

The alley was sealed off in minutes.

Police lines buzzed with tension. Officers vomited behind dumpsters. The coroner refused to enter without backup. The scene was too clean and too brutal. Limbs torn, skull cracked, everything arranged like it wasn’t a crime of passion—but a message.

Boots echoed down the narrow path as several figures approached—black coats, silver trim, eyes sharp and unmoved by the gore.

Hunters.

At the front of them, Dera crouched near the torn torso of the male victim. His ribs were peeled apart like fruit skin, heart missing, face crushed. The girl... what was left of her, anyway, sat half-sunken into a trash pile, limbs removed, jaw gone, chest cavity hollow.

The other hunters didn’t speak. They waited.

Dera reached into her coat, pulled out a small glass vial, and waved it through the air.

The liquid inside turned black almost immediately.

"Ghoul," She said, standing up.

A murmur moved through the group.



"That explains the stench," one hunter muttered, covering his mouth.

Another stepped forward, eyes narrowing at the wall coated in arterial spray. "This much damage... it wasn’t new-born."

"No," Dera replied. "This one was refined. Stable. No berserker burst. Look—" She pointed to the entry point in the wall where claw marks formed a neat, straight-cut opening through brick and steel.

"Controlled strength," she added. "It knew exactly what it was doing."

"So we’re dealing with a created ghoul," another hunter said, grimacing. "Which means..."

"Which means," Dera cut in, voice flat, "we’re dealing with a vampire."

A silence stretched between them.

Ghouls didn’t just appear. They weren’t born. They were made. Twisted.

And only vampires could do that.

A rookie spoke up from the back. "Then shouldn’t we be knocking on doors in Harlem and Elmsdeep already? You know who lives there."

Another hunter glared. "Watch your tongue."

But Dera didn’t respond right away. She stared at the bloody handprint smeared on the wall. The fingers were long. Misshapen.

She finally turned.

"No. Not yet. If Lucifer Origin or Vladimir made a ghoul, they wouldn’t release it like this."

"Then someone else?"

"Could be rogue. Could be one of the turncoat houses. But it’s not them."

"How do you know?" the rookie pushed again.

Dera gave him a look. Calm, but hard enough to silence him.

"Lucifer doesn’t need ghouls. If he wanted to make a statement, he’d do it himself. And Vladimir—he has codes. Strict ones. There’s always control, always chains."

She nodded toward the girl’s remains.

"This isn’t control. This is exposure. Sloppy, loud, begging for attention."

One of the senior hunters crouched next to Dera. "You think it’s political?"

Dera frowned. "Maybe. But I don’t think it’s vampire politics."

She pulled a silver disk from her pocket and placed it against the blood-smeared wall. It clicked, scanned, and hummed. A moment later, holographic veins began to map across the wall—highlighting claw arcs, blood spray trajectory, and points of initial impact.

One of the hunters whistled low. "It attacked the man first. Quick kill. Then played with the girl."

Dera nodded. "Exactly."

"Which means..."

"It’s feeding off fear."

The rookie swallowed hard.

The senior hunter stood up, muttering, "Not just fear. Style. This was a performance."

Another voice crackled through a comm earpiece. "Dera, satellite footage just came in. We tracked movement from the alley all the way to Bowery Street. It’s fast. No vehicle. On foot."

"Humanoid?"

"Yes. But it didn’t register on thermal. No body heat. And the shadows around it... they didn’t move right."

Dera tapped her earpiece. "Send it to me."

Seconds later, a projection hovered in the air before them. Footage from a rooftop cam—a blurred figure darting across a rooftop, pausing only once to look back. Its glowing red sockets blinked for a moment. Then it vanished again.

Dera watched closely. She paused the clip.

Zoomed.

Enhanced.

There—just above the eye.

A mark.

No clan sigil. No house branding. Not even the circular rune of the Bloodline Council.

Just a swirl.

A spiral.

"...That’s not vampire work," he said under his breath.

"What?" the others leaned closer.

Dera turned around.

"We’ve got a deeper problem. This ghoul—this wasn’t created by a traditional bloodline. No markings, no feeding chains, no binding glyphs. This thing wasn’t made for control. It was made for war."

A new hunter spoke. "If not by a vampire... then what?"

Dera’s silence was answer enough.

The senior hunter sighed. "We’ll still have to report this to the Bloodline Guild."

There was a time when vampires ruled in secret—divided, scattered, hidden in castles, cities, catacombs, and dark forests. Each clan followed its own law, its own hunger. But the world changed. Humans evolved. And exposure became a real threat.

So, they came together.

Under one banner.

One name.

The Bloodline Guild.

An alliance of the strongest vampire clans in the world. Old ones. Purebloods. Elders who had watched empires rise and fall. They didn’t trust each other—but they feared extinction more. And that fear was enough.

The Guild was born in blood, sealed by oath, and protected by law.

Not human law.

Vampire law.

Each Clan kept its identity, but gave up part of its power to the Guild. In return, they got protection, access to forbidden archives, safehouses across every continent, and rights to feed in their own designated territories.

No rogue turning.



No mass slaughter.

No revealing the existence of their kind.

These were the Core Laws.

Break them, and you’d face The Enforcers.

Not many lived to tell how that felt.

The Guild wasn’t run by a single vampire. It was ruled by The Council of Thirteen—one seat for each founding clan. Purebloods only. No half-turns. No abominations. And certainly no outsiders.

Each council member wore a ring made from the fang of their first ancestor. It glowed when they lied. Burned when they broke oath. That was the price of power.

Some famous clans in the Guild:

House Sanguis — cold and calculating, masters of illusion and control.

The Dreadwing Brood — winged vampires with ancient beast blood.

The Thorns of Velaria — seductive and venomous, with blood that poisons.

The Morovian Lineage — battle-hardened nobles known for bloodforging weapons.

House Nocturn — the original shadow-walkers, assassins of silence.

And then there was the empty seat.

The 13th.

Kept open.

For the day the Progenitor returns.

The first vampire.

The one who vanished centuries ago.

Some say he’s dead. Others say he sleeps beneath the ocean, or in a moonlit tomb in Elmsdeep. But the Guild still keeps his name untouched.

Not everyone in the Guild respects him anymore.

But all of them fear what would happen if he ever returned.

Because he never swore the oath.

And if he comes back... their laws mean nothing.

That’s why the Guild watches the world from the shadows.

They track bloodlines. They regulate vampire activity across the globe. They hunt rogue turns, clean up messes, erase memories, and kill anyone—anyone—who threatens the Masquerade.

They do not answer to humans. Not to governments. Not even to gods.

Only to blood.

Only to the Council.

That is the Bloodline Guild.

And if a vampire breaks the rules?

It doesn’t matter where you hide.

The Guild will find you.

And when they do—

They don’t knock.

"Do it," Dera said. "But don’t point fingers yet. Especially not at Lucifer or Vladimir. If either of them turned someone into a ghoul, it would be on purpose, strategic, not like this. And I know Lucifer—he hates ghouls. Called them the ’mistake of magic.’ He wouldn’t risk exposure like this."

"Could someone be framing them?"

"Maybe. Or..." Dera looked up toward the towering buildings above. "Someone wants to drag the vampires into the light. Create panic. Make people think this was deliberate."

The rookie finally spoke again, more hesitant. "So what do we do?"

Dera didn’t answer immediately. He knelt, dipped his glove in the blood, and sniffed.

Then paused.

"Not just human," he said. "There’s something else mixed in. The blood was altered. Mutated."

"Magic?"

"No." He stood up. "Alchemy. Human-made."

That changed everything.

One of the hunters stepped back. "You’re saying a human made the ghoul?"

"Or used something they didn’t understand," Dera said.

The senior hunter muttered, "Then that means... a grimoire?"

"Possibly."

"And if they got their hands on something tied to the Progenitor..."

"Then we’re already too late."

The alley went quiet again.

Only the drip of blood from a dangling piece of meat echoed now.

Dera turned to the group.

"We clean this up fast. No exposure to media. Burn the footage after we log it into the central archive. I’ll report to Concord Tower myself."

"And the ghoul?"

"We track it. Immediately. If it’s loose, it’ll feed again. And next time, it won’t be two civilians."

He walked out of the alley, coat dragging slightly in the wind.

The hunters followed without a word.

Behind them, a cleanup crew moved in—covering the scene with sheets, gathering blood samples, vaporizing trace matter. But the stench lingered.

The smell of something old.



Something wrong.

And far, far from over.

Dera opened his communicator once more as he reached the street.

"This is Dera," he said calmly. "Initiate full city scan. Focus on etheric anomalies and residual alchemical activity. Tag anything with undead markers."

The voice on the other end responded quickly. "Understood. Beginning trace now."

He clicked it off.

Then looked up toward the sky, where the clouds were beginning to gather.

Somewhere out there, something had broken the balance.

And it wasn’t a vampire.

It was something worse.

Something that shouldn’t exist.

And it had just begun to feed.