CHAPTER 180: STORM AT THE GATE

Aamir says, "Ha, well... it was a very good fight indeed."

He adds with a grin, "Well, Lord Zalmic, you sure are a strong ruler."

Zalmic lets out a deep chuckle, shaking his head. "Well, Lord Aamir, I’m not even close to your strength."

While these two laughed together like old friends who had just shared a grand spar, there were others who weren’t smiling.

The vampire lords—usually arrogant and unreadable—now stood frozen, eyes darting between the two warriors.

Clicy’s face darkened, her lips tightening. She leaned toward another lord and whispered, "Did you see that? He didn’t even break a sweat... and yet Lord Zalmic is—" she glanced toward him, still watching his chest rise and fall rapidly, "—panting like he’s been running for hours."

Her gaze slid back to Aamir, and a cold shiver ran down her spine.

"He’s a monster... and now I feel stupid for thinking my actions back then meant anything against him."

She gave a small, nervous laugh, but her fingers twitched as if holding back tension.

The other lords exchanged glances, some swallowing hard, others shifting uncomfortably. In their long, immortal lives, very few had ever made Zalmic breathe heavily in battle. But this... this man had done it with only a fraction of his power.

Even Zalmic, though smiling, could feel it—the difference.

Aamir’s blows still echoed in his bones, and he knew if that fight had gone on for real, without holding back, the outcome would have been terrifying.

The grand hall settled into a heavy silence, broken only by the faint sound of Zalmic’s breathing as he finally straightened his posture.

The torchlight flickered against the polished marble, throwing long shadows across the gathered council.

Lord Thane Marthius, the eldest among the vampire lords, narrowed his crimson eyes. His voice was low, but it carried to every corner of the chamber.

"If this is the strength of a human... then I dread to imagine what he will become in another decade."

A younger lord scoffed nervously. "He’s not just human. No mortal can do what we just witnessed."

Clicy’s eyes didn’t leave Aamir. She remembered the arrogance she’d carried months ago, the games she’d played to test him.

Now, in the wake of this duel, that memory felt like a child poking a sleeping dragon.

Her voice was softer this time. "He doesn’t even realize the fear he’s putting in this room... or maybe he does, and simply doesn’t care."

Aamir glanced toward them, catching the stares. His smile was easy, almost disarming, but it didn’t reach his eyes.

"I hope," he said calmly, "that today proves we are allies, not threats to one another."

But for some, the fight had already proven the opposite.

In hushed tones, a few lords began murmuring—about power shifts, about what would happen if this human ever turned against them.

In the vampire courts, admiration and fear often walked hand in hand... and fear had a way of breeding dangerous thoughts.

Zalmic raised a hand to silence them. "Enough. Lord Aamir is a guest of my court, and he is under my protection."

His tone was final, but Aamir could sense it—there was more than protection in Zalmic’s words. There was a warning, not to the lords... but perhaps to him.

Leter That Day...

The tension in the council chamber dissipated only after the formal meeting ended. One by one, the vampire lords swept out in silken robes, their whispers trailing behind like threads of shadow.

By the time Aamir stepped into the open night, the moon had climbed high, bathing the city of Vharath in silver light.

The streets below were alive — not with celebration, but with a feverish energy. Everywhere he looked, preparations had begun.

Massive crimson banners bearing the sigil of the twin fangs were being unfurled from balconies. Black-armored sentries patrolled every street, their pale eyes watching from beneath the visors. Merchants shouted over one another, offering weapons forged in silver-steel, exotic bloodwine, and enchanted armor tailored for the coming battles.

Zalmic joined him on the balcony, his gaze fixed on the central arena — a massive obsidian coliseum that dominated the skyline.

"In three nights, the Tournament of Blood and Fang begins," Zalmic said, his voice carrying both pride and gravity. "It is more than sport. It decides influence, territory... and sometimes, the fate of entire bloodlines."

Below, Aamir could see teams already arriving from across the vampire realms. Some came in sleek, black carriages pulled by nightbeasts; others arrived on foot, armored and ready for violence. The air thrummed with an almost primal anticipation.

Clicy appeared at his side, her expression unreadable.

"You should know," she murmured, "this tournament is not bound by rules you humans would call fair. Betrayal, sabotage, even assassination—are all part of the game. Victory is survival."

Aamir’s eyes narrowed as he watched a group of masked warriors march into the arena gates, their movements disciplined, their weapons glinting under torchlight.

"Then I suppose," he said quietly, "it’s the perfect place for me to test more than just my strength."

Zalmic’s fangs flashed in something between a grin and a challenge. "Good. Because whether you enter as a contender... or a pawn in someone else’s game... the Tournament will change you."

Zalmic’s grin faded into a thoughtful frown. "Tomorrow, the champions of the werewolf clans will arrive," he said, his voice dropping lower. "Their presence always shifts the balance. This year... I suspect it will tilt more violently than ever before."

Aamir raised an eyebrow. "Because of me?"

Zalmic didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he leaned on the balcony rail, his crimson eyes fixed on the moon. "Because the clans are restless. The old pacts between our kind are fraying, and the Tournament of Blood and Fang is where such cracks become chasms."

Clicy crossed her arms. "The werewolves see the tournament as more than competition. To them, it’s a chance to humiliate the vampires before the eyes of all the realms. Their champions will not only fight to win—they’ll fight to make a point."

From the streets below, the distant sound of war drums began to echo, though the werewolves hadn’t even arrived yet. The sound seemed to seep into the bones, primal and heavy.

Aamir exhaled slowly. "Then I guess tomorrow will be... interesting."

Zalmic glanced at him, a faint smirk tugging at his lips. "Interesting is one word for it. Just make sure you’re ready, Aamir. When the wolves arrive, the city itself will feel different. Every step they take will be a challenge... and every gaze, a threat."

Aamir’s gaze lingered on the city a moment longer before he stepped away from the balcony. "Well then, I’ll rest. Tomorrow sounds like a storm waiting to break."

Zalmic’s expression didn’t change, but there was something in his eyes—a flicker of memory, perhaps—like a man who had already seen storms turn into disasters. "Rest if you can," he said. "When the champions arrive, there will be no peace until the tournament ends."

The two men parted ways for the night.

The Next Day — The Arrival

By morning, Vharath was no longer the same city. The usual controlled elegance of the vampire capital had transformed into something wilder. The streets were thick with bodies—merchants, mercenaries, spectators from distant lands—all here to witness the clash of fangs and claws.

But the city was not merely preparing for a spectacle; it was bracing for an invasion.

From the eastern gate, the low, rolling thud of war drums grew louder. Sentries on the walls stiffened, their eyes narrowing. The sound didn’t just carry—it pressed into the bones, a slow, primal heartbeat.

Aamir stood alongside Zalmic, Clicy, and several high lords on the balcony of the Crimson Spire, the highest point in the capital. From here, the arrival could be seen clearly.

They came not in carriages, but on foot. A wall of muscle and fur, each champion standing nearly seven feet tall, their bodies corded with power. They wore little armor, trusting instead in the iron resilience of their hides.

At their head walked a figure who could have been carved from stone—tall, broad-shouldered, with hair as black as a midnight forest and eyes like molten amber. His presence was an unspoken challenge, each step deliberate, like he was already choosing his first kill.

"That," Zalmic murmured, "is Fenric Bloodfang. Alpha of the Eastern Tribes. Champion for the third time in a century."

Aamir’s lips quirked. "And the others?"

Clicy’s voice was lower, almost cautious. "Every one of them is a killer of renown. They don’t care for politics or ceremony. Their honor is measured in the number of opponents they’ve broken."

As the werewolf champions entered the city, the crowd parted. Vampires stood tall, refusing to look away, but the air grew taut. Every passing second felt like the space between lightning and thunder.

One of the werewolves—a scarred brute with a necklace of silvered fangs—locked eyes with Aamir from the street below. He didn’t smile, didn’t speak, but there was a promise in his gaze: I will meet you in the pit.

The First Encounter

Hours later, the formal welcome began in the arena’s outer hall. It was more a show of power than hospitality—both sides wanted the other to feel the weight of their presence.

The vampire lords stood in a half-circle, Zalmic at the center, while the werewolf champions filed in. The air was thick with the scent of fur, blood, and dominance.

Fenric Bloodfang stepped forward, his gaze sweeping the room until it fell on Aamir.

"So... we’ve got guests," Fenric said—not a question, but a verdict. His voice was so deep it seemed to vibrate through the stone.

Aamir met his gaze, unblinking. "And? Is that a problem?"

A sound came from Fenric’s chest—half a laugh, half a growl. "Not at all. Just means I know who dies first."

The lords behind Aamir tensed, but he only tilted his head in a faint, mocking smile. "Then start with someone you can actually beat."

The tension snapped taut, the kind that could turn into bloodshed with a single word.

Zalmic stepped in, his voice calm but sharp enough to cut through the moment. "Save it for the tournament. Here, you are my guests."

Fenric didn’t move for several heartbeats, his amber eyes still locked on Aamir. Then, slowly, he stepped back.

The other champions followed him, but their eyes stayed on the human who had dared to meet their alpha without fear.

When the hall emptied, Clicy exhaled, the stiffness leaving her shoulders. "You’re either the bravest or the most reckless man I’ve ever met."

Aamir shrugged. "Maybe both."

Zalmic, still watching the door where the werewolves had left, said quietly, "The real game has begun. From now until the end of the tournament, every step you take will be watched... and every weakness will be hunted."

Aamir glanced toward the arena visible through the archway—its obsidian walls gleaming under torchlight, a monument to centuries of bloodshed.

"Good," he said. "I didn’t come here for peace."