Many protagonists are orphans.
Whoever decided that rule, I'll never know.
I wasn't.
I grew up in a loud, loving home — doting parents, two caring older sisters, and a pair of twin brothers. We fought, we laughed, we fought again — and despite the chaos we caused, or the wars we had against each other, we were as thick as theives.
Which made it all the worse when I woke up to find my little brother trying to kill me.
His eyes glowed a sickly yellow under the shadow of his hood, his sword glinting wetly in the silver light of the moon as he brought it down toward my throat.
Wasthekidgoingemo?!
"Yevon!" I screamed, instincts wrenching me sideways.
The blade crashed into my bed with a deafening crack, feathers and splinters exploding outward as the mattress split cleanly in two.
I hit the floor, the breath punched from my lungs, and scrambled backwards on my hands and knees.
Our eyes locked.
And I froze.
There was no warmth. Only a monstrous anger — a storm barely caged behind the face of my brother.
My mind reeled.
Wasthisanightmare? Ahallucination? WasthisevenYevonanymore?
Before I could move, he shimmered — his body blurring at the edges — and reappeared above me with a sickening twist of space.
I reacted without thinking.
Pain snapped through me as my body lurched upward, bones grinding and reshaping.
The room seemed to enlarge, the ceiling suddenly too close.
Wind tore at my skin.
I wasn't falling — I was flapping.
Wings - leathery things - beat clumsily at my sides.
Panic clawed up my throat.
"What the hell-" I croaked, but Yevon was already there, sword flashing like a falling star.
"Stay still, you illegitimatebastard," he snarled, his voice guttural, twisted.
I darted through the air wildly — around the crystal chandelier, ancient shelves, over large couches with silk and embroidered pillows, beneath fancy desks and tables — as he chased me, blade swinging.
"Leave me alone, you freak!" I squealed, voice cracking into something raw and half-feral.
Wherever his sword passed, destruction followed - splintered wood, torn stone, ripped tapestries. The room - unfamiliar and monstrous - had become a war zone.
Terror boiled over into anger.
"Enough!" I roared.
A pulse of blue light erupted from deep inside me, a scorching shockwave that tore through the air and lanced straight into Yevon's chest.
He froze.
For a terrible heartbeat, I thought he would scream. Collapse. Bleed.
But no blood spilled.
Instead, black tendrils writhed from the gaping wound, slithering like worms, pulsing with something rotten and wrong.
My mind halted.
Yevon. or whatever wore his skin now - stared at me, wide-eyed. Something clicked behind them.
And then, slowly, that same crooked, childish grin tugged at his lips — the one he always wore when he knew he ticked me off.
"Finally, " he rasped hoarsely. "Thank you. Olderbrother."
And then he collapsed into ash.
No scream. No final cry.
Just dust — and a black stain that festered across the floor, smoking and hissing like acid.
My wings gave out.
I dropped like a stone, desperate hands clawing at the empty air, at the disappearingpieces of him.
This is a dream.
It has to be a dream.
I slammed into the ground, pain spider-webbing up my spine. I barely felt it.
I dragged myself across the splintered floor, crawling toward the spreading blackness.
"Yevon," I gasped. "Yevon, Yevon-!"
The words shredded my throat, each one slicing deeper than the last.
The floor buckled and cracked under me, wood splintering like dry bones. I plunged through into darkness below.
The world spun, blurred, tearing itself apart like film caught in a dying projector.
Thisisadream, I thought frantically as the cold swallowed me whole.
It had to be a dream.
Because if it wasn't…
I had just killed my beloved little brother.
( ) ( ) ( ) ( ) ( )
Roars resonated in my ears like a cheering crowd in an arena.
"Congratulations to the true Young Master, CassiusMarcius, for succeeding the human Countdom and as new heir to our Blood Clan — Octovus!"
The cheers thundered through the cavernous hall, deafening as the crashing of waves against a cliff.
The ground beneath my feet was cracked and uneven, massive stone pillars jutting upward like broken teeth. Above, the ceiling stretched high — a dome carved with scenes of endless war, bodies twisting and tearing each other apart.
Below, hooded figures filled the space, unidentifiable by gender or form, their burning red eyes fixated on me.
I stood on a stage high above them, my arm raised in the air by an old man cloaked in blood-red robes, my body stiff and hollow.
There was no heartbeat pounding in my ears.
There was no rush of blood through my veins.
Just a slow, sick heat, slithering through me like a serpent — curling through my mind, pooling in my vision until all I saw was red.
Rage.
A deep, ancient rage I didn't understand, yet felt as if it had always been there, waiting for me to wake up.
The crowd bowed low, their robed forms buckling under the weight of their submission — peasants before a king.
I realized the truth in a single, cold breath:
I was a vampire.
Cassius Marcius Trojeor.
A monster.
The Count of Trojeor.
And the first hidden final villain in the story of RiseoftheSilverSwordEmperor.