Delaroth has spent all eternity shrouded in loneliness. What he seeks is his Fated One. Will the journey to find her be easy as it sounds? [Cover by Bathroom Singer]----------------------------------------Oh Yellow Rating for the swear words, I think.


4. Chapter Three


There were lights. Red, blue, green, yellow, white and violet lights flashed across the city. Delaroth stood at the peak of the TV tower and glanced at the city beneath him, searching for one person in a place, which had two million. His black cloak fluttered in the heavy wind and his hair danced. The stern expression on his face underrated the anxiety of his heart.

“Be careful, Delaroth,” Oracle worried. “Don’t go about growling, sneering or hissing at people.”

Delaroth smirked.

“What? You’re pissed that I can’t tell you who she is?”

“You are sending me to a Realm I despise and then you refuse to share any information on whom I am to seek. You make my work harder than it is.”

She snatched a bag from under the bed and handed it to him.

“It’s your clothes,” she informed. “It’ll make you look normal.”

He took it harshly and went to stand within the circle of sand, which Oracle had drawn.

“La domeniul uman!” she chanted as she pressed both her hands together. Spiral lights emerged from the circle and began to swallow him.

Delaroth braced himself for the giddiness, suffocation, headache- that Oracle had warned- awaited.

“Remember, Delaroth,” she whispered, “follow your heart. It will lead you to her. When you feel lost, close your eyes an-”

He never got to hear the end of it, he was transported to the Human Realm.

Recovering from the flashback, he frowned. A week had passed and he still had not found her. It was turning out to be frustrating.

He was a king who could keep the rebels suppressed, protect his kingdom and fight any kind of monster or species, but he could not find that one singled person he was destined to find. Adding to his misery, he was getting thirsty.

He needed to sink his fangs in and drink in the sweet nectar of a life. Would humans be a good substitute to Estorians, the willing donors and human-equivalent in his world? He sighed.

With a quick motion, he jumped down the tower, landing firmly on his feet; he went in search of a butcher. Preferably, someone, who had blood supply with him, would be an ideal choice.


For Albert Watson, it was an ordinary day. He worked hard, as usual, and worked honestly, a rare feat. His nephew had graduated high school and he was in the mood for celebration. He had just about a bit more booze than he normally did. His puffy cheeks were red in the parts, which were not hidden by his white beard. That contrast of red and white was quite a sight.

His speech came out slurred when he had asked one of his customers to repeat what she had said. However, even in his drunken state he still had a respectful demeanor. After all, his roots were from the nobility of Britain. That fact had never been proved, but he prided himself in it.

“Excuse me, sir,” a deep male voice caught his attention, “Are you the owner?”

Watson swirled around to catch a look of the owner of the voice. A well-built young man, no older than twenty-five, with golden hair and stern yet enchanting grey eyes stood before him. He had on a black cloak covering his entire body. The young man was taller than he was; Watson had to crane his head up to meet those cold eyes.

“Yeah,” he slurred, “Waddya want?”

The young man looked disturbed. Clearing his throat, he started, “Would you, perhaps, have animal blood on sale?”

Watson’s eyebrows knitted up in confusion. He had never met a man asking him from blood. The only time he had heard of it was when a man from India had proclaimed: ‘Give me blood, and I shall give you freedom.’

He looked anxious. Pity surged up his body and nodded. “Wait here ya fella, I’ll go get some blood,” he had told his customer before retreating to the refrigerator.  

Grabbing hold of a bottle of blood, he had meant to use it for making the sauce for pressed duck; but the businessman in him overcame the pleasure-seeker. Capitalism, ahoy!

“Here ya go, fella,” he enthused, handing over the bottle, “That’d be five of them green notes.”

The young man took the bottle and gave Watson the amount.

“It’d make great sauce for coq au vin and pressed duck, fella. Later!” he added as the young man turned to his own way.

 Grinning at the notes, he thought of buying more booze. A perfect day, indeed!

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