For thousands of years, one lone scripture had dominated the underworld. There was an order, a hierarchy to the supernaturals. Most powerful were the witches and wizards, able to control their ability perfectly and exert dominance over all creation. Then there were the fairies, only just below due to their inability to hide their true selves. Below that still were elves, significantly weaker in power but at least human in appearance.
Werewolves were next, lacking control over their mystical abilities and unable to transform when desired. Harpies were even worse, their deformed state and harsh shrieking meant they had been banished to the mountains to live a half-life. Sirens were only just above mermaids, as their voices possessed at least some sort of power.
Next was the scum of the earth, the despised creatures. Their blood was impure, having been mixed with the humans and were seen as the slaves to the powerful. However, the lifespan of the zombie was but a mere speck in comparison to the witches and wizards, and besides the constant decay meant they were useless as servants. Banshees were seen as distasteful, barely unable to form sentences and were incompetent. Ghosts were bound to the place they had died, and so were useless.
As a result, it was the vampires that were the bottom. They were fit enough to do common tasks, yet weak and dependent on human blood. Most saw them as pathetic, trying to border the line between human and supernatural. At least the zombies, the banshees and ghosts shed all traces of humanity.
The scripture had stated that for each vampire, there was a partner. That partner would give the vampire godlike abilities, no longer requiring constant human blood. They would be able to stand proudly in the sun, and any attempted wounds would only be one thousandth of it’s strength. The raging process would completely stop and only a ghastly creature composed of all other creations would be able to stop it.
Few believed in such a thing, the most fervent denier being Serafina, leader of the council. It was her belief that no beings would ever be able to overpower sorcerers - but it was not arrogant of her to think so. With an average lifespan of eight hundred years, their abilities could control from the smallest ant up to the gargantuan titans. All was under their domain. Most especially their servants.
Dinner was being served at the council. Today was intended to be a day of celebration, based on the old traditions. The servants had been worked to the bone, denied their source of nourishment until the witches retired for the night. Amongst them, was a small creature. He’d been born as the forced marriage between two other vampires, for the entertainment of the witches. He was the runt of the litter, the undesirable.
He carried the serving plates up, trying to ignore the increasing burn of his tattoo imprinted in his shoulder. It signified his status as a slave, and was frequently used by the magicians to control all the servants. A mixture of ink and silver, they could push the metal further into his body. In the most extreme cases, it was separated by a layer of magic as thin as a particle, causing extreme pain but not quite death.
Gritting his teeth, he continued his ascent up the stairs.
“Look at this one!” He heard someone say, before a wave of laughter echoed down the stairs. When he pushed open the door, he was barely surprised at the scene in front of him.
The witches and wizards gathered around a figure writhing in the sunlight. The server barely recognised them as a friend of theirs, and guessed he must have made some sort of mistake. He was powerless against the hierarchy and could only seethe in anger quietly.
“It’s another one of those scum. Honestly Serafina, haven’t you thought of upgrading to automatons? Apparently, they’re much more efficient nowadays. You don’t even need to feed them, just maintain them every so often.” An unknown face asked.
“I thought of that once. But they’re not that fun to play with, look.”
All of a sudden, the boy was pushed into the sunlight. Instantly his skin peeled and sizzled in the air, and he was left clutching his throat as his body began to deteriorate. The pain overwhelmed him, and by now the sun had burnt through his ears. He was unable to hear the jeers around him, and scrambled towards the shadows to nurse his wounds.
The only area of his chest unburnt was the cursed tattoo of his. It had shone fiercely in the light, another testament of his miserable life. He swore that one day, he’d kill them all. For now though, he’d have to protect himself, just as the word Wonho carved into his chest showed.