Chapter 09

Chapter 09

When Vampires Pray

The stone beneath the altar cracked before dawn.

Not wide enough for the eye to notice at first—just a hairline fracture running through centuries-old marble—but Sampson felt it like a blade across his chest. The chest beneath the altar was no longer stable.

It was agitated.

Sampson knelt alone in the dark sanctuary, candles burning with feeble lights as if the air itself resisted flame. His rosary trembled against his skin, hot enough now to sting.

“For centuries I have obeyed,” he whispered. “For centuries I have endured. What more do You want from me?”

God did not answer.

But the beast did.

Reclaim what is yours.

Sampson rose shakily and descended into the vault.

The seals he had reinforced with prayer and ritual flickered weakly, their power thinning like old scars torn open. The chest pulsed violently, iron groaning as though something inside was drawn toward him.

He placed both hands on it.

Instantly, visions flooded him.

Thrones carved from bone.
Cities kneeling in blood.
The crowned bat emblem burning into the night sky.

And himself—no rosary, no restraint—standing at the center of it all.

Sampson screamed and tore his hands away.

“No,” he said hoarsely. “Not like this.”

Above ground, Detective Naa burst into the church, gun drawn.

“Father!” she shouted. “You need to see this.”

Screens across the city—phones, billboards, hacked broadcasts—flickered to life simultaneously. Mr. K’s face appeared, calm and regal, his voice carrying unnatural authority.

“Citizens of the night,” the vampire king said. “Your protector hides behind faith while you bleed. Tonight, we remind him who truly rules.”

Chaos followed.

Gangs moved with military precision. Cultists flooded the streets. Police lines collapsed as fear spread faster than sirens.

Sampson stood at the altar, city screams echoing through stained glass.

Naa looked at him. “If you’re ever going to stop pretending… it’s now.”

Sampson removed the rosary—but did not let it fall. He wrapped it around his wrist instead.

“God,” he said quietly, “if You are still watching… judge me later.”

The Night Confessor rose again.

This time, he did not hunt in alleys. He walked openly through the streets, shadow bending around him, fear parting crowds like water. He tore through lieutenants and shattered blood rites mid-chant.

Yet everywhere he struck, resistance tightened.

This was not chaos.

It was a well-planned war.

At the city’s highest tower, Sampson felt it—the pull stronger than ever.

His heart.

Mr. K stood waiting at the edge of the rooftop, coat fluttering in the wind.

“You’re learning,” the vampire king said. “Even God needs generals.”

They clashed—fist against fang, shadow against shadow. The impact shattered glass and bent steel. They were evenly matched, each strike echoing centuries of violence and restraint.

Mr. K leaned close, voice low. “You pray like a servant. I pray like a ruler.”

Sampson drove him back—but could not finish him.

Sirens wailed below. Dawn threatened the horizon.

Mr. K stepped back, smiling.

“This city was a test,” he said. “Next time, I come for your church.”

He dissolved into mist.

Sampson stood alone as the sun rose, blood steaming on his hands.

Back at St. Michael’s, the altar stone split fully open.

The chest beneath it lay exposed.

And for the first time since the bell rang thrice…

Sampson Dotse feared not damnation—

—but temptation.