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Three years earlier…
The forest beyond Beacon Hills lay beneath a quiet, watchful moon. That night, even the wind seemed restrained, as though the world itself had chosen silence out of respect—or caution. The towering trees stood unmoving, their shadows stretching long across the clearing where two figures faced each other.
Arthur Corvinus stood at the center of that stillness.
He was younger then, but already carried something unnatural within him. His snow-white hair caught the moonlight with every subtle movement, while his crimson eyes—unrefined, raw—glowed faintly in the dark. There was power in him, but it hadn't yet settled. It lingered beneath the surface, restless.
Across from him stood the one who had brought that truth into the light.
The Guardian.
A man who seemed untouched by time itself. His posture was perfect, his presence calm, yet there was something ancient behind his gaze—something that spoke of centuries spent waiting.
Arthur folded his arms, exhaling slowly as he tried to process everything he had just been told.
"So let me get this straight…" he began, his voice carrying a mixture of disbelief and irritation.
The Guardian remained silent, allowing him to continue.
Arthur glanced away briefly, then back again, his thoughts racing. "I already knew my family line went back centuries… fifth century level old. That part I could accept. But now you're telling me that everything—our wealth, our assets—has been preserved this whole time?"
A single nod was the answer.
"Our duty was to wait."
Arthur let out a quiet laugh, though there was no humor in it.
"For thirteen years…" he muttered, almost to himself.
Then his gaze sharpened.
"And this 'Last Blood' thing?"
The Guardian's voice remained calm, unwavering.
"You are the final living descendant of the bloodline begun by Michael Corvinus."
(AN: maybe there are still alive, like what they thought they already extinct)
The words settled heavily in the air.
Arthur didn't respond immediately. Instead, he rubbed his face slowly, as if grounding himself in something real.
"…That still sounds insane," he admitted.
A thought crossed his mind, and he looked up again.
"So what about the other branches? The ones from my ancestors… they're still out there, aren't they?"
The Guardian didn't answer.
Arthur huffed quietly.
"Yeah. That's not reassuring."
Without another word, the Guardian reached into his coat and retrieved a small metal case. It looked ancient—its surface worn, its edges softened by time—but it had been preserved carefully, as though it carried something far too important to lose.
He handed it to Arthur.
"This is part of your inheritance."
Arthur blinked.
"…Part?"
Curiosity overtook hesitation as he opened it.
Inside lay documents—aged parchment bearing seals and markings from eras long past. Alongside them sat something entirely out of place: a modern keycard, sleek and unassuming.
Arthur picked up one of the documents, scanning it.
Then another.
His expression shifted slowly.
"…Wait."
He pointed at the contents, eyes narrowing.
"These are bank records."
The Guardian nodded.
Arthur looked up, incredulous.
"From when?"
"Some date back to the Roman Empire."
For a moment, Arthur said nothing.
Then he blinked.
Once.
Twice.
"…You're serious."
Silence answered him.
He let out a slow breath.
"So… let me summarize," he said, closing the case halfway. "My bloodline is ancient, apparently important enough to start wars… and on top of that, we're unbelievably rich."
"Yes."
Arthur closed the case, still smiling faintly.
"Alright. I'll take it."
But the Guardian spoke again.
"This is only a fraction of your total inheritance."
Arthur froze.
Then slowly turned back.
"…You're joking."
The Guardian remained silent.
Arthur stared at him for a long moment—then laughed.
A real laugh this time, filled with disbelief.
"Wow…"
Arthur waited. so i'm mini batman now, a young super rich guy of the town? but instead i became a dog not a bat. i should go outside with mask and call my self 'dogman'
"…You've got to be kidding me." hey bat if you're reading this, F*ck you! i'm richer than you, i have the world's wealth now.
Later that same night, deeper within the forest, a different gathering took place.
The Hale pack had set up a temporary camp, their presence subtle yet undeniable. Fires burned low, casting flickering shadows across the trees, while wolves moved quietly through the area—alert, disciplined, always aware.
They had lived like this for years.
Never settling.
Never staying long enough to be found.
At the center stood Talia Hale, speaking in a low voice with her son, Derek.
Arthur approached, his footsteps soft against the earth.
Talia looked up first.
"You spoke with the Guardian."
Arthur nodded.
"Yeah."
He scratched the back of his head, as though searching for the right way to begin.
"So… funny story."
Derek raised an eyebrow.
"That usually means trouble."
Arthur shook his head.
"No. Actually… the opposite."
He glanced around briefly, taking in the camp—the younger wolves, the constant motion, the quiet tension that never truly faded.
Then he looked back at Talia.
"I think it's time the pack stops wandering."
The words rippled through the camp like a stone dropped into still water.
Talia studied him.
"And why is that?"
Arthur lifted the keycard slightly.
"Because apparently my ancestors spent fifteen centuries building wealth."
Derek blinked.
"…What?"
"Long story," Arthur said quickly. "Point is—we don't have to keep running anymore."
He gestured outward.
"We've been hiding for years. Moving from place to place like we don't belong anywhere."
A pause.
"But Beacon Hills already feels like home."
Talia remained silent, listening.
"And the kids…" Arthur added, his voice softening as his gaze shifted toward the younger members of the pack. "They deserve more than this."
He looked back at her.
"They deserve a normal life. School. Friends. Something stable."
His tone grew more certain.
"I can make that happen. Land. Houses. A proper place for the pack."
"A headquarters. A home."
"For everyone… even the ones who don't have a pack."
"Omegas."
The word lingered.
Derek crossed his arms.
"You want us to settle down."
Arthur nodded.
"Not just survive."
Silence followed.
"You are asking us to change centuries of tradition," Talia said quietly.
"I know."
Arthur didn't hesitate.
"But the world is already changing."
He met her gaze directly.
"They know I exist. Hunters. Vampires. Others."
A beat.
"We can't hide forever."
Talia watched him carefully.
Then, slowly, a faint smile appeared.
"You speak like an Alpha."
Arthur grimaced.
"Please don't call me that."
Derek smirked.
"Too late."
After a moment—
Talia nodded.
"Very well."
Arthur blinked.
"…Wait."
"You're agreeing?"
"Yes."
"The Hale pack will settle in Beacon Hills."
Excitement spread almost instantly among the younger wolves, whispers turning into quiet celebration.
Arthur grinned.
"Well… that worked out."
Derek shook his head.
"You just convinced a centuries-old Alpha to change everything."
Arthur shrugged.
"Guess I'm persuasive."
Present Day — Beacon Hills High School
Three years later.
(AN: back to the present)
Morning light filled the halls of Beacon Hills High, bringing with it the usual chaos of student life—voices overlapping, lockers slamming, laughter echoing through crowded corridors.
Normal.
Or at least, it appeared that way.
Arthur Corvinus walked among them.
Calm. Composed. Controlled.
His snow-white hair stood out immediately, though his expression remained neutral enough to avoid drawing too much attention. His crimson eyes, once wild and unrestrained, were now quiet—carefully held back beneath years of discipline.
Beside him walked members of the Hale pack, blending into the student body as if they had always belonged.
Across the hallway, Stiles Stilinski stared openly.
"…Okay," he muttered, nudging Scott. "Scott."
Scott glanced up.
"What?"
Stiles pointed.
"New guy."
Scott followed his gaze, watching Arthur pass by.
He shrugged.
"He looks normal."
Stiles shook his head immediately.
"No. No he does not."
"Did you see his eyes? they're red AF!"
Scott rolled his eyes.
"words, stiles. and you say that about everyone."
Further down the hall, Jackson Whittemore frowned.
"Who's the albino?"
Beside him, Lydia Martin didn't answer right away.
Her eyes remained fixed on Arthur, her instincts quietly stirring.
"So handsome," she said softly.
Jackson scoffed.
"He's just another transfer student."
But Lydia knew better.
at the far end of the hallway, three pale figures entered.
Too still.
Too quiet.
Vampires.
Watching.
And somewhere within the building, hidden among the faculty, another presence observed everything carefully—an agent of the Covenant of Ash.
Arthur stopped for the briefest moment.
His senses flared.
Vampires.
Observers.
Enemies.
All under one roof.
He exhaled softly.
"…Great."
Opening his locker, he reached for his books as if nothing had changed.