There is a story, long buried in blood and dust, whispered only in forgotten tongues. A tale of protectors—men not blessed by nature but cursed to serve it.

Centuries ago, when the first vampires rose from the ashes of dark magic, the witches of the Eclipse Coven did what they did best. They sought balance.

Using the blood of doppelgängers, they wove a spell—twisting life itself, binding a chosen bloodline to an eternal purpose. A new breed of hunters was born, not with supernatural strength or speed, but with something far more dangerous: immunity. These men could not be compelled, could not be healed by vampire blood, could not be turned into the monsters they hunted. They were made to die as mortals, to stand on the front lines of an unending war.

They were called Vampire Slayers.

Their numbers dwindled over the centuries. War, disease, time—all enemies that did not plague the creatures they were created to destroy. Some were slaughtered by vampires before they could even lift a stake. Others perished as humans do—aging, sickening, fading into obscurity.

Now, barely a handful remain.

And among them, there is one who has already accepted his fate.

Xerxes Liang is born in the glow of a warm morning, his mother’s soft humming the first song he ever hears. His father, Ryan Liang, holds him close, whispering words of devotion, of love, of a future that seems too bright to ever burn out.

In those early years, life is golden. His mother, Adele Gilbert, twirls him around their living room, laughing as his tiny hands clutch at her fingers. His father lifts him onto strong shoulders, pointing out the constellations in the night sky. "A warrior's stars," Ryan tells him. "Guiding those who fight for what is right."

Xerxes does not understand what it means, not yet. But he believes in it. Believes in the love that wraps around their small family like a protective shield.

Until it cracks. Until it shatters.

His mother begins to leave the dinner table before dessert, her plate barely touched. There are late-night arguments, hushed voices behind locked doors. His father’s knuckles turn white around the stem of his wine glass. His mother starts wearing perfume heavier than before, the scent of roses clinging to her skin like a secret.

Then one day, she simply stops pretending.

She does not love Ryan Liang anymore. And worse—there is someone else. Someone eternal, someone who promises her forever in a way no human man ever could.

Xerxes is ten years old when she walks out of their lives.

He does not understand why his father will not fight for her, why he lets her go so easily. He does not understand why she does not take him with her.

He does not understand why love isn’t enough.

Ryan Liang does not cry. Not at first. He packs their bags, leaves Mystic Falls behind, and brings Xerxes back to his childhood home in Shanghai. A place filled with ghosts of its own.

At first, it is only the small things that change. His father forgets to comb his hair, forgets to shave. The fridge is stocked with bottles more than food. Then, the small things become bigger.

A slap across the face when Xerxes asks too many questions. A shove when he lingers in doorways. A bruise blooming on his wrist where fingers dig too tight.

The first time his father apologizes, Xerxes believes him. The second time, he forgives.

The third? The third time, he learns that love and forgiveness do not always go hand in hand.

By fourteen, he knows which nights to hide. By sixteen, he stops expecting an apology.

By eighteen, he stops caring.

He wears his bruises like invisible ink, never letting them show, never letting the world see the fractures underneath his ever-present smile. Because if there’s one thing he’s learned from his mother, it’s that people leave when things become too real. So he makes sure no one ever sees the truth.

By the time they return to Mystic Falls, Xerxes barely remembers the boy he used to be. The one who believed in happy endings, in love that lasted.

His body carries the legacy of his bloodline—the immunity, the resistance, the knowledge of how to kill a vampire with practiced precision. But what does it matter? He is not his father. He is not some hero in a grand war.

He is just a boy with a ticking clock.

Because the universe, in all its cruelty, has decided that a vampire’s fangs will not be the end of him.

Cancer will.

The doctors say he has less than a year. Less if he refuses treatment.

Xerxes does not even hesitate. He welcomes it. There is no fear. No sorrow. Just quiet acceptance. After all, he was never meant to live long.

But then—

Then, Klaus Mikaelson enters his life.

Klaus, with his sharp words and sharper eyes, sees through the cracks Xerxes thought he had hidden so well. Klaus, who is not fooled by the easy smiles, the jokes that never quite land. Klaus, who is the one thing Xerxes never planned for.

Because for the first time in Xerxes's life, he starts to want.

He wants more than borrowed time. He wants laughter that isn’t forced. He wants someone to look at him like he is more than a ghost waiting to fade.

He wants to live.

And that is the most dangerous thing of all.