[Location: Dungeon—Vampire King's Castle]

In no time, I was standing before a crowd of noble-looking vampires with a goblet of blood, straight from the earlier blood fountain, in my hand.

"Attention! My fellow Noblemen and Women," Vaelion Drakkaris announced, his voice carrying with effortless authority as he stepped forward, the goblet in his hand swirling with that luminous crimson nectar.

Dozens—no, scores—of noble vampires lifted their heads.

Conversations ceased.

Eyes—ruby, amethyst, gold, even obsidian—shifted all at once onto me.

Every gaze sharpened. Every smile stiffened. Every heart, cooled to room temperature, stopped.

"I present to you," Vaelion continued smoothly, "a Pureblood of a lineage unknown to our records. A guest…" he turned slightly, lips curving, "…whose blood-signature surpasses even that of some Elders."

A ripple of murmurs shot through the hall.

Not loud.

Not chaotic.

But sharp—whispers like scalpel blades laced with curiosity, offence, suspicion, hunger.

I held still, letting the fabricated noble aura from the outfit pulse steadily around me. The illusion of a vampire's cold arrogance settled on my posture like a mantle.

Don't blink. Don't fidget. Don't look mortal.

Paimon and Erebus stood a respectful two steps behind me, their presence towering enough to pass as elite thralls or personal retainers. A few nobles glanced at them with intrigue, but quickly returned their attention to me.

"Lord Drakkaris," a woman with braided silver hair said, her voice dripping honey—and poison. "A Pureblood? Yet not bearing a Crest?"

Vaelion smiled sharply. "Precisely. Intriguing, isn't it?"

"Oh, exceptionally," she murmured.

Another noble—a broad-shouldered man with a face carved like marble—tilted his chin.

"What House does he hail from? Drakkaris? Venviel? Arcelion? He carries a trace of none."

A different voice snorted with aristocratic disdain.

"Does it matter? A Pureblood is a Pureblood. His blood alone determines his place."

"And yet blood without a House…"

"…is a blade without a sheath."

"…or a beast without a leash."

Multiple voices layered over one another, circling the conclusion like predators testing a new scent.

Vaelion lifted one elegant finger.

"That," he said softly, "is precisely why he is fascinating."

He turned fully to me.

"Tell us, lord of the nameless lineage—what brings you to our banquet?"

A hundred noble eyes pinned me.

Shit.

The system wasn't giving prompts.

'Some help you are!'

If I slipped even once, I was dead.

If I hesitated even a second, they would sense it.

So I gave them the one thing arrogant nobles feared most—

A greater arrogance.

I raised the goblet, inspected the blood casually, and said:

"…I came because I was not invited."

Silence.

Even the candles flickered.

Vaelion's eyebrow arched.

A couple of nobles leaned back, startled.

Many narrowed their eyes… not in anger, but in interest.

"That," a white-haired gentleman muttered, "is the most Pureblood thing I have heard this century."

The braided silver-haired lady chuckled softly behind her fan.

"Oh, how delightfully improper."

Vaelion's lips twitched upward.

"Well said."

He stepped gracefully to my side, almost companionably.

"Then allow me to give you the welcome you deserve."

He raised his own goblet.

"To… the Pureblood without a name."

A soft chorus followed:

"To the Pureblood."

Hundreds of crystal goblets clinked.

I clinked mine lightly, swallowing none of the blood—Paimon would have killed them, whoever forces me if any tried, and Erebus would have taken it as a declaration of war.

And just then—

"My lord, is the blood not to your liking?"

A soft voice—gentle, lilting, dangerously curious—broke the air.

A young noblewoman stepped forward, her gown flowing like spilt midnight silk. Her pupils were shaped as thin slits—serpentine—and her lips curved in a polite but sharp smile.

I slid my gaze to her without turning my head, doing my best imitation of effortlessly superior boredom.

"…I prefer not to drink before introductions," I said flatly.

Her smile froze for a split second.

Good.

Nobles hate being the one who forgot etiquette.

Vaelion's hand lifted slightly—perhaps to warn her back—but the damage was done. Whispered snickers moved across the room, delighting in the rare chance to watch one of their own stumble.

The young noblewoman bowed stiffly.

"A-Ah… forgive my forwardness, my lord."

I did not respond.

Because Purebloods don't respond to mistakes beneath them.

She retreated, humiliated, head lowered.

Vaelion leaned slightly toward me—not touching, not close, but enough for only me to hear.

"You handle yourself well," he murmured. "Almost too well."

I gave him a disinterested glance.

"Observation is the lowest form of intelligence, Lord Drakkaris. I expected more."

A few nobles nearby gasped softly.

Vaelion's pupils widened—

—then gleamed.

"Oh… marvellous," he whispered, voice tinged with genuine enjoyment.

Before he could speak further—

Tti-ring!

A discreet system notification blinked in the corner of my vision.

[Warning: Multiple High-Rank Vampires attempting minor soul-read.]

[Passive Effects: Noble Camouflage + Bloodborne Intimidation neutralising detection.]

[Additional Note: Continue acting arrogant.]

But I had a different thought.

My Observation Grid perfectly rooted out who the ones were.

So—

BOOOM!

Bloodborne Intimidation, with a controlled amount of Conqueror's Will, erupted from my being.

BOOM!

The air didn't shake.

It buckled.

A silent, crushing ripple of dominance exploded from me—controlled, narrow, needle-precise. Not a roar. Not a blast. A pulse, sharpened like a guillotine edge.

Every vampire performing a soul-read—

—froze.

Eyes widened.

Smiles cracked.

Several dropped their goblets.

The entire hall's atmosphere tilted violently for a fraction of a second, as if gravity itself lowered its head.

And then—

Everyone felt it.

Which pushed the instinct—that something in front of them wasn't a mere Pureblood.

It was something they had no classification for.

Something their instincts screamed at them not to provoke.

Nobles with centuries of pride took an involuntary step back.

A few weaker ones clutched their throats, breath stuttering as the pressure slid down their spines as a blade dipped in ice water.

Someone choked.

Someone else knelt—by accident—quickly pretending they'd "dropped something."

But they all felt it.

A presence so cold, so heavy, so sovereign—

—It pushed at their bones.

Vaelion Drakkaris didn't move.

But his pupils thinned into sharp reptilian slits.

His aura tightened—like a coil bracing around a sword thrust.

"…That was not Pureblood pressure," he said softly.

Not accusing.

Not hostile.

Hungry.

Curious.

Almost reverent.

I turned my head just enough to let him see my eye.

Just one.

"…And yet you stand."

Vaelion's lips parted.

Then—slowly—he laughed.

A quiet, delighted, aristocratic laugh that sent a shiver across the entire hall.

"Magnificent."

The nobles glanced between us, panic and fascination mixing in their expressions, unsure what they'd just witnessed or how to interpret it.

But Vaelion…

Vaelion understood one thing:

Whatever I was—

—I outranked him.

He bowed.

Not deeply.

But shallowly—precisely the level a noble uses when greeting someone whose power they cannot measure, but cannot challenge.

"A display of dominance so refined," he said, voice smooth, "that even Elders would hesitate."

Whispers exploded again.

"E-Elder class…?"

"Impossible."

"No Elder would come here…"

"Is he a dormant bloodline?"

"A proto-ancestor…?"

Let them guess.

Let them drown in their own fear and imagination.

I lowered my goblet slightly, letting the crimson liquid catch the chandelier's glow.

"You. You. You, and you. Step forward."

My voice cut through the grand hall like a razor dipped in liquid nitrogen—silent, cold, and unforgiving.

Four nobles stiffened immediately.

Not because they "recognised authority."

But because something in their blood — in the very marrow of their bones—compelled them.

A command wrapped in a thread of Conqueror's Will does not request.

It arrests.

Four pairs of shoes clicked across marble.

A slender woman with star-shaped pupils.

A hulking noble with elegant scars across his jaw.

A youthful man with bright ruby eyes.

And the serpentine-eyed lady who had spoken earlier.

Correct.

All four had been the ones who attempted soul-read intrusion.

All four, now trembling under the weight they pretended not to feel.

The hall held its breath.

Not metaphorically.

They actually did. No one moved. No one blinked. No one even dared let their lungs stretch fully.

Vaelion's gaze flicked between me and the four unfortunate souls stepping forward.

Pure calculation.

Pure hunger.

Pure fascination.

I tilted my chin the slightest bit.

"Tell me," I said softly, "what made you think you were permitted to probe into my soul?"

Their eyes widened.

A ripple of horror moved through the crowd.

Vampires had hierarchies, rituals, ancient etiquette…

But a soul was sacred.

Untouchable.

Inviolable.

To accuse someone of attempting soul-read was to announce a crime punishable by—

Execution.

On the spot.

Even Elders would raise their heads at such a charge.

The four nobles dropped to their knees instantly.

Not gracefully.

Not elegantly.

But violently — as if gravity had seized their spines.

"M-My lord—"

"We meant no disrespect—"

"It was a—"

"A misunderstanding—"

Their voices overlapped clumsily, desperation breaking their refined masks.

I took a half-step forward.

Paimon and Erebus moved in perfect synchrony — a whisper of a shift, but it was enough to make every noble within ten meters flinch back.

I let silence stretch.

"…Misunderstanding?"

The four flinched again.

One of the men actually trembled so hard his goblet rolled from his hand and clattered on the floor — the sound echoing like a death knell.

Behind me, the blood fountain gurgled.

Some nobles swallowed.

Others lowered their heads.

Vaelion's lips curved — not in mockery — but in thrill.

He was enjoying this.

Thoroughly.

"I see," I murmured finally.

"Then allow me to clarify something — for future reference."

I let the aura sink.

Deeper.

Heavier.

Sharper.

An invisible pressure that whispered into their instinct:

Bow.

Submit.

Obey.

And then—

"Erebus."

Just that. Because that was enough.

His shadowy figure flashed from behind me to them. And coincidentally, they were kneeling side by side.

Erebus's spear hand pulled back to the limit, and then he swung.

THUD. THUD. THUD. THUD.

In just one swing

[You killed Three High-Ranked vampires.]

[You have earned 9000 experience points.]

[You have collected (9) Soul of Vampire.]

[You killed an Elder-Ranked Vampire.]

[You have earned 10000 experience points.]

[You have collected (10) Soul of Vampire.]

...

[Collected Souls of Vampires: 4999/10,000]

[Exp. Needed for the next level up: 17,501,900/17,600,000]

The hall didn't merely fall silent this time—

It collapsed into a suffocating, airless void.

Not a whisper.

Not a twitch.

Not even the pulse of mana through the blood fountains dared to ripple.

Four heads rolled across the marble.

Slowly.

Quietly.

One bumped into the base of a pillar with a soft tok, leaving a smear of crimson across white stone.

No one moved to clean it.

Not even the servants.

Especially not the servants.

Vampires who had perfected aristocratic stillness for centuries—

who could stand without blinking for hours—

now looked paralysed, like statues clinging to the last threads of their composure.

Because killing a Noble was one thing.

But killing a High-Rank Noble in front of an audience—

—and an Elder?

And doing it with such casual precision…

That was a message.

A terrifying one.

One far clearer than any explanation I could have given.

Vaelion Drakkaris slowly lifted his goblet—and downed the entire thing in a single, elegant swallow, eyes never leaving the carnage.

"…Exquisite," he breathed.

He meant it.

This wasn't horror.

This was admiration.

Almost devotion.

And the way every noble in the hall stiffened at the sound of his voice only made it worse.

They all understood now:

Vaelion approved.

That alone was enough to reshape the hierarchy of the entire gathering.

I turned slightly.

Just slightly.

Enough that the hem of my cloak stirred, brushing over one of the fallen nobles' fingers.

Hundreds of vampires flinched as if I'd stepped on a royal emblem.

"Three High-Ranks," Vaelion murmured, voice soaked in wonder, "and an Elder… dispatched with such efficiency."

He eyed Erebus, then me.

"But the command… that was yours."

Not a question.

Not a compliment.

An assessment.

I tilted my head a fraction.

"That was mercy."

A shudder rippled through the hall.

Someone dropped their goblet.

Someone else covered their mouth.

Even the arrogant braided silver-haired noblewoman—who had laughed earlier—was now ghost-pale, gripping her fan with trembling fingers.

Vaelion's pupils narrowed slightly, emotion shimmering behind them.

"Mercy…" he repeated softly. "You call this… mercy?"

I swirled the blood in my goblet.

"Had I wished to punish," I said calmly, "their Houses would have been erased as well."

Several nobles nearly collapsed.

One fainted.

Another quickly caught her before she hit the floor, pretending she "felt unwell" to preserve dignity.

But no one believed it.

Not with the scent of fear curdling the air.

A single breath passed.

One.

Just one.

And yet every noble in that grand hall felt as if they had aged a decade in fear.

Vaelion exhaled slowly, almost sensually, as if tasting the atmosphere I had carved into the room.

"Your… standards," he murmured, "are rather high, my lord."

I didn't answer.

Because I didn't need to.

Silence was the most aristocratic reply possible.

And among these creatures—silence from someone stronger could feel like a guillotine suspended by a thread.

Vaelion's lips curved faintly, delighted by my refusal to engage.

He liked that.

He enjoyed being denied.

He enjoyed being beneath.

The remaining nobles—those who had not fainted, collapsed, or frozen into decorative statues—slowly, carefully shifted into deeper bows. Not one dared straighten.

Good.

They were learning.

I lowered my gaze slightly, just enough to clip the very top of the hall with a cold, dismissive sweep.

"Is this the quality of nobility in this castle?" I asked quietly.

The simple sentence fell like an axe.

Several nobles stiffened violently.

A trembling voice dared to speak:

"M-My lord… those four acted out of turn. Their arrogance does not reflect—"

I didn't even look at the speaker.

I simply let my aura tighten—like a sardonic exhale.

The noble choked mid-sentence, knees buckling before he slammed onto the marble with a sharp crack.

A ripple of winces moved across the hall.

He struggled to lift his head.

Failed.

Collapsed again.

"…Forgive me…" he rasped.

I ignored him.

Because he was irrelevant.

Another noble—a tall, elegant woman with ruby-dipped lashes—took a single step forward, forcing her legs not to shake.

"Y-Your lordship," she said softly, "the Council of Elders will… will undoubtedly hear of this. It is unheard of for a Pureblood—unknown or otherwise—to execute nobles without formality. If we may… provide counsel—"

"Counsel?"

I repeated, tasting the word like something sour.

Her throat tightened.

Vaelion spoke before she could stammer further.

"Lady Ardenelle," he said smoothly, "I would caution you."

She flinched.

Vaelion's smile deepened.

"Our guest requires no counsel. He is clearly above such… limitations."

Vaelion's tone slid through the hall like velvet over a blade—gentle, refined, yet cruelly amused.

Lady Ardenelle paled.

But she pressed on—foolishly.

Or bravely.

Hard to tell with vampires.

"M-My lord, I did not mean to imply he is lesser—only that the Elders are… notoriously territorial about—"

"Territorial?" I murmured.

Her mouth snapped shut.

The torches dimmed. Or maybe it only looked that way, because every vampire's senses suddenly tunnelled into me.

A single thought flowed out of me—direct, precise, sharpened to a needlepoint and laced with the faintest trace of Conqueror's Will:

Kneel.

THUD.

Lady Ardenelle didn't just drop.

She folded—violently—onto her knees, palms splayed on the marble, head bowed so low her forehead touched stone. Her body trembled, not from pain… but from instinctive obedience.

No one dared to breathe.

No one dared to speak.

Her voice shook as she tried to recover the sliver of dignity she had left.

"…f-forgive my insolence, my lord…"

I didn't answer.

Silence stretched.

Long enough for nobles to question whether she should even be allowed to rise again.

Finally, Vaelion exhaled softly.

Not relief.

Appreciation.

"As I said," he murmured, "you require no counsel."

A few nobles dared a fearful glance at him, wondering if even he would kneel.

But he only smiled—serene, impeccable in posture, yet unmistakably deferential.

"In fact," Vaelion added, lifting his goblet again, "I suspect the Council of Elders will not hear of this incident."

A ripple of confusion passed through the hall.

One noble whispered too loudly:

"Are you mad? Someone will speak. Someone always speaks."

Vaelion's eyes slid toward him.

"Will they?"

His voice was soft.

Too soft.

The noble froze.

Vaelion continued, graceful as a serpent lounging on a throne of bones:

"You stand before a being who commands his retainers to behead High-Ranks… and they obey before the sentence finishes leaving his lips."

He gestured toward the four corpses.

"Do you truly believe any of you will dare speak of this without permission?"

Silence.

Thick.

Absolute.

Crushing.

Not even a heartbeat stirred.

Vaelion's smile sharpened.

"That is what it means," he said softly, "to witness a superior predator. You do not report his actions."

His voice dropped to a reverent whisper:

"You survive them."

A wave of shivers moved across the hall.

I tilted my goblet lazily.

"That depends," I said quietly. "They only survive if I allow it."

Another wave of terror rippled outward.

"Not us though~"

***

Stone me, I can take it!

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