Reborn as a Vampire in a Dying World: Blood, Power, and Pleasure

As he continued to run, his pace steady but growing strained, the numbers behind him increased with each passing second—dozens of specters now trailing in relentless pursuit. Their ghostly wails echoed in the stone corridor, like wind howling through broken windows.

"Where are they coming from!?" Corven shouted, frustration leaking through his voice as he slashed down another one standing in his path.

SLASH.

SLASH.

SLASH.

"It felt like I just took out an entire army already!" he grunted, eyes narrowing as he cut through yet another.

But despite all the effort, it felt like he wasn't making any progress. The scenery remained unchanged—stone walls, the flickering of illogical torchlight, and the endless line of enemies. Each step only seemed to weigh heavier than the last. His legs began to ache, not from fatigue, but from the oppressive sensation that something was forcing him to stay in place.

"This has to be a trick, right? No way in hell is a hallway this long!"

He glanced over his shoulder—and then he saw it.

Amidst the horde of spectral enemies, a new figure had appeared. It was different from the others. This one shone with a faint golden hue, its translucent form cloaked in ceremonial robes, a glowing crown atop its head.

A commanding presence. Regal. Wrong.

"That has to be it!"

[Gravewright Activated]

– Blood (45 Units)

He conjured a massive wall of bone in front of him and didn't hesitate. With a sharp pivot, he spun and slammed his foot into the wall.

BANG.

The entire structure launched backward with sheer force, kicking up dust as it rocketed toward the ghost army.

FWISH.

SWOOSH.

The bone wall tore through the specters like a plow through dry grass. Their fragile forms couldn't withstand the physical weight or the magical presence imbued into the bones. One by one, they shattered and disappeared into flickers of fading essence.

But the crowned one was different.

SWISH.

With a single fluid motion, it raised its sword and cleaved the bone wall in half. The pieces crumbled, splintering into ash that faded midair.

As the shattered remains of the wall scattered across the corridor, the crowned ghost stood alone. No other specters were forming now. The hallway was still, save for the faint flicker of torchlight on the walls. The air suddenly felt colder.

"I guess you're the boss fight?" Corven muttered, lifting his blade toward the golden phantom. "En garde, then."

CLANG.

In the blink of an eye, he dashed forward. The sheer speed of his movement created a vacuum, the air behind him splitting with a small shockwave. Stone beneath his feet cracked slightly under the force of the dash.

'He blocked that?'

Their weapons clashed. Sparks flew as steel met ethereal steel. Corven followed up with another precise slash—

SHING.

—but the crowned ghost glided past the blade and countered.

CHIK.

Corven flinched as a searing sting grazed his shoulder. His coat tore, and a shallow cut marked his skin.

'He managed to pierce my skin?'

He leapt backward, distancing himself just enough to reassess. The crowned ghost stood motionless, but its jaw moved ever so slightly. It looked like it was laughing, though no sound came.

"Damn," Corven muttered. "Guess even with a new evolution, I still get my ass handed to me."

He slammed his foot onto the stone floor.

CRACK.

Small chunks of rubble shot upward from the impact.

CHING. CHING. CHING.

He tapped each mid-air stone with precise movements, launching them like bullets toward the enemy.

But the ghost was skilled—dangerously so. It weaved through the incoming debris, slicing apart some and avoiding others with graceful, almost fluid movements. The crown on its head didn't so much as tremble.

Still, the projectiles were just a distraction.

Corven rode the last stone forward.

SLASH.

As the ghost's blade sliced through the final piece of rubble, Corven was already there, using the same trick he once used against his first vampiric opponent.

FWISH.

A lightning-fast thrust shot toward the crowned ghost's chest.

CLANG.

But the ghost managed to parry at the last second, its sword shifting just enough to deflect the killing blow.

Corven didn't let up.

[Bloodbolt x5]

Five crimson bolts formed instantly in his free hand, humming with violent arcane energy. He hurled them toward the crowned figure. It dodged three—but two found their mark.

SPLASH. SPLASH.

The ghost reeled back. The Bloodbolts struck its form, and their regeneration-disrupting effect kicked in immediately, distorting the ghost's presence. Its shape flickered.

Corven took a few quick breaths, adjusting his stance again. The sensation of a win grew close.

The apparition faltered, its structure unraveling. Within seconds, it collapsed into fine dust, vanishing into the air like a broken illusion.

"Difficult," Corven exhaled, rolling his shoulder with a wince. "But not too difficult. I could get used to this much power."

As he turned to look behind, he finally saw what he'd been running toward. The hallway now had an end—an actual visible exit. Despite feeling stationary during the fight, he had moved significantly forward.

The presence he had sensed earlier with Crimson Eyes was now far closer. It pulsed in the air like a heartbeat just beneath his skin.

"Was that another spell? But why didn't the Archivist detect it?"

He narrowed his eyes, then shook his head.

"No matter… must be a different kind."

FWOOSH.

He bolted forward again and reached a small chamber just beyond the corridor's end. The room was quiet, almost sacred in appearance. At its center stood a pedestal, and atop it, a golden crown. Light poured in through a narrow crack in the ceiling, illuminating the artifact.

Which made no sense.

"I'm like a few hundred feet underground," Corven muttered. "Even light can't travel through a crack that small."

The crown looked ceremonial—ornate, regal. Pure gold etched with ancient inscriptions. Its value alone could turn a nameless village into a thriving city. But something was off.

Through the Archivist's lens, the crown didn't look completely real. Its shape shimmered, phasing between visibility and nothingness, as if it was flickering between timelines.

"I'm guessing this is why I was sent here… but no way that's it, right? Aisha said something about the process being more complex."

Corven recalled her vague explanations. The integration with the Thorne bloodline wasn't straightforward, but she'd implied it would happen during this ordeal.

"Must mean that Heist, Heinrich, and Leywin all finished this trial too."

He wasn't just assuming. There were faint, dried bloodstains scattered across the room—unique in scent, and each matched the elder vampires he'd encountered before. The marks were subtle, etched into the stone like silent witnesses.

"Should I…?"

He hesitated. His grip tightened on his sword.

"I guess I'll regret it later."

All signs pointed to the crown being a test. If he was wrong, he'd probably become an international criminal. But everything—his instincts, his class abilities—told him this was the right move.

Without further thought, he raised his sword and swung at the crown.

Just before contact—

FLASH.

The crown vanished, and a blinding white light engulfed the room. Corven instinctively shielded his eyes.

When his vision returned, someone else stood before him.

A figure clad entirely in black, armored from head to toe. The plating was sleek but menacing, its design the kind that screamed final boss. It was like something out of a dark fantasy book.

"The reckless choice," the figure said. Its voice was metallic, raspy—just like the armor it wore. "Fortunately for you… it was the correct one."

Corven blinked. "Thank you?"

But before he could say more, the room fell apart. Faster than a blink, the entire space collapsed into darkness. There was no noise, no transition—just pure, soundless void.

He stepped back, glancing around.

"Three times. I've been stuck in a shadowy realm three times already," he grumbled, his patience worn thin. "I guess magic isn't really that creative."

"You have a sharp tongue," the voice spoke again—this time from behind him.

Corven spun.

"Jesus—!"

The figure stood there silently. He hadn't even sensed it appear. Not a sound. Not a trace of movement. The air itself didn't shift.

"Jesus?" the armored figure asked.

Corven shook his head. 'Oh right. That person doesn't exist here.' He was so immersed in this world, he'd momentarily forgotten the cultural differences.

The figure tilted its head slightly. "No matter."

It took a slow, deliberate step forward. "But aren't you… pretty weak?"

"Weak?" Corven repeated, narrowing his eyes.

"Yes. Weak," the figure confirmed, nodding slowly. "Compared to the past champions that were brought here. While they failed the test and brought the fake crown, they were far stronger than you."

Corven's expression soured. His Archivist was still active. That didn't add up.

"Really?"

The figure laughed—and suddenly, a massive greatsword plunged down from the darkness above.

It landed silently. No sound. No displacement of air. Just a still, impossibly heavy force.

"While I sense a powerful presence within you," the figure continued, reaching for the sword, "it is not entirely your own."

From behind the helmet, a crimson glow lit up. Two eyes, burning like coals, stared him down.

"But I shall test you all the same."

Corven gritted his teeth, stepping into stance. His instincts were screaming.

'So this was the real threat.'