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

Its helmet was now cracked—deep lines split through the dark steel like veins. Through those jagged breaks, pale skin peeked through, a sickly color that resembled a ghoul's corpse. Hollow-cheeked. Emaciated. The figure looked malnourished, just like the ghosts Corven had faced earlier.

But its eyes weren't dead.

They burned with a furious will and iron resolve, unlike anything those aimless spirits had shown.

"You're tougher than you look," Corven muttered, his tone halfway between admiration and disbelief.

But the dark knight countered immediately. "The same can be said of you."

SLASH.

In the blink of an eye, it surged forward—no wasted movement.

CLANG.

A tendril met the greatsword's edge, intercepting the blow and redirecting it just enough.

CLANG.

Then another tendril reinforced the first, stopping the follow-up strike.

Corven didn't remain idle while his tendrils acted. He moved with them—fluidly, instinctively.

[Sanguine Manipulation]

He poured power into his bone sword, coating it with blood that hardened and sharpened as it flowed. The edges gleamed a deeper red now, dangerous and alive.

CLANG.

He launched himself forward, matching the knight's intensity. With every blow, Corven weaved between offense and defense, his tendrils acting like extensions of his own limbs. Each parry was sharp. Each strike was brutal.

'Even with this upgrade, he still manages to keep up… No, he's stronger than Leywin by far.'

The thought echoed, bitter and urgent. He couldn't afford to stall here any longer.

A killing blow. That would end this.

'Now!'

He commanded his tendrils—two of the five lashed out with deadly precision, aiming to restrain the knight's arms.

The other three had a different objective: disarm. Strip away the greatsword.

And Corven? He would focus solely on ending this with brute, unrelenting strikes.

No mercy. No holding back.

GRAB.

The first two tendrils struck like vipers, coiling around the knight's arms with immense force.

"What—!?"

Corven didn't give him time to question.

SLASH.

He delivered a horizontal cut straight at the helmet, sparks flying as his blade scraped across exposed metal and already fractured plates. It didn't penetrate, but it deepened the cracks.

The other three tendrils closed in—wrapping around the hilt of the greatsword and wrenching it from the knight's grip. With a violent toss, they hurled it across the field, sending it clattering far out of reach.

"Die!" Corven shouted.

His voice echoed with finality. He repositioned his blade into a piercing stance, arm coiled with strength.

And then—just as he lunged for the killing blow, aiming straight for the knight's heart—

"Stop!" the knight barked out, voice raw.

Corven froze mid-thrust.

"You pass."

His eyes narrowed. The blade remained pressed forward. He didn't move, didn't breathe. Trusting words alone here would be suicide.

THRUST.

He completed the motion—

SWOOSH.

But struck nothing.

The knight vanished before his eyes. The tendrils held only empty space now.

"What!? Where—"

"Calm yourself. You have done enough."

The voice came from behind.

A hand rested lightly on Corven's shoulder.

Reflexes took over—he twisted his body around, sword already drawn, and pointed it at the source.

But what stood there was no longer the menacing knight from before.

The armor was the same, though cracked and battered now, but the helm was gone. In its place was a gaunt, pale face—sallow skin, disheveled hair, and lips set in a neutral line. His features were sharp, sunken, yet somehow regal.

Crimson eyes still glowed beneath his brow, but they no longer burned with rage. They were calm now, though no less intense.

Corven slowly exhaled, tension draining from his limbs. He lowered his sword, letting it fall from his fingers.

The clang of it hitting the shadowy floor echoed through the silence.

"Finally—!" Corven exclaimed, half from exhaustion, half from relief. From being chased by ghosts to getting nearly killed by a ghost knight—he'd had enough.

Still… something gnawed at him.

"Who are you?" he asked, voice quieter now.

The dark knight tilted his head slightly before answering. "Redwyn Rein Thorne. Founder of Urzen. Progenitor of the current baroness."

Corven blinked. "You don't look like it."

"Does it amuse you to mock the spirit of a long-dead man?"

The weight of those words hit harder than Corven expected. The light humor left his expression in an instant.

Redwyn sighed and shook his head. "Is this how people behave these days?"

He didn't wait for an answer.

"No matter. You fight like no mortal. Nor immortal. You fight like something in between."

"Thank you," Corven replied reflexively.

But Redwyn immediately shook his head again. "Do not take it as praise."

His tone was flat, but not cruel—just… resigned.

"Let us be done with this. My physical presence fades."

He extended a hand toward Corven. Resting in his palm was a vial—small, dark, yet glowing faintly with a deep crimson hue.

The blood inside shimmered unnaturally.

It was potent. Ancient. Vampiric.

Redwyn's own blood.

Corven reached out and took it. The moment his fingers wrapped around the vial—

The shadowy domain shattered like glass.

Light returned. He found himself standing in the chamber from before, exactly where he'd started.

Everything was as it was—the ornate crown still on its pedestal, the silent, looming presence still surrounding it.

Except now, in his hand, the glowing vial remained. Real. Tangible. Proof of what had just happened.

"Is this it?" Corven muttered.

But there were no other options. No more paths to follow. This was the end of the trial.

He slipped the vial into his coat pocket, then turned to leave.

Time to return to Aisha. To report the mission's success… and to ask her what in the hell he just walked into.

Because the entire time, from beginning to end, he had the lorebook active.

And it had only given him one thing.

[No sufficient information for lorebook to provide.]

Corven groaned.

"More questions than answers. This is starting to become the norm around here."

As he stepped into the corridor beyond, one last thought drifted into his mind.

The world never stops turning. Trials end, ghosts vanish, clans fall… and somewhere, a widow still waits for a promise to be kept.