Title: The Vampire King of Britannia

A loud crash shattered the silence—

The blackened, blood-stained blade wedged into the iron door's seam, splintering the ancient locking mechanism with sheer brute force.

Creaaaaak…

The rusted door groaned, hinges shrieking in protest as it swung open.

Ivins, pressed against the cold stone wall of his holding cell, finally saw the figure standing in the doorway.

A towering man loomed there, so tall he had to duck slightly to step inside. He was draped in a long, black coat, a dark cloak cascading over his broad shoulders, his face obscured beneath the brim of a wide-brimmed hat. His very presence radiated an ominous pressure, an unnatural weight pressing down on the air itself.

He did not move.

Elsewhere—

Lorien remained inside his carriage, eyes closed, his breathing steady.

Yet, despite his body being miles away, his consciousness had found a new vessel.

Through the bloodline connection, a fragment of his mind had merged with this newly resurrected body.

He could feel it. The violent rage, the primal hunger, the overwhelming thirst for vengeance that surged through the veins of the creature now standing before Ivins.

And he let it run free.

The resurrected Jack Arnold stood still for a moment, then exhaled a slow breath as the dark, seething force inside him settled.

"A vampire?"

The words came softly, yet carried the weight of realization. His pupils flickered with brief hesitation, but the doubt was fleeting.

No matter what had happened, one thing was certain—

He had returned from death.

And standing before him was the man responsible for his murder.

"W-Who… who are you?!"

Ivins' entire body convulsed, his limbs trembling uncontrollably as he scrambled backward, pressing himself flat against the wall. His hands flailed wildly, trying to keep the thing at bay.

Jack Arnold stepped forward.

Each movement was slow, deliberate, inevitable.

The dim light flickered against the razor-sharp blade clutched in his right hand, a wicked grin reflecting in its edge.

"You're afraid?"

His voice was different. Lower. Rougher.

Jack tilted his head, as though amused by the reaction.

"Good."

"You should be afraid."

Another step forward.

Ivins' breath hitched.

Jack's fingers curled tighter around the blade. His inhumanly golden irises glowed dimly, cutting through the darkness like a predator eyeing its prey.

"After all…" he whispered, his voice drenched in eerie calm, "it was you who pressed the knife to my throat.

You who stole my life."

With one swift motion, he reached up and tore off his hat, revealing his monstrous new visage.

Ivins' blood ran cold.

The face before him was inhuman.

Skin pale as a corpse, stretched tight over sharp, angular bones.

Sunken cheeks.

Lifeless, depthless eyes—staring into him, through him, into his soul.

A face he knew.

A face that should have been dead.

"A…Arnold?!"

The name fell from Ivins' lips in pure horror. His eyes widened beyond reason, bulging as he struggled to breathe.

This wasn't possible.

The man he had killed now stood before him, his very existence defying all logic.

This wasn't just a ghost.

This was something worse.

Much, much worse.

"B-But you—!"

"Died?" Jack smiled.

Another step forward.

"I did."

The darkness at his feet coiled and slithered like living ink, shifting with each step.

"Exactly as you wished."

His voice dropped, a low murmur laced with something otherworldly.

"And now…"

"I have returned."

Ivins' mind shattered.

The sheer impossibility of what stood before him broke him.

Terror seeped into his bones, his thoughts collapsing inward like a crumbling building.

"No. No. No."

The realization settled in.

There was no escape.

No trial.

No prison sentence.

No judge.

No executioner.

Just Jack.

Jack, the thing that should not exist.

The thing that had come back for him.

"Please..." Ivins' voice cracked, his eyes rolling back in their sockets. "Please, I beg you… if nothing else—"

"Kill me quickly."

He wasn't foolish enough to beg for mercy.

Not now.

Not anymore.

Jack answered without words.

SMASH.

A brutal impact—Jack's hand wrapped around Ivins' skull, lifting him clean off the ground before slamming him into the stone wall.

CRACK.

Ivins' skull fractured, crimson oozing from the impact site, trailing down his ashen cheeks like rivers of blood.

His body sagged, limbs hanging limply, consciousness flickering.

But Jack wasn't done.

His razor-sharp blade gleamed as he raised it high above his head—

—And then plunged it deep into Ivins' shoulder.

SHLUK.

The steel tore straight through flesh and bone, ripping downward, slicing open his torso in a smooth, practiced motion.

The body convulsed violently.

Blood erupted.

Dark, arterial sprays painted the holding cell, soaking the walls, pooling onto the floor.

A grotesque, hellish masterpiece.

A crime scene befitting a monster's birthright.

Jack stood motionless, breathing slow and even, as the hunger in his veins sang with satisfaction.

The first true kill of a newborn predator.

"Hhhhgghk—!"

Ivins tried to scream, but no sound came.

He was already fading.

The light in his eyes dimmed, his heartbeat slowed, and the last thing he saw—

—Was Jack's gaze.

And within it—

Something else.

Something worse than death itself.

And he understood.

He understood who had orchestrated this.

Not Jack.

Someone else.

Someone he had met before.

The black-clad detective.

The true monster behind the monster.

His lips trembled.

With his last, dying breath, he choked out two final words—

"Forgive me."

And then—

Nothing.

Whitechapel Police Station – Office

Vincent was mid-sentence, retelling the case resolution to a group of officers when a distant sound made him pause.

He frowned, glancing toward the hallway.

"Did anyone else hear that?"

A nearby officer chuckled.

"New prisoners always scream on their first night. Let them tire themselves out."

"Yeah, well… he won't have many nights left anyway."

Laughter followed.

But Vincent didn't laugh.

Something felt off.

And then—

A second scream.

Louder.

Clearer.

Bloodcurdling.

Vincent's stomach dropped.

The officers froze.

Then—

They ran.

Guns drawn, they stormed down the dim corridor toward the holding cells—

Only to halt dead in their tracks.

The cell door had been ripped apart.

And inside…

Hell itself had been painted in blood.

A young officer turned and vomited.

The others could only stare.

On the wall, written in Ivins' own blood—

A name.

A name the world would never forget.

Jack the Ripper.