Lord of vampires

The long mahogany dining table stretched beneath the flickering chandeliers, shadows dancing on its polished surface like specters of old grudges. Silver cutlery clinked softly against porcelain plates as the noble vampire family of Monteri ate in stiff silence.

The only sounds were the scraping of forks and the faint murmur of servants standing by. It was always like this—formal, cold, distant. The only time they met, and even then, it was more performance than family.

Floyd dabbed the corner of his mouth with a napkin and placed his fork and spoon down with purpose.

"I'll be leaving for a while."

He announced, voice smooth but laced with quiet steel.

"I'll be going on a long journey. Don't expect me to return anytime soon."

A beat of silence.

Then Dan laughed, loud and cruel, pushing back his chair with a smug grin.

"So, the coward shrimp finally admits defeat. Off to cry in some cave until you fade out, huh?"

Floyd didn't blink. His crimson eyes gleamed with calm malice.

"I'm going to retrieve the ingredients for Crimson Tears."

The room froze.

Even Dan's grin faltered for a moment.

"The hell did you just say?"

Across the table, their mother, Lady Sara, gasped softly.

"Floyd… no. That's madness. That's too dangerous. You'll be torn apart before you even smell a hound."

Alice, the youngest sister, pushed up her glasses with a concerned expression.

"If that's what you want, I could prepare the potion for you. It's not difficult for me. You don't have to go through that just to prove something."

But Floyd shook his head slowly.

"A tyrant who cannot shape his own blade deserves nothing but chains. If I can't create my own power, I'll never be able to wield it."

Dan scoffed.

"Since when did you become this melodramatic little brother? You read a book and now you think you're the next Dark Sovereign?"

Floyd's lips curled ever so slightly, but his tone remained flat.

"Even a dog's bark can't always be trusted, brother."

Dan's chair screeched as he half-rose, fury rising like a tide.

"What did you just say to me—"

"Enough!"

Came a voice like rusted iron and crumbling stone.

All eyes turned to the head of the table. For the first time in years, Lord Oliver Monteri, the patriarch, looked directly at Floyd. His expression was unreadable, carved from stone, but his words echoed with meaning.

"You may go."

That was all.

But to Floyd, it was everything.

He stood, tucked in his chair, and strode out of the hall without another word.

Outside, beneath the violet dusk of the vampire continent's eternal twilight, Floyd found Lily waiting beneath the marble pillars of the manor's grand stair. Her hands were clenched in front of her, and her eyes searched his.

"You're really going?" 

"I am."

"Then I'm coming with you."

"No."

The answer came swift. Sharp as blade.

Her eyes widened.

"Why? I can be useful—"

"I don't need usefulness. I am going to do it alone."

'I do not trust anyone. Not even you Lily.'

She looked like she wanted to say more, but his silence made the message clear. Finally, she stepped aside, biting her lower lip. He walked past her without looking back.

Floyd left the manor at midnight, wearing only a black traveling cloak, a satchel with two books, and no weapons. He didn't need them. His fangs and sharp nails are enough.

A ruler does not ascend because others gave him a throne. He carved his throne from the bones of those who stood above him.

He passed through the outer gates, the guards giving him a curious look but not stopping him. He was still a Monteri by blood, after all. And vampires respected lineage.

The road north twisted like a serpent through the forest's edge, shadowed by gnarled trees and whispering wind. Somewhere beyond the horizon lay the Lieor Forest, home to the lesser hounds and venomous beasts. For people like him, it was a death sentence.

To Floyd, it was opportunity.

The ingredients for the Crimson Tears potion were rare for a reason: 10 liters of lesser hound blood, one scorpion monster's blood, and two liters of his own. Enough to make him vomit from just imagining the texture.

But power demands suffering. Authority required blood. And to rise from nothing, to turn the jeers of "coward shrimp" into silence, he would consume poison if he had to.

He stopped at the edge of the wilds, where moonlight barely touched the forest floor and every breeze smelled of decay and dirt.

"This world isn't mine but I will make it mine."

Then he stepped into the darkness, alone.

The ascent had begun.