Supreme Vampire In Black Clover

The iron gates loomed before them, silent yet imposing, their ancient markings pulsing with a faint, eerie glow. Standing at the threshold, Derek exhaled, steadying himself. There was no turning back now.

Nymeria, who had been leading him without much conversation, finally halted. For the first time, she turned to face him fully. Her silver eyes gleamed, reflecting the dim light like shards of the moon itself.

"If you want to walk out of here alive," she said smoothly, "be mindful of your words when speaking to the Queen."

Derek arched an eyebrow. "Didn't know witches cared much for manners."

Nymeria's expression remained unreadable. "Manners are survival. The Queen is not someone you can afford to disrespect, even unintentionally."

Something in her tone made Derek pause. She wasn't just warning him—she was advising him. Genuinely.

"I take it she's got a short temper?" he asked, his voice lighter than he felt.

Nymeria shook her head. "No. That would make things easier." She stepped closer, lowering her voice. "She does not act on impulse. If she decides you're worth keeping alive, you will be. If she decides otherwise… you won't even see it coming."

Derek met her gaze, studying the weight behind her words. This wasn't an exaggeration. It was a fact.

"Noted," he muttered.

Without another word, Nymeria turned and placed a hand against the massive gates. A surge of mana pulsed outward, and with a deep, echoing groan, the iron doors began to open.

Beyond them, the castle's entrance stretched before Derek, swallowing the moonlight whole. The air inside was heavier, charged with something ancient and watchful.

Nymeria stepped through first.

Derek followed.

And as the gates boomed shut behind him, he realized the weight of her warning had only just begun to sink in.

The air changed the moment Derek stepped past the gates.

It wasn't just the shift in temperature or the way the night's crisp air gave way to something denser, heavier. It was the silence. A silence that wasn't empty—but full of unease.

The grand hall stretched before him, vast and shadowed, lit only by flickering torches that burned with an unnatural blue hue. The flames cast twisting shadows across the obsidian stonework, making it feel as if the walls themselves were alive, breathing, shifting.

Each step forward felt like a descent, rather than progress.

Derek exhaled slowly, his instincts on edge. This place was built to unsettle. Not just as a fortress, but as intimidation—a slow, creeping force that pressed against the mind, waiting for cracks to form.

And if the witches were watching, they'd find none.

"They tried to break me once. It didn't work, and it won't now."

He kept his posture relaxed, his pace steady. His enhanced senses picked up the faintest traces of movement—soft footsteps echoing from distant corridors, the rustle of fabric, and the measured breathing of the imposing woman beside him.

Nymeria walked ahead without hesitation, the train of her cloak barely brushing against the smooth stone. She hadn't spoken since they entered, and that was telling.

This wasn't a place for casual conversation.

Derek's thoughts flickered back to her warning outside.

"She does not act on impulse. If she decides you're worth keeping alive, you will be. If she decides otherwise… you won't even see it coming."

He wasn't sure what unnerved him more—the Queen's unpredictability or the fact that Nymeria had bothered to warn him at all.

The silence deepened as they advanced, the distant echoes of their footsteps swallowed by the vastness of the castle. The corridors stretched endlessly, each one darker and more foreboding than the last. The air was thick—not just with magic, but with something unspoken, a weight pressing down with every step.

Derek noticed the shift in atmosphere before he saw it.

A threshold.

Beyond the next archway, the air was different—colder, heavier, charged. His instincts flared, urging caution, but he forced himself to remain steady.

Then, the great doors loomed before him, their obsidian surface marked with ancient sigils that pulsed faintly with arcane energy. The moment Nymeria stepped forward, the doors parted on their own, revealing the chamber beyond.

And there they were.

A throne of midnight stone, elevated above the hall. Six figures seated in a perfect formation—three to the left, three to the right. The Queen at the center, watching, waiting.

Derek stepped through, his every movement measured. He was not walking into a meeting.

He was walking into judgment.

Minutes passed in silence.

Then, the doors creaked open.

Derek stepped forward, matching Nymeria's pace. She moved with elegance, but beside her, he carried something different.

Not grace. Not refinement.

Confidence. Hunger. Power. And a quiet, lurking viciousness.

His steps were deliberate, steady, but his mind raced. He had arrived. And this was the moment where everything would be decided.

"I'm not done. Not after all I've been through. I won't be wasted. Not again."

His enhanced sight sharpened the figures before him—six women, each distinct in presence, yet his focus zeroed in on only one.

The Queen.

From a distance, she didn't appear much older than her early thirties—young for a ruler, perhaps newly crowned. But there was something chilling about her. Her beauty was undeniable, yet the cold air around her carried an edge of something unnatural.

And then, he saw them.

Droplets. Beneath her eyes, barely noticeable, yet unmistakably unsettling.

Derek didn't allow himself to falter. He held his ground.

Beside him, Nymeria came to a halt. She inclined her head slightly in a bow before turning her gaze toward him. A silent command.

Derek met her eyes briefly before returning his attention to the Queen. He gave a measured nod, a slight dip of his head.

"Your Majesty."