The King of Vampires (Isekai)

Chapter 21 — Blood Beneath the Surface

The rain whispered against the old stone of the villa as if the night itself carried secrets meant only for him. Heavy, persistent droplets cascaded down the ivy-clad walls, sliding like veins of water through the forgotten cracks of this ancient estate hidden in the shadows of Florence. Arthur stood by the window, unmoving, his tall frame carved in silhouette against the faint glow of the city below. The storm outside masked the whispers of the past, but his mind had already begun to untangle them.

The candlelight flickered, casting golden tremors across the marble floor, tracing the deep lines of age in the room like scars upon flesh. Every inch of this house reeked of forgotten history, of blood spilled, of whispered betrayals and broken oaths. This place wasn't merely stone and timber — it was a crypt built for those who remembered.

Arthur's eyes, colder than the rain outside, traced the dossier spread across the grand oak table. The papers were old, some yellowed, others freshly printed, meticulously organized by his own hand. At the center, a photograph — black and white, frayed at the edges — the woman from the masquerade.

Elena.

No — Selena's daughter. His own bloodline tangled in this new web of shadows.

The coincidence gnawed at him. He didn't believe in fate. Fate was for those who waited to die. Arthur carved his destiny, one corpse at a time if needed.

He traced her name with a gloved fingertip: Elena D'Aragon.

D'Aragon — a surname soaked in royal blood, forgotten kingdoms, and betrayals whispered in bedchambers centuries ago. But beneath the aristocratic lie, her true lineage pulsed like a dormant viper. She was his. A descendant of the line he had protected, shaped, hidden across generations.

Selena — his Selena, the girl he had plucked from the rotting cradle of plague-ridden Europe, the girl whose eyes once held more fire than entire empires, had survived. Not just survived — her blood had endured, multiplied, hidden within the folds of human civilization like a carefully concealed blade.

But how? His brows furrowed. He had buried that chapter — the old oaths, the clandestine escapes from inquisitors, the villages burned to ash to protect her existence. Yet here it was, her legacy, standing defiant before him.

The documents detailed Elena's education, her travels — Paris, Berlin, New York — curated elegance, disguised survival instincts. Her eyes in the photograph were like Selena's — sharp, ancient, knowing far too much for someone her age.

But the blood told the real story.

Arthur reached for the small vial beside the papers — Elena's blood, drawn carefully, discreetly, the old ways of his people — and held it to the candlelight. Crimson shadows danced within the glass, but there was more. The ancient sigil beneath his skin tingled as he focused.

The blood pulsed — faint, but undeniable — with the mark of the Véu.

That ancient bond, older than kings and plagues, a tether between protector and legacy, forged not for immortality, but for an oath far more brutal — survival at any cost. It wasn't just loyalty — it was suffering shared, scars inherited, a chain of agony stretching across time, binding blood to blood.

A storm cracked beyond the window, thunder peeling across the hills like the roar of forgotten gods. Arthur's jaw clenched.

This changed everything.

He poured himself a glass of wine, dark as the blood in the vial, and sipped, the bitterness grounding him.

Memories bled into the room — the screams of witches burned beneath moonlight, the sobs of villagers dragging infected corpses into mass graves, Selena's trembling hand as she buried another child who never had the chance to choose destiny.

And now Elena, walking unwittingly into the crucible of his world, her blood humming with forgotten power.

He had to know more.

The door creaked behind him — Matteo, one of his oldest, most discreet human servants, entered. His family had served Arthur for generations, their loyalty cemented through centuries of shared secrets and inevitable sacrifices.

"She's arrived," Matteo whispered, bowing his head.

Arthur turned slowly, glass still in hand. "Alone?"

Matteo nodded. "Yes, my lord. As instructed."

Arthur's gaze fell back to the photograph. Destiny wasn't real, but blood — blood never lied.

"Bring her to the study," he commanded, voice low, velvet laced with threat. "And Matteo…"

The old servant met his eyes, the candlelight revealing the faded scar upon his cheek — the mark left by Arthur himself decades ago, the price of unwavering loyalty.

"No titles," Arthur continued, voice slicing through the storm's lull. "Tonight… she learns who truly shaped her destiny."

Matteo bowed once more and disappeared.

Arthur stood, stretching his frame to its full, imposing height, the room shrinking beneath his presence. His fingers brushed the hilt of the dagger strapped beneath his coat — ancient, etched with runes forgotten by time, its edge still stained with the blood of those who thought they could rewrite his fate.

The air thickened as footsteps approached beyond the door. The villa's walls pulsed with history, with the screams of ghosts, with the silent prayers of those who owed their lives to his mercy — or their deaths to his wrath.

The storm outside exhaled, lightning illuminating the path forward.

Tonight, truth would bleed freely.

And Arthur was ready to carve it open.

The villa's ancient walls seemed to hold their breath, the stone itself pulsing faintly with the weight of the decisions looming. Arthur remained by the grand window, his reflection fractured in the rain-slicked glass — sharp jawline, glacial eyes, the faintest echo of something ancient burning beneath the surface of his skin. Outside, the storm simmered, its fury tempered for now, like the quiet before a battlefield roars to life.

Behind him, faint voices bled through the halls — whispers in forgotten dialects, the low hum of conspiracies generations in the making.

The Anciões.

He could smell their fear clinging to the walls, bitter as rust, sweet as betrayal.

For centuries they had slithered beneath his shadow, masquerading as allies, as servants of the old blood, wearing reverence like a mask, all the while weaving their petty webs of power behind closed doors. They survived not by strength, but by proximity — staying just useful enough to avoid his blade, just silent enough to keep their necks intact.

But rot never stays hidden forever.

Arthur's hand hovered near the dagger strapped to his hip, the ancient runes along its edge glowing faintly under the low candlelight. The weapon pulsed with hunger, a whisper of violence, of justice not bound by mortal laws.

His reflection met his gaze — eyes like frozen iron, the weight of centuries coiled behind them.

He had allowed the Anciões to survive this long for one reason: utility. Their networks, their knowledge, their access to the decaying aristocracies of Europe had served him well. But now? Their plots festered. Their whispers grew bold. And boldness without permission was treason.

A choice clawed at him — cleanse the rot, or step back and let them devour each other like starving jackals.

Matteo's footsteps returned, measured, respectful.

"They gather in the east wing," the old servant reported, voice hushed, eyes lowered. "Debating… your absence."

Arthur's brow twitched.

"My absence?" His voice slid through the room like a blade unsheathed.

"They think you hesitate," Matteo added, a flicker of disgust betraying his otherwise composed features. "That perhaps your… compassion has dulled."

Arthur's laugh was low, humorless — ancient marble cracking beneath the strain.

"Compassion?" He let the word roll from his tongue, tasting its absurdity. "They mistake patience for weakness."

Matteo inclined his head. "Shall I summon them? Or…"

Arthur turned slowly, letting the full weight of his presence settle over the room like a suffocating fog. His eyes drifted to the flickering candle, the shadows it cast stretching like skeletal fingers across the walls.

"No," Arthur decided, voice low, brutal in its finality. "Let them rot."

Matteo's eyes flicked up, understanding sparking immediately.

"If they desire chaos," Arthur continued, pouring himself another glass of crimson wine, "let them choke on it. Their hunger for power will devour them quicker than my blade ever could."

He sipped the wine, the bitter warmth grounding him.

But not all would die by neglect. Some… deserved his hand personally.

"Except for Lucien," Arthur added, the name curling from his lips like poison. "His tongue has wagged too freely."

Matteo's expression sharpened — decades of loyalty burning clear in his eyes. "Consider it done."

The old servant faded into the shadows once more, silent as a ghost.

Arthur leaned back against the cold stone, his mind unwinding the web of traitors, his calculated restraint simmering beneath every thought. Blood would stain these halls again — some by his decree, some by their own folly.

Outside, lightning fractured the sky, momentarily casting the villa in stark relief. The carved gargoyles along the rooftop sneered down at the world, their grotesque faces frozen in eternal vigilance.

A fitting symbol, Arthur mused. Even monsters served a purpose — until they outlived their use.

Footsteps approached from the northern corridor — soft, hesitant, unfamiliar.

Arthur's senses sharpened, ancient instincts coiling like a predator beneath his calm facade.

It wasn't Matteo.

The scent reached him before the figure did — delicate, veiled beneath expensive perfume, yet carrying the undeniable trace of old blood.

Elena.

She stepped into the threshold, her posture rigid, yet eyes defiant — her mother's eyes, Selena's fire reborn in fragile flesh.

Arthur studied her in silence.

She wore a tailored black coat, high collar concealing her throat, but nothing could mask the hum of lineage beneath her skin. Her pulse betrayed her — steady, but electric, the dormant mark of the Véu coiled in her veins.

"I assume," she began, voice crisp yet trembling at the edges, "you've been watching me."

Arthur tilted his head, the ghost of amusement curling his lips. "Since before you drew your first breath."

A flicker of fear cracked her composure, but she held her ground.

Good.

Weakness had no place in his bloodline.

"I deserve answers," Elena pressed, eyes narrowing, embers sparking beneath the facade.

Arthur moved toward her, slow, deliberate, each step pressing centuries of predatory grace into the room's stagnant air. He stopped mere inches away, the storm's howl framing them like an ancient hymn.

"You deserve the truth," Arthur agreed, his voice a brutal promise, heavy with implications. "But answers? Answers demand blood. Loyalty. Sacrifice."

Elena faltered, the weight of those words striking deep.

The old candle guttered, shadows clawing higher along the walls.

Outside, the Anciões whispered, plotted, doomed.

Arthur's hand hovered near his blade once more, his decision forged in the storm.

Tonight, the villa would bleed — by his hand, or by their own cowardice.

Either way, only the worthy would remain.