The King of Vampires (Isekai)

The rain fell like razors over the city.

Slick asphalt reflected fractured neon signs, their glow bleeding across puddles like fresh wounds. Smoke curled from gutter grates, twisting up toward the cathedral of glass towers that loomed above — corporate monoliths, soulless giants stretching toward a bruised sky.

But beneath that glittering facade, in the rotting veins of the underworld, they whispered again.

Arthur.

The name rippled like a forgotten hymn, echoing down crumbling alleys where even the bravest refused to walk after midnight. For a century, the world forgot. Time dulled legends, buried atrocities beneath paperwork, technology, and synthetic distractions.

But history — real history — never stayed buried.

Arthur's boots struck the wet pavement with deliberate, brutal rhythm. His coat, black as funeral silk, clung to his broad frame, rain slicking off the leather. Around him, the city pulsed with mechanical life — drones humming overhead, glass advertisements flickering with seductive lies, the scent of ozone and rotting ambition thick in the air.

The underworld called. He answered.

Beneath the surface of the city's corporate machine, the old families thrived — crime syndicates masquerading as philanthropists, cartels with boardrooms instead of jungles. They called it the "Network" now — a web of influence stretching from Berlin to Moscow to São Paulo.

And tonight, they would meet.

Unaware that a ghost walked among them.

The club's entrance pulsed with artificial blue light, a velvet rope sectioning off the elite from the filth. Security scanned patrons with biometric lenses, filtering humans from pretenders, loyalty from liabilities.

Arthur approached, his presence like a storm coalescing into flesh.

The guard, built like a slab of concrete, stepped forward — implanted eyes flickering as they scanned Arthur's face.

A pause.

Confusion cracked his synthetic veneer.

"No ID, no—"

Arthur's hand shot forward, gripping the man's throat. Not tight — yet. Just enough pressure to remind him how fragile metal and muscle truly were beneath an immortal's grip.

"You've forgotten me," Arthur whispered, voice low as earth shifting before a quake. His eyes locked onto the guard's, centuries of calculated violence simmering beneath their glacial surface.

The guard's implanted retina scanner buzzed, feeding off hidden databases the fool barely understood.

ARTHUR. STATUS: ERASED.

The system choked. The scanner fizzled. And the guard's pupils dilated with dawning horror.

Arthur released him, a ghost of amusement cracking his brutal mask.

Inside, the music pulsed like a dying heartbeat.

The club sprawled beneath ground level — a labyrinth of low-lit chambers, velvet booths, and private suites hidden behind mirrored walls. Bodies swayed to bass-heavy music, the air thick with synthetic pheromones and desperation.

Eyes tracked Arthur as he descended — predators, mercenaries, low-level syndicate scum. They didn't recognize his face, but they smelled the fracture in the atmosphere, the ancient wrongness that followed him like a plague.

Arthur passed a mirrored wall — his reflection fractured beneath the strobing lights.

He barely recognized himself sometimes.

The last time he walked among them, the world bled under swords, not data streams. Kings feared his name. Empires collapsed at his feet.

Now, they traded power through cryptocurrencies, data contracts, and assassins in silk suits.

Fools.

A whisper rippled through the crowd — uncertain, ancient, bleeding fear back into forgotten bones.

He reached the back chamber.

Beyond the guarded doors, the "Network" gathered — syndicate heads, smugglers, corporate devils. Faces old and new. But none old enough to truly remember him.

The guards blocked his path, sleek pistols drawn, augmented eyes scanning his form.

Arthur smiled.

And the walls shuddered.

The ground beneath their feet vibrated with subtle, impossible force. The lights flickered, the synthetic facade peeling for a heartbeat — and in that breathless moment, every predator in the room felt the presence they had long convinced themselves extinct.

He moved.

Two guards collapsed before they registered his approach — windpipes crushed, neural implants fried with precise, brutal strikes. Their bodies hit the floor, twitching, as Arthur pushed open the doors.

The chamber beyond fell into stunned silence.

Heads turned — sharp suits, designer dresses, cybernetic enhancements glinting beneath ambient red lighting.

Arthur stepped in, rain clinging to him like shadows, his gaze sweeping the room with surgical disdain.

A man at the center — silver-haired, sharp-eyed, his posture oozing corporate power — spoke first.

"And you are…?"

Arthur's lips curled.

"You forgot me too," he murmured, voice colder than the grave. "But your ancestors remembered. Their screams were… instructional."

Confusion fractured the room — whispers, data uplinks scrambling to scan him.

ARTHUR. STATUS: ERASED.

The system choked again.

Panic rippled beneath their polished veneers.

The silver-haired leader's bravado faltered.

"You shouldn't be here," the man snapped, reaching beneath the table for concealed weapons.

Arthur's hand blurred — a dagger, ancient as forgotten kingdoms, embedded itself into the mahogany table, vibrating with impossible energy.

"I decide where I should be," Arthur corrected, his voice peeling back the illusion of power these parasites clung to. "You crawl beneath my shadow, feed on the rot of civilization. But understand this—"

He leaned forward, voice dipping to a predatory hum.

"I built the empire your kind thinks it owns. Brick by brick. Corpse by corpse."

Silence. Even the music beyond the walls seemed to hold its breath.

Arthur retrieved the dagger, its edge humming with latent fury, and turned away, leaving shattered pride and trembling conspirators in his wake.

Tonight, they met a ghost.

Next time, they'd meet their reckoning.