The King of Vampires (Isekai)

Author's Note.

I thought and thought for almost a day and rewrote this chapter, because it had no context. Take a look and tell me what you think of it, if it's better?

The great hall of the estate in the Catskill Mountains stood like a cathedral of shadows. Massive stone columns climbed toward vaulted ceilings, their ancient surfaces cracked and scarred from centuries past. Crimson velvet draped the walls, rippling faintly as cold mountain winds slipped through unseen cracks. The floor beneath their feet was black marble, veined like a network of frozen bloodstreams. Candles burned in heavy, wrought-iron sconces along the walls, their flames wavering, casting twisted reflections across the polished floor.

The sun had already begun its slow rise over the distant peaks, but the estate sat buried beneath enchantments and layers of old magic — a sanctuary against daylight's sting. For now, at least.

Arthur stood at the center of the gathering, his presence darker than the shadows themselves. The lines of his face carved by time and warfare, his sharp eyes colder than the midnight rain that still clung to his long coat. Blood, faint and drying, streaked the cuffs of his sleeves — remnants of the slaughter he'd orchestrated just hours before.

Before him, they gathered — the surviving Anciões, the elders, the ancient ones who once thought themselves untouchable. Their proud, cold expressions faltered as they looked upon him now, remembering… remembering the beast they thought legend, the monster they believed dormant.

He broke the silence, his voice carrying the weight of graves and forgotten wars.

"Today," Arthur began, his gaze sweeping across them, every syllable heavy as stone, "I cried blood for cleansing my own."

A tremor passed among the gathered. Some exchanged cautious glances. Others stared at the floor, shamed, beaten.

"I do not want to do it again," Arthur continued, stepping forward, the sound of his boots striking the marble echoing like gunshots through the cavernous space.

Selena stood among them, her long silver hair flowing over a black cloak, her pale face set in defiance. His daughter by blood and legacy, old beyond mortal comprehension. Her eyes, sharp as broken glass, locked onto his.

"Selena," Arthur's voice turned colder still, "stop scheming behind my back. You think I don't see? I know your hatred for the Anciões… but some of them are older than you. Older than your rebellion, your pride."

A pause — his eyes flared with an ancient, simmering fury.

"Respect them. The ones who remain… they are the most loyal. They never entertained betrayal — not once. And that is why they stand here, still breathing, when hundreds do not."

Selena's gaze hardened, but she bowed her head. A small gesture. Enough — for now.

Arthur's attention shifted, finding Daniel, his younger son. Reckless. Brilliant. Dangerous.

"Daniel," he said, his voice low, measured, but carrying the undertone of disappointment wrapped in steel, "stop pretending to be something you're not."

Daniel's smirk faltered.

"You are not evil," Arthur stated, absolute as law itself. "You flirt with darkness, dance at the edges — but I know your heart. Do not kill innocents. That is my law. Our law."

The great hall seemed to grow colder as his words sank in.

And then, Arthur's eyes settled on Marcus — his new son. His newest creation. The gift of evolution flowing through his veins.

"Marcus…" Arthur's tone shifted — pride now threading through the iron resolve. "You, like the others, possess the gift — the sun no longer hunts you."

A hushed murmur swept the room. Envy. Awe. Fear.

"Walk under daylight, my son," Arthur commanded, his voice softer now, reverent. "You are one of mine, as blessed as the firstborn. Use it wisely."

He let the silence stretch, every heartbeat echoing like a drum against the stone walls. The flickering candlelight danced over ancient faces, reflecting on the polished marble stained with memory and blood.

Arthur's gaze swept the room once more — the Anciões, his children, the old families who had survived the purge. Barely ten of them remained. Hundreds dead, erased in a single night of reckoning.

And still, they were here — loyal, breathing, stained with their sins but bound to him by blood and fear.

"Anciões… old friends…" Arthur's voice dipped into something almost human — weary, scarred by the eternity of loss. "You're not merely my servants… Your ancestors swore loyalty to me — many gave their lives to protect my secrets."

A pause. His jaw tightened.

"You are the ones I love most."

The weight of that confession hung heavy in the hall, more suffocating than the shadows themselves.

"Go," Arthur commanded, voice sharp once more. "Take what the dead left behind — their riches, their legacies. I do not crave more gold, more thrones."

His eyes blazed with quiet menace.

"I crave loyalty."

The old magic in the room pulsed faintly, responding to his words. Outside, the rain had stopped. The dawn crept further along the mountaintops, gold bleeding across the sky like fire over the horizon — but the estate remained shrouded, untouched by daylight.

Arthur exhaled, his shoulders heavy with the memory of the night's brutal work. His message to the world — a whisper laced with blood and terror — had been received.

The world remembered now.

The Anciões remembered now.

Their predator had returned.

And this… was only the beginning.

.

.

The grand chamber was drenched in ancient power. Dark stone walls reached impossibly high, arched and carved with symbols so old they predated even Arthur's first breath. Braziers burned with slow, ghostly fire along the periphery, casting violet and crimson hues across the vast space. Above them, stained glass windows stretched toward the ceiling — black suns, coiled serpents, wolves with bleeding jaws. Each window a piece of history, frozen in colored glass, chronicling the myths of their kind.

And at the center… Arthur's throne.

It wasn't made of gold, nor jewels, nor ivory as mortal kings boasted — but forged from obsidian and bones, the remains of fallen beasts and forgotten monsters. At its base, the skeletal forms of creatures long extinct were molded into the jagged frame — wolves, serpents, even the unmistakable skull of a dragon, bleached and sharpened.

Arthur stood tall, his presence swallowing the light itself. His long coat of black leather swept behind him, embroidered with blood-red sigils along the hem, symbols of his House. His eyes — older than empires, colder than eternity — surveyed the room, scanning the survivors of the night's purge.

Less than ten of the Anciões remained. Their faces pale, etched by time, suspicion gleaming behind their ceremonial robes. The scent of ash and dried blood still clung to the stone floors where their traitorous brethren had fallen — bodies burned to dust, stripped of title, erased from history.

His children stood by his side — the chosen, the blessed.

Selena, tall and fierce, her silver hair cascading down armored shoulders, eyes sharp with calculation, the echo of ancient nobility behind her cruel beauty.

Daniel, dressed in obsidian silk, dark smirk hidden beneath layers of arrogance and frustration. His fingers drummed against the hilt of a blade sheathed at his hip, too young in spirit to accept the fate carved into his veins.

And Marcus — the newest of their blood. His face still carried the innocence of mortality, though the glow behind his eyes betrayed the beast now resting beneath his skin. His was the rare gift — the sun no longer a predator stalking his steps.

The gathered families knelt, the stone cold against their knees, their heads bowed beneath the weight of centuries.

Arthur's voice echoed through the chamber, sharp, commanding — a blade cutting through doubt.

"You stand alive… only because you chose loyalty over ambition," he began, each word a drop of venom, "while your fallen brothers… they chose otherwise."

A whisper rippled through the crowd — nervous, restrained.

Arthur's gaze narrowed, the air itself tightening, thickening like the suffocating fog outside.

"They craved my blood," he continued, stepping forward, his shadow stretching across the marble like a creeping storm. "They envied what they could never earn… the power to walk beneath the sun."

His eyes flicked toward his children, pride simmering beneath the surface.

"My sons and daughter — they carry that gift. The light fears them no longer. They are the daywalkers… the blessed of my bloodline."

The hall pulsed with tension. Generations had passed, whispered legends growing like weeds in dark corners — the curse of the sun, the promise of salvation through Arthur's veins.

The Anciões had watched with hunger, with bitterness, as Arthur's chosen walked freely beneath daylight's harsh gaze — unburned, unafraid.

"They hated the children I took from the Plague," Arthur's voice darkened, his memory bleeding into the words. "Two fragile things, orphaned in that filthy sickness. I gave them life eternal. I gave them power beyond their years. And yet…" his voice sharpened, "some of you asked… why them? Why not you?"

No one spoke. They dared not.

Arthur's eyes, molten silver and black, bore into them — into their fears, their fragile pride.

"Because I know your hearts," Arthur growled, each word coiled like a predator. "I knew theirs. And I did not trust yours."

The silence shattered as Arthur stepped toward the obsidian table at the heart of the hall. Upon it rested a chalice — silver, old as myth, its surface engraved with countless oaths and betrayals.

From his wrist, Arthur sliced deep, crimson-black blood pouring like molten shadow into the goblet.

The scent filled the air — intoxicating, ancient, potent beyond reason.

"Tonight," he declared, holding the chalice aloft, its contents shimmering like liquid twilight, "you may prove yourselves."

The Anciões straightened, eyes wide, unblinking.

"My blood…" Arthur's voice rumbled low, powerful, "the gift… to walk beneath the sun… is yours… if you dare to claim it."

A shudder passed through the hall.

Old bodies, some frail with centuries, others still proud and strong, felt the promise vibrate through their bones.

"Your youth will return," Arthur promised. "Your decay will halt. But the price… is everything. Your loyalty, your bloodline, your future — tied to me."

He set the chalice upon the table, crimson liquid swirling unnaturally, as though alive, aware.

Arthur turned to the gathered families, their daughters among them — veiled, jeweled, trembling beneath layers of silk and duty.

"And as tradition demands," Arthur continued, his gaze sweeping toward the young women, "your daughters stand offered. As they have for centuries."

His voice softened, laced with uncharacteristic gentleness — but behind it, the storm of his dominion loomed.

"I take no unwilling heart. Those who choose me… choose eternity by their own will."

The daughters exchanged glances — some defiant, some fearful, others… eager, their eyes shining with dangerous curiosity. The tales of Arthur's lovers were woven into every corner of the old world — whispered of in royal courts, sung beneath the moonlight in hidden enclaves.

Arthur's lips curled faintly, the hint of a predator's grin.

"To those among you…" Arthur gestured toward the Anciões, "who wish for my blood… stand. Drink. Walk beneath the sun… or remain as shadows."

The room swelled with hesitation, old bones creaking as the first few dared to rise.

"And for your loyal servants…" Arthur's gaze fell upon them, the foot soldiers, the sworn blades, the silent protectors, "those worthy shall be marked… by my bite."

Selena stepped forward, eyes blazing.

"Their bodies must first adapt," she reminded them, voice sharp, proud. "To carry the king's power… is no simple gift."

Arthur's fingers brushed the silver-bound tome beside him — the old record, names etched in ink and blood.

It was already open.

Some names had been scratched, burned, erased from history.

Others… waited to be rewritten.

"Choose wisely," Arthur warned, voice low, reverberating through the chamber like the hum of storm clouds. "This is no gift for cowards. Only the worthy will endure."

The flickering flames burned higher as the night bled into dawn — the moment of reckoning drawn near.

And still… this was only the beginning.