The King of Vampires (Isekai)

The chamber pulsed as though alive — stone breathing beneath the weight of history, shadows stretching along the walls like sentient creatures slithering between the cracks of the ancient structure. The torches along the perimeter flickered with blue fire, casting an unnatural glow that made skin appear too pale, eyes too hollow, everything touched by the haunting hand of eternity.

The chalice sat at the center of the obsidian table, glistening with the impossible darkness of Arthur's blood — a liquid that looked thicker than wine, darker than ink, shimmering faintly under the violet firelight like molten shadow. It pulsed, faintly — as though the blood itself carried its own heartbeat.

Silence devoured the room.

The Anciões stood frozen, old as crumbling mountains, yet trembling like fragile things. Their eyes — yellowed with centuries of hunger, lined by secrets and treachery — darted between the chalice and Arthur's towering form.

Arthur didn't move — not in the way mortals understood. His body, draped in black leather and embroidered silk, hovered mere centimeters above the stone floor. His steps were soundless — not silence in the absence of noise, but a predatory void, the kind of absence that made skin crawl and instincts scream.

Not even the oldest among them could hear him approach — not even when they strained their supernatural senses to the brink of collapse.

That… was power.

Arthur's voice finally broke the suffocating quiet, smooth, deliberate, and impossible to ignore.

"Drink," he commanded, low but carrying through the chamber like thunder muffled behind velvet curtains. "Claim the sun… or cling to your shadows."

The first to move was Ancião Varick — once proud, now desperate. His frame stooped by years, beard silver as moonlight, eyes hungry with the unbearable ache of forgotten youth.

His hand hovered over the chalice, fingers trembling.

"You hesitate?" Arthur's words curled in the air, not cruel — simply inevitable. "Do you doubt yourself… or me?"

Varick's jaw clenched, centuries of arrogance cracking like old bone. His fingers closed around the chalice.

The room watched — breathless.

The blood touched his lips, thick and heavy as molten iron. It burned immediately — not heat, but something deeper, primal, scorching through every sinew, every vessel. His knees buckled as the blood invaded him, coiled inside his chest like a living serpent.

His skin split.

Veins blackened beneath the surface, his eyes dilating, irises turning silver before flashing to a burning gold. His body convulsed — bone grinding against bone — as time peeled away like decayed flesh.

The wrinkles vanished first, pulled taut by unnatural strength, muscles reknitting, old scars evaporating into steam. His back straightened, the stoop erased — replaced by a cruel, youthful vigor sharpened by the touch of Arthur's ancient blood.

Varick gasped, new breath flooding lungs that hadn't known fatigue in centuries. His eyes darted to the high windows — the painted sun glaring down through stained glass.

He could feel it… the daylight… no longer a predator to be feared.

A smirk, broken and raw, crept across his face — and for the first time in three hundred years, Varick stood tall.

The others stirred — hunger twisting their expressions.

They surged toward the chalice — one by one — each succumbing to the ritual.

Anciã Mirabel, her face gaunt with unending age, drank — and her withered hands uncurled, flesh thickening, hair falling in dark waves as her body reformed beneath the weight of Arthur's gift.

Ancião Calder, stoic and cold, drank — and the cracks along his marble-pale skin healed, his voice returning with youthful venom.

The chamber trembled with the sound of transformation — bones cracking, flesh reshaping, screams muffled behind clenched teeth.

Arthur hovered among them, silent as ever, his eyes watching the metamorphosis unfold like a god observing ants crawl across the cosmos.

But not all drank.

A few stepped back — fear etched into their expressions, their pride unwilling to pay the price of true allegiance.

Arthur's gaze landed on them — no need for threats, no need for words. Their names… would not survive this night.

Selena stepped forward, her eyes like razors beneath moonlit hair, fingers brushing the silver-bound book. She flipped its ancient pages, quill poised — and began rewriting the registry.

Names etched in crimson ink — those reborn, those loyal.

Others… scratched out, erased from the chronicles, their existences turned to whispers.

The loyal servants stood next — warriors, advisors, shadows lurking at the edges of history.

They approached with reverence, kneeling before Arthur.

"You will bear my mark," Arthur declared, voice low, heavy with finality. "Your bodies must adapt… before you walk in the sun."

His fangs, white as ivory daggers, descended — and he bit.

Each chosen felt the pierce, the cold burn of his bite flooding their veins — not immediate transformation, but the beginning of a brutal evolution. Their senses sharpened, muscles twitched under new pressure, eyes glinted with the embryonic spark of power.

One by one, they collapsed to their knees — panting, reshaped, branded as his own.

But the most delicate ritual remained.

The daughters.

Noble-born. Royal-blooded. Veiled in silk, jewels glittering across trembling frames, each pulse beneath their skin hammering in the silence.

For centuries, they had been offered — concubines to the eternal king.

But tonight… Arthur's decree had altered destiny.

"Your choice is yours," Arthur's voice caressed the chamber like smoke curling along marble. "You stand here… not as tribute. But as legacy."

His eyes burned, silver and ancient.

"If you choose me… you become mine," he continued. "No longer mortal playthings… but true heirs of my blood. Vampires… and mothers to a lineage unchained."

Gasps rippled through the hall — this… was unprecedented.

Arthur's lineage… true children — not by whispers or stolen nights, but forged in blood and eternity.

The daughters exchanged glances — some recoiled, terror curdling beneath noble facades. Others… their eyes gleamed with hunger, with ambition sharper than any blade.

The first to step forward was Lady Evelyne — daughter of the High Kingdom of Draven. Her dress of midnight silk clung to curves sharpened by pride, emerald eyes locked onto Arthur.

"I choose," she whispered, voice steady despite the tremble rippling down her spine. "I would be yours… entirely."

Arthur's smile was a shadow, faint, ominous.

He approached — soundless, predatory, hovering inches from the marble floor — a phantom cloaked in ancient power.

His hand brushed her jaw, fingers cool, impossibly steady.

"You understand… what you choose?" Arthur asked, voice like the edge of eternity.

"I do," she whispered.

And his fangs descended once more.

This was not the bite of prey — but the forging of blood, the creation of lineage.

Her body tensed — the bite seared into her flesh, veins burning with the flood of vampiric essence. Her mortal heart died… and was reborn, heavier, colder, fueled by something beyond life.

Her eyes snapped open — silver irises now blazing beneath dark lashes.

Evelyne collapsed to her knees, trembling, her body caught between mortality and eternity.

Arthur turned back to the gathered daughters — each faced with choice, with terror, with the seductive pull of power immortal.

The night thickened — and dawn approached.

But within these walls, the true sun… was Arthur alone.