The King of Vampires (Isekai)

The chamber still hummed with Evelyne's transformation — the scent of her blood, sweet and metallic, mingled with the cool, heavy air. Her body lay curled upon the black marble floor, chest rising and falling as the final ripples of her metamorphosis coursed through every nerve, every bone.

Gone was the frail, mortal softness. What remained was something cruelly perfect — curves reshaped by Arthur's will, skin flawless as porcelain yet warmer, pulsing with unnatural vitality. Her breasts fuller, hips shaped like the sinuous curve of a serpent, thighs firm and legs long — the body of a queen reborn for eternity, sculpted to seduce kings and terrify angels. Her eyes, now molten silver, flicked open — the power simmering behind her lashes undeniable.

A ripple passed through the daughters still standing — the noble-born women dressed in silk and gemstones, their faces pale with envy, awe… and dangerous ambition.

Arthur hovered near Evelyne's form, eyes glinting like polished steel, mouth curling into a quiet, knowing smirk. The transformation was flawless. Exactly as intended.

The next to step forward broke the hush with nothing but the click of her jeweled heels — a sharp, confident sound that cut through the tension like a blade.

She was tall, raven-haired, her gown of sapphire velvet clinging to the generous curves gifted by royal lineage. Her name? Lady Isolde, daughter of the Eastern Empire — known for her cruelty as much as her beauty.

Her gaze locked onto Arthur's with a predator's hunger.

"I choose eternity," she declared, voice husky, threaded with arrogance and desire. "But I demand nothing less than perfection... for what I offer in return."

Arthur's expression darkened, dangerous amusement curling at the corners of his lips. His movements were ghostly — no sound, no weight, yet his towering form closed the space between them in mere heartbeats.

"You misunderstand," Arthur murmured, his voice softer than death itself. "You offer nothing… I take everything."

His fangs descended — ivory and sharp as glass — and Isolde's eyes widened in shock just before the bite seared into her throat.

The blood exchange was brutal — not a gentle sip but an invasion, her body writhing under the violent rebirth that followed. Veins blackened, bones cracked, flesh tore and reshaped itself, every imperfection melted beneath the divine cruelty of Arthur's gift.

When the transformation settled, she gasped, skin glowing with immortal beauty, her body exaggerated, sculpted to the edge of obsession — generous breasts, impossible curves, legs longer than dreams could justify. Her eyes, molten silver, flicked up to Arthur's, filled with awe and submission.

The daughters watched — their envy twisting into something darker.

The next stepped forward — trembling, young, fragile. Lady Amara, of the Southern Isles — her lineage ancient, her pride trembling under the weight of the night.

Arthur hovered beside her before her courage could collapse, his voice a velvet dagger.

"Your choice… freely given, or not at all."

Tears glittered in her wide eyes, but her head nodded. "I… I choose."

The bite was gentler this time — not out of mercy, but necessity. Her body reshaped with less violence, yet no less perfection. She collapsed, skin flawless, breasts full, hips ripe, curves arched and sharpened by Arthur's will, her hair shifting shades — raven-black now cascading down her shoulders, just as she'd desired in whispered prayers.

Every daughter who chose eternity underwent the same — their bodies perfected beyond mortal standards, voluptuous, dangerous, achingly beautiful — crafted as queens of the night.

But there were those who hesitated.

The Anciões.

Ancient, powerful, yet paralyzed by fear veiled beneath centuries of arrogance. They clung to their age-old ways, unwilling to evolve, afraid to kneel. But they knew — they couldn't leave.

The chamber sealed itself, the obsidian walls whispering with eldritch energy, the torches' blue flames growing taller, casting shadows like skeletal hands crawling across the floor.

Arthur's gaze snapped to them — merciless, void of sympathy. His feet hovered above the ground as he approached — a phantom carved from shadow and will.

"You do not refuse," Arthur intoned, voice low as the graves of forgotten gods. "You simply… do not exist."

Their bodies withered before they could beg. Flesh collapsing, eyes hollowing, centuries of stolen life devoured in an instant — their bones dust, their names erased by Selena's crimson quill.

The mortals — Arthur's loyal bloodline of servants, hidden in the shadows — watched with grim reverence. They'd known this truth for generations.

Men like James — the butler, eternal and proud, his family serving Arthur for six centuries, each son stepping into their father's footsteps. His eyes never wavered, even as the Anciões perished like ash caught in a storm.

Selena stood near the grand ledger, quill poised, but her hand trembled — not with fear… but envy. Her emerald eyes flicked to the concubines, their reshaped, divine forms radiant with seductive perfection.

Arthur's smirk curled. He saw everything.

"Careful, Selena," he teased, voice silk over razors. "Jealousy… unbecoming of my favorite scribe."

Her eyes narrowed — defiance sparking.

"I want more than ink and scrolls," she confessed, voice low, daring. "I want to be yours… not as your servant… but as your woman."

The chamber stilled. Even Arthur's usually unreadable expression cracked with surprise — brief, fleeting, like a ripple across obsidian.

"You… would bear my child?" His voice was soft — but the weight of the words was inescapable.

Selena's gaze never wavered. "I want to be loved by you… not as a daughter of ink, but as the woman who carries your true blood."

A murmur rippled through the shadows — even James stiffened, the boldness of her declaration unheard of.

Arthur stepped closer, so near his breath — cool and ancient — brushed her cheek.

"You understand what you're asking?" His words curled like smoke, eyes molten silver boring into her soul.

Selena's lips parted, her resolve steel beneath fragile flesh.

"I do."

Arthur's fangs glinted beneath the blue firelight — and his smirk deepened into something far more dangerous.

But that tale — the child of blood and shadow — was for another night.

Tonight… the ritual continued.

The daughters drank, choosing hair shades that reflected their new immortal essence — crimson, snow-white, midnight black — each one reborn, beautiful beyond comprehension, bodies sculpted to Arthur's hidden desires, curves that could crumble kingdoms, eyes alight with the fire of eternity.

The loyal were marked, their bodies reshaped beneath Arthur's fangs — stronger, colder, deadlier — forever bound to him.

And those who doubted?

They never left the chamber.

Only dust remained… whispering of a past erased beneath the weight of Arthur's new reign.