He found me?
Or… is he bluffing?
The weight of the vampire king's gaze was suffocating. Constantine could feel it tracking his every move. The thirteen newly born "Blooded" were already casting him suspicious looks, their expressions sharpening with predatory intent.
Under that pressure, Constantine tried to retreat ever so slightly into the corner of the room—but the crimson eyes followed him.
It was too late.
Everyone had noticed.
Whispers turned into stares, then sharpened into a silent verdict: there was a traitor among them.
Constantine swallowed hard. His options were grim. He could try to blow his cover and run—maybe even make it out alive using every trick and talisman in his arsenal—but that would make him an enemy of not just the Blooded, or the priest… but of the monster looming on stage.
The Vampire King.
Even if he used all his hidden relics and defensive wards, it wouldn't be enough. That thing wasn't fully human, and it sure as hell wasn't fully present. Just a fragment of its power was already choking the life out of the room.
In less than a second, Constantine made his choice.
He stood.
Straightened his back.
And bowed low.
"O Great Vampire King," he declared in a voice loud enough for all to hear. "Grant me the honor of serving at Your side. I offer myself as a blade in Your hand!"
Sorry, Hendry.
If there's one thing I've learned in this job, it's that dead heroes don't live to report back.
A pause stretched across the room.
Then the Vampire King gave the slightest nod.
Subtle, but enough.
No need for the priest to drag him forward. Constantine stepped up on his own, unbothered by the glares burning holes into his back.
As he approached, the unnatural pressure intensified. He could feel it like humidity in his lungs, a spiritual gravity. The creature seated on the shadow-woven throne wasn't a man. It was something else—something vast, something monstrous.
Something divine.
He dropped to one knee before the throne.
"Constantine, your loyal servant, pledges heart and soul to your dominion," he said.
Technically true.
Soul? Maybe not.
But survival?
He was all in.
"You're smarter than most," the Vampire King murmured, amused.
Then came the pain.
A writhing tendril of shadow lashed out from the King's form, stabbing into Constantine's shoulder like a jagged spear. His body tensed, teeth grinding together to stifle a scream as dark crimson blood—blessed, cursed, holy in some unholy way—flooded into his veins.
It burned.
It twisted.
And yet… it made him stronger.
He could feel it as surely as he felt his own heartbeat. His strength surged. His senses sharpened. The magic etched into his soul began to… mutate. Twist. Fuse.
The human part of him was already fading.
This wasn't a curse. It was a trade.
Power for allegiance.
And the terms weren't optional.
As the pain ebbed, Constantine could feel a shift in hierarchy. He had risen—but the Vampire King's presence now loomed even larger. The gap hadn't closed. It had widened.
He didn't understand how, but he could sense it. This was no mere leader.
This was a monarch of monsters.
An apex predator.
A god in shadows.
"Come," said the King at last. "I have questions for you."
Constantine didn't hesitate. He stood, bowed again, and followed.
The gathering continued behind him. He could hear the voice of the priest, steady and fervent, guiding the rest of the Blooded through their transformation.
But Constantine was no longer one of the crowd.
He was something else now.
The private room was quiet, bathed in soft, red-tinted gaslight. Velvet chairs. Gold trim. A desk with a silver humidor.
The Vampire King's spectral form lounged on a leather couch, the illusion of ease more chilling than any threat.
Two writhing shadows massaged his shoulders like loyal serpents.
Constantine, now half-changed, stood respectfully to the side. When the King gestured, he moved to light the cigar with the steady hands of a man who had long since accepted his role in a new world order.
"What kind of extraordinary are you?" the King asked, voice casual.
"A warlock," Constantine answered immediately. "I don't use sorcery the way a 'sorcerer' does. My power lies in rituals, sigils, and alchemy. Preparation is everything. In battle, I'm not ideal unless I've had time to prepare."
He hesitated only a beat before adding:
"If I had to translate it into your world's terms, I'd be equivalent to a… mid-tier sorcerer. Just a little above standard. I worked as an exorcist before I was recruited."
"A warlock and now a vampire," the King mused. "Fascinating combination."
He blew out a long plume of smoke.
"Tell me, then. What level of power does Scotland Yard command?"
Constantine's brow furrowed.
"The top, officially? Sir Lancelot—the myth, I mean—is said to still exist. He's supposedly the last of the First Twelve, a 'Fate-tier Sorcerer.' Beyond myth. But I've never seen him. No one has."
"And the current leadership?"
"Best guess? 'Divine-tier Sorcerer.' But that's just a rumor. Most of what we actually see in the field are Command-tier or lower."
The King flicked ash into a crystal dish.
"Quite the gap," he said.
"It is. There's been a huge collapse in top-tier activity. Above Command-tier, it's rare to even hear whispers. If those people still exist, they're off the map, avoiding attention."
"Noted."
The King's eyes gleamed.
A system that had lost its top echelon…
A pyramid with no crown…
It was vulnerable.
"Good," the King said. "You've proven useful. You'll be compensated in kind."
He reclined slightly, the crimson aura flaring faintly behind him like wings made of smoke.
"And now, Constantine," he added. "Let's discuss your first assignment."