"Hm… this girl's blood magic feels reminiscent of Carmilla, though her mastery is rather crude. And that one's playing around with holy water—was she a cleric before turning? Or just has a death wish."
Dracula's gaze drifted toward the one charging at him with the so-called Vampire Slayer in hand—Scar.
"Ah, this idiot. A vampire with acne… utterly disgraceful."
At last, he gave a moment's thought to how he should respond to their assault.
"Whatever. I can't die anyway, and I'm far too lazy to dodge."
And so, he simply slumped in his throne, dazedly watching several formidable attacks—each impressive by modern standards—slam into him without resistance.
A barrage of blasts infused with different energies engulfed Dracula's throne in a thunderous explosion. The gathered vampires staggered back, panting, eyes locked on the smoldering epicenter.
"D-Did we… do it…?"
Scar muttered under his breath.
As the dust cleared, the figure seated upon the throne was revealed—Dracula, entirely unscathed.
"Wha—"
"Ah, you see… now you've finally stepped into my range."
With a faint smile, Dracula uttered his first words to this band of vampires.
A crimson whip shot forth from his hand, and with a sweeping arc, he lashed out across the hall.
The whip wasn't just physical—it roared with slicing winds and pulsing magical force. The vampires were instantly battered, collapsing like rag dolls, their energy all but spent.
Dracula yanked one unfortunate male vampire toward him with a flick of the whip. Opening his mouth, he revealed his fangs.
"Bon appétit," he said softly, smiling.
Dracula sank his fangs deep into Scar's carotid artery.
The warm, sweet blood surged through his mouth, flowing down his throat and into his stomach. It was a familiar rhythm, a primal indulgence.
And yet, truth be told, Dracula was no longer a vampire in the strictest sense. Sunlight couldn't harm him. Silver held no sway. Churches, crosses, holy light? He could outshine the greatest paladins of the Light Brotherhood.
He didn't need blood to survive.
He could live off ordinary food like any normal human. And if he really didn't feel like eating? He could go days without so much as a nibble. He wouldn't die. He'd just get uncomfortably hungry.
But in truth, he was driven not by need—but by sloth.
And now, just as he'd grown a little peckish, a banquet of enemies had come knocking at his doorstep. It was like finding water in the desert. He was never the type to turn down a free meal.
Unlike his prudish descendants who fussed over nonsense—"I won't drink men's blood," or "No blood from non-virgins"—Dracula found such pickiness laughable.
"These youngsters today don't know how good they have it," he often mused. "So spoiled."
That said, even Dracula had his limits.
The blood of overindulgent men and promiscuous women—especially those carrying… exotic afflictions—was utterly foul. Vampires had a word for such folk.
Beachspawn.
For a vampire's palate, the taste spectrum was clear: normal humans were like sugar water. Virgins? The finest vintage. But beachspawn? Imagine a brew of herbal tonic and canned herring, with a splash of hell.
Driven by hunger, Dracula devoured Scar quickly. In moments, the once-proud vampire leader was nothing more than a shriveled husk—his blood, vitality, even soul consumed and folded into the endless ocean of Dracula's might.
Dracula tossed the desiccated corpse aside, licking his lips thoughtfully.
"Huh. Not bad at all. Looks like a nightclub regular, but turns out he was kinda pure. No wonder the old guy still had acne."
His eyes drifted lazily across the remaining four vampires, sprawled on the floor like discarded puppets.
"Still hungry…"
He licked his lips again. "Now then—which of you is next on the menu?"
His gaze slithered over them like a hungry wolf surveying his prey—cold, clinical, and utterly indifferent. For the first time in their immortal lives, the vampires felt the same terror they once inflicted on humanity.
One of the male vampires broke.
He fell to his knees, trembling violently. "O Great Lord of Blood, please forgive our transgressions! I offer myself wholly to you—my body, my soul—please, let me serve you! Spare me!"
Before he finished, Dracula's whip coiled around him, dragging him helplessly through the air.
With a snap of his fangs, Dracula bit down—then abruptly pulled back.
He spat out the blood with a dramatic cough.
"Pleh! Ugh!" he gagged, then glared at the man. "Disgusting. How many girls have you slept with, you damn playboy?"
He brushed his long, flowing hair with a dramatic flair.
"Honestly, they just don't make purebloods like me anymore."
[Indeed.]
The system's voice chimed in.
[A thousand-year-old pure-hearted vampire virgin, cuckolded by his fiancée and publicly humiliated by the Belmont clan. Truly, the Blood King of pathos.]
Dracula didn't even dignify it with a reply. After all these years, he'd long since stopped caring.
With a flick of his hand, he absorbed the rejected vampire's essence into raw energy—a technique he'd invented for exactly this reason: to deal with powerful but utterly unpalatable prey.
He turned back to the room.
"Judging by your auras, I'd bet the rest of you are all beachspawn too."
His gaze finally landed on the sole female survivor—the girl with blood magic.
"Maybe this one has potential. Let's hope."
He absorbed the two remaining vampires without hesitation and then gently pulled the trembling blood-mage girl into his arms.
Cradling her like a lover, he opened his mouth once more.
"Time for seconds."
"P-please, wait! O Glorious Lord of Blood!"
The girl, barely clinging to life, turned her face to him. Her eyes, though dim, burned with fierce resolve.
"I am yours to consume. I will offer myself to you completely. But please—grant me a moment. I have yet… one task left unfinished."
"Oh?" Dracula paused, intrigued. "And what task is that? Do tell."
"I… I was born the eldest daughter of a rival bloodline," she began. "But Scar destroyed my family—my parents were butchered, and I, the lone survivor, was taken into his household and raised as his own. All these years I've trained and waited for my chance—my revenge. I've waited to kill Scar and his son and to bring down his entire clan."
Her voice quivered, but her words were like steel.
"So please, merciful Lord of Blood… grant me the time to complete my vengeance. Once it is done—I will offer myself to you in full, with no regrets."
Dracula smiled gently.
"You are indeed a strong-willed young woman… but what's that got to do with me?"
With that, he bit into her throat.
The girl's eyes flew wide, full of disbelief. A final protest against a world that refused to follow the script.
But Dracula only drank for a second before coughing violently and spitting it out.
"World! Mouthwash! Now!"
He hurled her aside and summoned his ever-dutiful stand, "The World," to rinse out his mouth.
After much gagging and spitting, he finally sighed.
"Well, I'll be. Looked like a pure-hearted little thing, but tastes even worse than that pervy guy earlier. Must be in the genes, I suppose. That's the risk when you're the daughter of an enemy clan."
With a sigh, he turned her into energy and absorbed her.
"Nowadays, it's always the innocent-looking ones who turn out to be beachspawn…"
[You're truly awful, you know that? If you were going to kill her anyway, why bother letting her speak?]
"I like gossip," Dracula replied flatly. "What, is that a crime now?"
He looked around at the wreckage of his throne room and scowled.
"World, clean this mess up."
Once the room had been tidied and restored to its previous grandeur, Dracula pulled a thick blanket over himself and laid down on his throne once more.
He closed his eyes, ready to return to slumber.
Five minutes later, he abruptly threw off the blanket and stared blankly up at the glass ceiling.