What…? Corven grumbled, his voice echoing into nothingness. All he could see was darkness.
"Is this the afterlife?" he muttered, brows furrowing.
A strange sensation crept over him—cramped, as if the space around him was shrinking.
He shifted slightly, then paused.
He could move.
It was subtle—just the wriggling of fingers and toes—but it was enough. The sensation wasn't spiritual or dreamlike. It was physical.
Wood.
He felt it pressing against his back, his arms, even his face. Rough, splintery, and close.
It was like he was inside a box—a wooden box.
Lying flat on his back. Arms by his sides.
Like a corpse in a coffin.
"Am I still alive? Did I just get crushed by the shelf but somehow survive?" Corven whispered.
"That should be impossible… It's not even logically feasible, not with how that shelf was constructed."
His voice was hoarse, brittle.
He groaned, struggling to sit up. Every movement felt unnatural, like his limbs were made of cold stone and rusted gears.
"And… why do I feel so goddamn parched!?" he suddenly roared, the dryness in his throat unbearable—burning, like sandpaper grinding against raw flesh.
Instinctively, he slammed his head upward—CRACK!
The wooden roof splintered with a deafening snap.
He sat up abruptly, bits of wood falling around him, blinking in confusion.
There was no pain.
"…Odd. That didn't hurt at all," he muttered.
He pushed himself upright, climbing out of the box that had imprisoned him—a coffin. Its rotted lid hung crookedly from the force of his escape.
He looked around.
A grave. Freshly dug, but not yet filled with soil.
Above him, the moon hovered directly overhead—cold, pale, and radiant, casting soft silver light down onto his pale form.
"…Is this a joke? Or a dream…?" he whispered, pressing a finger to his lip. It felt real. Too real.
Not wasting time, he growled and turned toward the grave wall.
"Not my first climbing rodeo."
With effortless strength, his fingers pierced the damp soil, and he began to climb. Dirt crumbled away under his grip, but he moved with uncanny ease.
The coffin remained below, like a sick cosmic joke mocking him.
At last, he emerged—pulling himself free and standing under the open sky. Before him stretched a massive, ancient graveyard.
Crumbling tombstones jutted from the earth like broken teeth, many covered in moss and dust, long-forgotten by time.
The air was still. The moon, high and full, bathed the world in a strange calm.
Oddly enough… it was soothing.
"Did the moon always feel so... beautiful?" Corven chuckled to himself, wiping dirt from his hands.
The graveyard was surrounded by tall, wrought-iron fences—rusted black and menacing. Dense, dark forest wrapped around it all, with trees like shadowy sentinels standing watch.
Yet a path remained—crude, narrow, but walkable. A simple dirt trail winding through the tombs.
"Am I still in Egypt?" he asked aloud, squinting into the night. The stars looked unfamiliar.
"Parched… thirsty…" he groaned, licking dry lips.
He laughed to himself.
Mocking the thirst.
But then he looked down at his arms… and froze.
"…Why am I so skinny?" he asked, his voice sharp with confusion.
His form was leaner. Paler. Sharper. Like something had drained the excess from his body, leaving behind only essential muscle and bone.
He stepped onto the path, leaving the graveyard behind. Trees loomed above, thick branches blotting out the stars. But through the darkness… eyes gleamed.
Red. Watching. Waiting.
"Wolves…?" Corven muttered, tension curling through him. "Oh great. If I didn't die before, I'm dying now."
He snorted.
Then—
[Integration Complete]
[Blood Codex Initialized]
> Host: Corven Aldric Varn
> Race: Fledgeling Vampire
Core Resources:
- Blood (0 units) – Used to trigger abilities or evolve traits
Traits:
Nightkin – You heal faster and move silently in darkness
Sanguine Sense – You can smell emotions in blood
Blood Memory – Drinking blood lets you glimpse memories or thoughts
Unnatural Strength – Stronger than an average human
Abilities:
None
Corven blinked.
"…What?"
He stared at the translucent window hovering in his vision.
"...A window? Text? Am I hallucinating?"
"That's a lot of information, isn't it?" he chuckled weakly.
But the laughter died fast—because the eyes in the woods moved.
The eyes didn't blink. They multiplied. Red glints in the dark—four, five, maybe more.
One wolf stepped into view. It was massive, black-furred, and hungry. But instead of attacking immediately, it paused.
It sniffed the air.
Once.
Its head tilted.
It smelled something divine. Something sanguine.
"…Thirsty," Corven mumbled, clutching his stomach.
The wolf lunged.
Corven turned.
He moved fast. Instinct took over.
He caught the beast midair—one hand wrapped around its neck.
The wolf snarled, clawed, struggled—
But Corven's grip was like iron.
"So… thirsty…" he murmured, voice hollow with hunger.
His lips parted. Two sharp fangs glinted under the moonlight.
Then—he bit.
Warm blood gushed into his mouth.
It was overwhelming. Sweet. Addictive. Alive.
- Blood (1 unit)
"Has blood always tasted this good…?" he whispered, red liquid trailing from his lips.
The other wolves didn't hesitate now.
Three more lunged—howling in fury at the death of their kin.
Corven pivoted, calm as ice.
One came at him with jaws wide.
He grabbed it mid-leap—right by the mouth.
"Your breath smells horrible," he muttered, then twisted—SNAP!
The next two came from opposite sides.
Corven stepped backward at the perfect moment.
They collided—crack!—nose-first, yelping and writhing on the ground.
Then—SPLAT!
He slammed both hands down like a hammer, crushing them into the dirt.
He stood still for a moment, surrounded by the mangled bodies.
"…Thirsty," he whispered again, voice low and dark.
And then, slowly, deliberately, he fed.
One after another, he drained the wolves dry.
The blood seeped into him. His pale body pulsed with unnatural warmth.
His once dull eyes now shimmered.
Blood Red.