The moon hung in the sky like a slitted eye, its pale gaze filtering through the stained glass of the Monteri estate's ancient library. Inside, amidst the scent of wax and parchment, Floyd sat hunched over a tome the size of a coffin lid. The silence was cavernous. Pages whispered under his fingers.
His limbs ached from the morning's training, shoulders bruised and fingers split open from claw drills against tempered bark. The servants were astonished and surprised from such drift. He seems different person to them.
But there were still some who could not acknowledge him.
Coward shrimp.
That's what they called him.
Floyd never reacts when he hears that accidentally. He knows there is nothing he can do currently. Their insults serves as encouragement to him.
He had ordered days ago, voice flat and sharp, "no matter how late, no matter how tired, you will bring me meals after training. Something nutrient-dense. No noble recipes. Salt, fat, iron. That's all. If you must feed me horse meat grilled over a ditch, so be it. I'll make it chocolate."
She hadn't argued. She always obeyed his instruction.
But Floyd could see the concern in her eyes. The questions she dared not ask.
'She might want to know why I have changed so much. I am sorry but the person you are loyal to does not exist.'
_______
He flipped another page.
His room was a cluttered mess of old anatomy scrolls, vampiric martial treatises, and a chalked-out schedule that divided every hour into slivers of blood, sweat, and reading. The body he wore—weak and fragile—had made minimal progress. Muscles refused to respond. Reflexes lagged and claws that dulled too quickly.
A mockery of what a Monteri should be.
Fitting into this world was still alien. His fingers still twitched when servants bowed to him. His instincts hadn't caught up to this life.
Here, he had shelter. Title and blood.
Yet he trusted no one.
Still, trust wasn't necessary for power. Only will.
His eyes skimmed another line, then froze. A glyph etched in deep red ink caught his eye.
"Crimson Tears."
He read again.
A potion. Ancient. Forbidden in some clans, practiced in others. Distills pain. Coagulates hatred. Strengthens keratinized claws a hundredfold. It had only one side effect: unbearable agony for hours.
"With this I might be able to level up."
The Thin-Blood of the Bloodless rank. A half-step above the shameful tier he resided in now.
Ten years remained before succession rites. Ten years before the Patriarch would announce the next in line. Dan, for now, was the clear heir. Powerful. Respected and Favored. But also arrogant and Predictable. Shaped like a blade that could only stab forward.
Floyd would be a different kind of weapon.
To dethrone a monster, you didn't become louder.
You became quieter. And sharper.
Father, cold and watchful, would one day turn his gaze toward competence. Not potential, not bloodline favoritism—but results. When that moment came, Floyd would be ready. He would not chase his father's approval.
He would earn his position through undeniable power.
But ambition required foundations.
He needed allies, yes. But first—he needed to earn the right to breathe in this world.
That meant strength.
That meant studying every book, every secret, every damnable potion.
He pulled the tome closer, circling the Crimson Tears formula with a line of ink. His hand trembled. Not from fear but from excitement.
The name alone bled power. It wasn't mentioned in any foundational curriculum or even the standard alchemy volumes; it was tucked into the margins of a half-burnt grimoire.
He skimmed the faded recipe again.
'To awaken the dormant talons of the Thinblood, the potion of Crimson Tears shall be brewed.'
The list was short. But none of it was simple.
10 litres of lesser hound blood.
Blood of a single scorpion-class monster.
2 litres of the brewer's own blood.
He set the book down gently, and stared at his hand.
His nails were cracked. Worn out. Tattered from days and nights of clawing at stone, tree trunks, anything to sharpen instinct through pain. He had trained like a starved beast chasing a memory, and all he earned was bruised fingers.
They could still tear through flesh—animal flesh, at least. Maybe a weak beast if caught off guard. But to him, that wasn't power.
That was survival.
And survival wasn't enough.
Power was the goal. Influence, dominance, and eventually—rule.
He remembered the laughs behind his back, "Coward Shrimp".
He clenched his fist, nails digging into his palm, drawing out a slow trickle of his own blood. Two litres. That alone made his stomach turn. He'd have to survive his own bleeding just to qualify for the potion.
"Tch."
It would be easier to ask his sister. She is a skilled alchemist after all. She could brew it in hours. She wouldn't even charge him for it.
But no.
This was something only he should make. Maybe for sense of ownership.
If he wanted to be king of vampires, he could not inherit greatness. He had to forge it himself.
The real trouble, though, wasn't bloodletting.
It was the beasts.
Lesser hounds were rare on this continent. Not impossible, but hardly something you stumbled upon. And the scorpion-class monsters… they were worse. Aggressive, territorial and thick armored. Their tail like a hammer. Only seasoned warriors or experienced hunters would try.
He wasn't either.
Yet he planned to kill one.
He shut the book and stood, pacing near the window, looking out toward the north. The Lieor Forest lay beyond the Monteri estate. Monsters roamed freely there—beasts untouched by human or vampire cities. That was where he'd find his ingredients.
Or maybe die trying.
The moonlight brushed against his pale face as he whispered to himself, "I'll do it."
Maybe he should ask for Lily's help. She would undeniably follow him.
A maid who followed his orders without question, who offered warm towels after hours of torturous training—he could only wonder:
'Why? Why did this weakling body get someone like her?'
It didn't make sense.
He could peek on the memory of this body. Floyd saved her from being sold in illegal auction and kept her as his maid.
'Maybe this is her way of paying back.'
The thought drifted away as he opened a fresh journal and began listing requirements.
Containers to store monster blood.
Tools to extract it without spoiling.
Preservation spells.
Travel route to Lieor Forest.
It was going to be long journey.
By the time he stepped away from the desk, the stars had shifted. His eyes burned, body aching, blood sluggish.
He looked down at his own hand again, the fingernails dull, but trembling faintly with hunger.
He would tear through the world if he had to.
To rule the vampires…
He had to begin by bleeding.