A hushed sound rose from the bottom of the stairs, and the party froze for a moment. That slight difference from how it was described in the book made me wonder if they already knew I was here. In the story, the heroine and her allies were careful, yes, but never to this exaggerated extent.
I held my breath as soft footsteps closed in from the right, while others circled to the left, surrounding me from both sides. I knew exactly who they were. Three in total: the heroine, Hera; her loyal right hand, Sofia; and her left hand, Clara.
All three had been described in the book as beauties capable of toppling nations. Yet it wasn't just their looks that made them legendary. Their courage and their disregard for wealth or power had earned them the title of Suns of Lunara, the land of holy knights.
I pressed myself into the darkest corner, swallowed by the shadows, and when the weight of impending doom fell over me, I nearly squealed. Somehow, I held my tongue.
Golden hair, fine as silk, brushed past my nose. In the book, Hera had been written as a woman of perfection: brave, kind, mature beyond her years. But what I saw now was something words hadn't captured.
Through the torchlight flickering across her face, I saw purity. Not just of spirit, but in the way she carried herself. Her sapphire eyes glimmered beneath long lashes, her lips soft and full. I had never seen someone so flawless. And my gaze foolishly lingered on her a moment too long. Long enough for her to feel it. Long enough for her to turn, the torchlight catching my eyes in its glow.
"Found you… little vampire."
My heart lurched violently, ready to burst from my chest. Her voice was sweet, melodic, warm; yet it was the most terrifying sound I had ever heard.
Damn it! Adrenaline surged through me, panic driving my heart into a furious rhythm. It was now or never. Me against the fate written by the author of this story.
I summoned the scalpel, blood rushing from beneath my fingernails, weaving through the air until it solidified into a crimson blade. My grip steadied. If survival meant cutting down the protagonist herself, then so be it.
My eyes locked on her snow-white neck. The carotid. Two centimeters from the trachea. One precise cut and she would bleed out in seconds. I judged the angle in an instant, and my hand slashed forward with surgical precision, the motion as practiced and natural as the countless strokes I had made in the operating room.
The scalpel screamed through the air, but before it could reach its mark, Hera stepped back as though she had read my intent. She was impossibly quick. My blade missed, leaving only the faintest trail of crimson across her flawless skin. Blood on snow.
"You—!" Her breath caught, sharp and unsteady. She was afraid. I could tell.
I knew it was foolish to try, but it was the only chance I had. I didn't lose my composure. Before she could recover and her allies fully grasp what had happened, I drove my foot into her stomach. My strength was higher than most, though nowhere near hers.
If I remembered correctly, her strength was around level twenty at this point in the story. I couldn't hope to injure her seriously, but I could knock her back far enough to slip away.
The kick landed, and I seized the narrow window it gave me, sprinting for the stairs before they could surround me.
"Stop right there!" A sharp voice rang out. The woman with black hair, Sofia, thrust out her hand, and the air thickened with moisture. My heart skipped a beat. I knew what was coming.
The book had described this skill well. A water bomb. Small, but strong enough to pierce stone.
I heard the rush of liquid gathering behind me and dove down an instant before it detonated. The blast tore through the stairwell, blasting me with a violent gust and drenching me in cold spray. The stone shattered beneath the force, cutting off my escape in a single blow.
"How dare you injure my big sister!?" A sharp voice cut through the chaos, and the taste of metal filled my mouth as something smashed into me. Disoriented for a moment, I realized what had struck me. It was Clara, the brown-haired brawler. Her strength betrayed her delicate appearance. In the book, she had become a legend, her fists described as weapons that could split trees with a single blow.
If not for my vampiric body, if I had been just a normal human, my skull would have already shattered. Even now, I wondered if my brain had suffered some permanent damage. I couldn't move. My limbs betrayed me, and the world seemed to dissolve into nothingness.
All I could sense was a warmth before me, a warmth that tasted disgusting on my tongue. My blurred vision fell upon a sword shining with golden brilliance, radiating holy energy, the very source of Hera's strength.
No… I can't die. I tried to force my body to move, but it refused. They were far beyond me, impossibly powerful. There was nothing I could do but wait for death with bitter reluctance. No wonder protagonists always win their battles. They're unkillable.
"Hehehe…" A sultry laugh seeped into my ears from the void. Terrifying. Seductive. For a heartbeat, I wondered if I was hallucinating in the final moments before death. But then the voice followed, mocking and cruel:
"To think the heroine would reduce you to this… my dear Beatrice, let me lend you a hand."
My heart froze. I knew that voice. In the book, it was written that the villainess could whisper to her puppets through telepathy.
Before long, a crushing pressure swept over me, forcing every nerve in my body to shudder. Through my fading vision, I saw her emerge from the void itself. A figure too perfect, too terrifying; her crimson hair spilling like blood, her bare back tall and slender, yet radiating an aura that was both powerful and strangely protective.
This was the woman who had slaughtered Beatrice's family, the reason her lineage had been cursed and her prime stolen away.
Her name was Lysandra, the true villainess of this story.