Cold.
That's the first thing he feels—cold that isn't mere temperature but something gnawing at the marrow. It clings to his skin like frost-bitten silk. When he tries to breathe, his chest barely moves; the air feels thick, stale, unmoving.
Am I… dead?
A voice—his own, but distorted—echoes inside his skull. Darkness presses in from all sides. Then comes sound: droplets falling onto stone, slow and steady, like a heartbeat that refuses to die.
He opens his eyes.
A ceiling of black stone stares back. Wet moss glimmers faintly with phosphorescence. The smell—iron, rot, and something ancient—fills his nose. He blinks again, realizing his vision pierces the gloom better than it should. Shadows breathe; edges glow faintly silver.
Memory floods in pieces: a car crash, hospital lights, the long tunnel of pain—and a final thought before everything went black.
If I could be reborn anywhere, I'd choose Skyrim…
He laughs, though no sound escapes.
He sits up. His fingers are pale, almost translucent, and his nails end in small, sharp tips. His heart gives a single, weak thud—and then stops entirely. No pulse. No warmth.
Something primal inside him hungers.
A whisper slithers across the back of his mind:
Feed.
He stumbles to his feet. The cavern stretches outward, lined with cracked coffins and broken urns. Ancient Nordic runes decorate the walls—he recognizes them instantly. Bleak Falls Barrow? No… smaller. A crypt. Volkihar architecture maybe?
The realization hits harder than the cold.
No way. Skyrim?
He approaches a shattered mirror leaning against the wall. What stares back isn't the twenty-five-year-old gamer Elias Cross remembers. It's a ghost: black hair matted with dried blood, eyes glowing a dim, hungry crimson. Fangs glint where his canines should be.
"A vampire…"
The word slips out, thick and dry.
Behind him, movement—a faint shuffle. Instinct drives him before thought. He whirls, claws extending unconsciously from his fingertips. A figure staggers from the shadows: another vampire, gaunt and trembling, blood crusted around his mouth.
"Th-The fledgling awakens," the creature croaks. "Good… maybe you'll draw them off."
"Who?"
A bolt of sunlight sears through a hole in the ceiling. The older vampire hisses, shrieking as smoke pours from his skin. Armor clatters outside—heavy boots, disciplined steps. Voices shout commands.
Dawnguard.
Elias doesn't have time to think. The first bolt shatters the door. A man in leather armor bursts in, crossbow raised. His amulet of Stendarr gleams like fire in the gloom.
"Purge them!"
The older vampire lunges and is torn apart by silver bolts. The scent of burning flesh fills the air. Elias ducks behind a coffin, panic rising—but beneath it, a thrill. The hunter's heartbeat thunders in his ears. He can taste it.
When the man reloads, Elias moves. Instinct again—too fast, too fluid. He crashes into the hunter, slamming him into the wall. Fangs find flesh before conscious thought.
Warmth explodes in his mouth.
Blood.
It's life, sunlight, music, madness. Strength floods his limbs. The world sharpens—edges burn bright, sound slows, and fear melts into ecstasy. When the body falls limp, Elias wipes his mouth with shaking hands.
I… killed him.
He expects guilt. None comes—only hunger satisfied and a whisper of more.
Footsteps echo deeper in the tomb. Three more hunters. Elias grabs the fallen crossbow, ducking into shadow. When one enters, he fires—bolt through the throat. The second swings a torch; Elias darts forward, claws slashing. The third shouts a prayer to Stendarr—Elias crushes his windpipe before the word "mercy" leaves his lips.
Silence returns. Smoke curls toward the ceiling.
He exhales slowly, tasting the copper on his tongue. His mind races.
This isn't a dream. I'm in Skyrim. In the body
of a vampire…
He kneels beside the corpses, prying a journal from one. The pages are damp, ink smeared but legible.
"Dawnguard Patrol 14 — Tracking minor coven near Solitude coast. Reports of new fledglings. Orders: Purge nest, recover relic named 'Blood Sigil.'"
He flips the page—and stops. A rough map shows his location: an unmarked cave west of Castle Volkihar.
Volkihar territory. Then Harkon exists. Serana exists… and if they do—Molag Bal does too.
He laughs again, this time with real sound. The absurdity borders on divine cruelty. Died in a mundane world; reborn in the nightmare he once loved.
A glimmer catches his eye—a crimson shard half-buried under rubble. The Blood Sigil? He reaches for it. The moment his fingers touch, energy lances through him like molten ice. Symbols flare across his vision—lines of text forming as if written in blood.
⸻
[Bloodline Interface — Initializing]
Status: Fledgling Vampire (Volkihar Blood)
Rank: 0 — Starving
Essence: 12 / 100 (Blood Energy)
Skills Unlocked: [Night Vision], [Drain Life I]
Instinct Directive: Survive. Feed. Evolve.
⸻
A system. Like a game overlay—responsive to thought. He focuses on a word and a translucent description appears.
Drain Life I: Absorb vitality from living targets through bite or sustained contact. Efficiency increases with Blood Essence.
He grins, disbelief twisting into exhilaration.
A bloodline system… just like a game build. Survive, evolve, ascend.
A rumble shakes the cave; part of the ceiling collapses, sunlight spearing through cracks. Elias hisses, retreating into shadow as his skin begins to smoke. Pain flares—not the sting of heat but the agony of existence being denied.
He rolls deeper into the tunnel, dragging the corpses with him. The sunbeam devours the blood on the floor, turning it to ash.
Lesson one: the sun really kills me now.
L
In the dark tunnel beyond, a faint glow pulses—an exit leading into night. He shoulders a cloak from one of the Dawnguard and slips outside.
Cold sea air hits him. The horizon burns gold where the sun sinks behind mountains; twilight spreads its long fingers over the water. For a moment, he just stands there, breathing air he doesn't need, watching the world that once belonged to someone else.
Above him, the moons Masser and Secunda begin to rise. Their light feels… welcoming.
A new world. A cursed body. And a path only blood can pave.
He kneels, pressing a bloody hand into the snow.
"Alright, Skyrim," he murmurs, voice low and hoarse. "Let's see how far a monster can climb."
Somewhere far across the sea, thunder answers
The scent of life drifts on the wind—wolves, men, something ancient in the forest beyond. His stomach growls though he has none.
The hunger never sleeps.
Elias pulls the hood over his face and starts walking east, each step leaving faint, steaming prints in the snow. Behind him, the crypt burns—Dawnguard fire catching the corpses, painting the cave mouth in orange light.
The first night of his new eternity has begun.
And the world doesn't yet know its future god has awakened.
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Let me know what yall think..