Chapter 04: Film Props? The Fear of Becoming a Zombie
From where Lucien stood, he could see a colossal chandelier hanging precariously overhead—its tarnished brass arms entwined with gears and pipes that occasionally released small puffs of dust where steam might once have flowed.
Tiny mechanical birds perched among the arms, their jeweled eyes catching what little light remained, giving the impression they might take flight at any moment.
But what was truly magnificent was above: the ceiling. It was a breathtaking expanse of stained glass panels, arching in gothic splendor like those of a forgotten cathedral.
The moon's silver light shone through, revealing a riot of colors and fantastical scenes—tales of invention, progress, and chimerical beasts—each rendered in vivid detail, traced in lead.
Airships drifted through painted clouds alongside mechanical dragons; men in top hats conversed with beings of pure energy; women with brass-augmented limbs danced with clockwork partners.
The artistry was both familiar and utterly foreign—recognizable human forms engaged in impossible scenarios, each panel flowing into the next to create a cohesive mythology Lucien could almost understand but not quite grasp.
Middle Ages? No, I think this is the Victorian era? Lucien, mesmerized and awestruck by the sight, wondered as he scanned the vast old mansion.
His hand unconsciously rose to touch his own face, finding the contours both familiar and strange, as if his features had subtly rearranged themselves during his slumber.
The scene felt like he'd wandered onto a lavish movie set—everything around him reminiscent of meticulously crafted film props.
Then, on either side of him, Lucien spotted sweeping staircases splitting at a central landing—ornate affairs of dark mahogany with intricate balusters that twisted like frozen flames.
He realized he was positioned just beneath, between the branching stairs, in what must have been the mansion's grand foyer.
And he, on the other hand, appeared to have been placed inside a coffin, or had just woken up from one—a somber vessel of polished ebony lined with faded crimson velvet that still held the indent of his body.
The coffin itself was surrounded by scattered ruins and debris—broken pieces of masonry, shattered glass that caught the moonlight like fallen stars, and what appeared to be ceremonial objects tossed carelessly aside, their brass and silver components tarnished with age.
But that wasn't the real problem.
No, no... didn't I already die?! Only now, recalling what happened to him just before he'd lost consciousness, did genuine panic set in.
The memory crashed through his foggy mind with sudden, brutal clarity—the screeching of tires, the impact that had felt like being torn in half, the copper taste of blood flooding his mouth, and finally, the absolute certainty of darkness closing in.
His heartbeat should have accelerated with fear, but instead, he realized with mounting horror that his chest was disturbingly still. He pressed his palm against his sternum, desperately seeking a rhythm that wasn't there.
Coupled with the disorienting fact that he now found himself in an unfamiliar mansion, his anxiety spiked. His breathing—a reflex rather than a necessity, he somehow understood—came in shallow, rapid bursts.
Did they inject something into me? Turn me into some kind of experiment? he wondered, his eyes darting to the people surrounding him.
Yes—there were people here, for some reason gathered around him, dressed as if in maid and butler cosplay, but with an authenticity that no modern costume could replicate.
All of them held odd-looking devices that resembled a strange hybrid between antique firearms and medical equipment—brass contraptions with glass chambers and copper tubing that expelled small clouds of white steam with each subtle movement.
For some reason, he remembered movies he'd seen in which patients unable to afford hospital bills ended up the subjects of bizarre experiments—zombies, or even worse, transformed into something else entirely.
Some experiments failed, leaving their victims broken. Others succeeded, but with side effects: loss of intelligence, animalistic behavior, twisted limbs, or grotesque deformities.
He vaguely considered himself among the latter—one of the "successes," perhaps—but he still didn't understand exactly what had happened to him.
His mind felt clear, clearer perhaps than it ever had, thoughts crystallizing with new precision even as they raced chaotically from one possibility to the next. His limbs responded to his commands with fluid grace that bordered on supernatural.
But then…
His eyebrows narrowed; a frown appeared on his face, creating valleys of concentration between his brows. His head tilted slightly as he processed the incongruities.
Something didn't add up. If he was some kind of experiment, why conduct it here, in an old mansion of all places?
The antique furnishings, the lack of modern equipment, the period clothing of the staff—none of it made sense for a cutting-edge medical procedure, ethical or otherwise.
Why not in a high-end laboratory, with fluorescent lighting and stainless steel surfaces, or at least some secret underground facility with proper containment protocols?
The mansion, for all its grandeur, seemed ill-equipped for any serious scientific endeavor.
They'd still need proper equipment to experiment on his body, but... there was nothing here that resembled modern medical technology.
These people gathered around him… they weren't even wearing clean or protective clothing—no laboratory coats or lab gear to prevent the spread of viruses.
Not a single surgical mask or latex glove in sight. Instead, they looked as if they belonged in a movie set, or rather, a costume museum come to life.
He could clearly remember—and vividly feel—that he had died last time.
But none of this made any sense. The disconnect between his last memories and current surroundings created a cognitive dissonance so severe it felt like a physical pressure behind his eyes.
Or… perhaps…
All of this is just a dream, huh? Lucien thought. As that notion clicked into place, bringing him a sense of detached realization about everything that didn't make sense, his lips curled into a sad, self-mocking smile.
The tension in his shoulders eased slightly as he embraced this explanation.
The illogical leap from modern hospital to Victorian mansion, the impossible clarity of his vision in darkness, the strange absence of his heartbeat—all of it suddenly made perfect sense within the nonsensical logic of dreams.
Even in my dreams, it's not some fairyland, but an old mansion—heh, and I'm a vampire… he scoffed at himself, guessing that the "vampire" part may have come from one of the ads he saw before falling asleep.
Slowly, his mind began to drift, drowsiness threatening to take over—the peculiar heaviness of sleep within sleep. His eyelids drooped, the scene before him beginning to blur and fade at the edges, like watercolor bleeding into parchment—until…
Hungry…
The word didn't form in his mind so much as it erupted from somewhere deeper, more primal.
The endless hunger he had been suppressing suddenly awoke, unfurling within him like a predatory flower opening its petals to the moon.
It wasn't the familiar pangs of an empty stomach or the light-headedness of skipped meals. This was something ancient and consuming, a void that demanded to be filled, and, for some reason, it began to exert a strange influence over his mind.
Pale skin, the luscious-looking necks of the two women, the nearby group—images flooded his thoughts, each urging him to drain something from their bodies.
He could see the delicate blue veins beneath their skin, pulsing with what he somehow knew would be warm, sweet vitality.
Their heartbeats seemed to synchronize into a hypnotic chorus that called to him, each pulse sending tiny vibrations through the air that he could feel against his skin like whispered invitations.
The scent of them—human, alive—filled his nostrils with intoxicating richness: salt, iron, warmth, and something indefinable that made his entire being ache with want.
Unconsciously, he started to smirk, feeling something sharp beginning to protrude from his lips.
The sensation was bizarre—bone extending where it shouldn't, pressing against the inside of his mouth before piercing through his gums in a process that should have been agonizing but instead felt like relief, like a final puzzle piece clicking into place.
His tongue instinctively explored these new appendages, finding four sharp points where normal teeth had been.
His vision grew hazy, a faint red tint bleeding into the periphery, turning the mansion's shadows crimson and highlighting the pulsing arteries of everyone around him in vibrant scarlet.
The sensations escalated, building and building—hunger becoming desire becoming need becoming absolute imperative.
The red haze thickened, rational thought drowning beneath a tide of predatory instinct. His last sensation was of falling backward, the velvet interior of the coffin rising to meet him like an old friend, and he passed out.
…
BANG!
Suddenly, white smoke erupted into the midnight stillness of the old mansion—a gunshot echoed through the air, the sound crashing against the walls like physical force, sending dust cascading from the ceiling and causing the stained glass panels to vibrate in their leaded frames.
"ROAR!" Eyes burning red as blood, jaws parted to reveal four elongated fangs like those of a primal lion, the vampire—having just emerged from the coffin—let out a beastly roar that seemed impossible from a human throat.
Smoke rushed past like swirling dust as he stood, his movements unnaturally fluid despite the trauma, blood gushing from a hole in his heart where a silver bullet had torn through flesh and bone.
"A vampire, huh? Young Misses, please stand behind me," the speaker was the butler, gripping a gun crafted of gleaming, burnished silver.
Its barrel was engraved with protective runes and intricate gothic patterns, swirling around reliefs of interlocking gears and clockwork filigree that seemed to shift and ripple in the wavering moonlight.
Small tubes of luminescent blue fluid ran along its length, pulsing with each subtle movement of the butler's steady hand.
He was an old man, nearing sixty, his face a topographic map of experience—deep valleys carved between his brows, weathered ridges around eyes that had witnessed horrors beyond counting.
A neatly trimmed silver mustache framed thin lips pressed into a grim line of determination. His immaculate black tailcoat showed not a single wrinkle despite the tension in his broad shoulders.
The man wore glasses suspended from his ears and clipped to one eye—a monocle attachment that whirred softly as its brass rim contracted, focusing precisely on the threat before him.
He spoke as he drew a saber from its sheath with his free hand, the blade singing a high, clear note as steel met air—a sound like winter wind through ancient ruins.
His eyes narrowed with caution, pupils contracting to pinpoints of intense concentration, the crow's feet at their corners deepening as ancient muscle memory awoke within his aging frame.
"It's been a long time since I fought a vampire," he murmured, voice steady despite the gravity of his words.
The vampire, tall as a tree, his spine straight as the blade he wielded, his presence radiated a fearsome aura—a palpable pressure in the air around him, like the heaviness before a thunderstorm.
It was enough to send a chill through even a veteran like himself, a Tier 4 being, confronted by such a formidable opponent.
"Sir Bastian, let me help you!" said Elara d'Armande, the younger sister, bravely stepping forward.
Her emerald eyes flashed with determination as her fingers curled around the jeweled hilt of her own weapon.
She was only to be gently but firmly pushed back by Bastian's outstretched arm, saber in hand.
"Young Miss Elara, please stay back," he replied, eyes still locked on the towering vampire, never glancing away to address her.
"This vampire is likely around Tier 4—or perhaps even stronger." His free hand tightened almost imperceptibly on the saber hilt.
"Tier 4?!" Elara's eyes widened in shock—pupils dilating as the implications sank in—then narrowed in resolve, her delicate jawline setting with stubborn determination.
She gripped her own saber tightly, the leather binding of its hilt creaking under the pressure of her fingers, her knuckles blanching to match Bastian's.
Her other hand became shrouded in a soft blue mana that spiraled from her fingertips like luminous smoke, casting ethereal patterns across her face and highlighting the fierce set of her mouth.
"I can still support you, Sir Bastian," she insisted, moving closer to his side.
"Sis, be careful," cautioned the eldest sister, Lyra, who remained toward the rear—her slender figure framed by the moonlight streaming through the stained glass above.
Her pale hair seemed to absorb the colored light, transforming into a prism of subtle hues as she worked her magic.
She was already gathering purifying light about her body, luminous strands of silver-gold energy weaving between her outstretched fingers like living thread.
The light cast dramatic shadows across her face, accentuating the worried furrow of her brow and the tense set of her lips as she concentrated.
But as they exchanged words and kept their eyes fixed on the imposing vampire, their narrowed gazes widened further—in shock.
Collective gasps escaped their lips, the sound almost lost beneath the persistent hum of Bastian's weapon and Lyra's quiet chanting.
The bullet wound in the vampire's chest—once a gaping hole that revealed glistening tissue and shattered bone—was slowly closing before their very eyes.
The process was mesmerizing in its grotesque beauty: first, the internal damage reversed itself, torn vessels knitting back together with sinuous precision; then muscle fibers stretched and reconnected like living threads being sewn by invisible hands; finally, new skin formed over the wound, spreading from the edges inward like ice crystallizing over dark water.
Within seconds, what had been a mortal injury became nothing more than a pale circular scar shielding the heart beneath.
"Impossible… a silver bullet to the heart can't kill him?"
The two young women behind Bastian spoke in unison, their breath fogging in the suddenly chill air, their eyes fixed on the abnormal, towering vampire who now looked strangely absent-minded—neither attacking nor defending, merely standing after his earlier roar.
"No, it's working—it's just that… I missed the mark," Bastian clarified, regaining his composure with the practiced ease of a veteran. A single bead of sweat traced a path down his temple before disappearing into his high collar.
His voice remained steady despite the hammering of his heart, which Lucien could hear as clearly as a war drum. Did my skills really rust? I don't think I missed my mark, he thought, as the vampire finally turned its gaze toward them.
The creature's eyes—no longer fully human—gleamed with predatory intelligence.
His irises had expanded to consume the whites, creating pools of crimson that reflected the moonlight like freshly spilled blood. His pupils had elongated to vertical slits that contracted sharply as they focused on the defenders.
"ROAR!"