Chapter 08: A Reader's Dream!
A strange feeling crept into his mind and heart, seeping through him like ice water through cloth.
Should he be overjoyed? Becoming a vampire—the very being he'd hoped to become when he was suffering from ALS? The irony wasn't lost on him as he flexed his fingers, noting the supernatural strength that now resided in limbs that had once been wasting away, unresponsive to his desperate commands.
And not to mention these people. He was certain he had transmigrated, the realization settling over him like a shroud.
His tightly pressed lips slowly parted, forming a faint, forced smile that didn't reach his eyes, which remained fixed on the carnage surrounding him.
A single drop of blood still clung to his lower lip, and he absently licked it away, disgusted by how his body responded with pleasure to the taste.
Transmigrator.
"A term for people whose souls cross into another world," he whispered.
How could he not know? Wasn't it the dream of every novel reader—to transmigrate into a fantasy world?
But now, the first thing he had done after transmigrating was slaughter innocent people, driven by a hunger not of his own making. The evidence lay scattered around him—servants and nobles alike, drained and discarded like empty vessels.
He should have been drowning in guilt. Instead, he felt… nothing. An emptiness yawned within him, vast and cold as the space between stars.
His new body registered the carnage with detached interest, like a scientist observing cells under a microscope.
Why do I feel empty? Lucien wondered, pressing his palm against his chest where no heartbeat answered.
He didn't know exactly why he felt this way after killing people, but he had a hunch.
It was something in this body, perhaps a remnant of its previous owner, that made him hesitate—even to apologize. A foreign instinct curled through his consciousness like smoke, whispering that these humans were merely prey, unworthy of remorse.
It felt like a disgusting thing—a low act—to even consider apologizing, Lucien thought with revulsion.
His lip curled involuntarily, exposing one elongated fang that gleamed in the moonlight.
It was like a human apologizing for stepping on an ant. The comparison came unbidden to his mind, accompanied by a flutter of something that might have been amusement in his dead heart.
And yet, Lucien, kneeling upright on the ground and cupping his hands—noticing how the blood beneath his nails had already begun to dry to a rusty brown—murmured words that felt simultaneously foreign and familiar on his tongue:
"Lord, receive this soul into Your mercy. May they find peace in Your presence."
He prayed. The words were simple, but for some reason, as he spoke them, something stirred within his body—something fleeting and painful, like a spark trying to ignite in a cold hearth.
A burning sensation crawled across his skin where the colored light from a stained glass cross touched him, leaving faint wisps of smoke rising from his exposed forearm.
He chose to ignore this as he stood up, the joints of his new body moving with unnatural fluidity, entirely without the creaking protests he'd grown accustomed to in his previous life.
That was it.
The guilt he felt, the urge to pray—these were remnants of his once-human self, of a time when he could still feel pain and sadness. Like the broken pieces of masonry scattered across the foyer floor, these fragments of humanity remained, though the structure they once supported had collapsed.
But of course, he also remembered—and could not forget—the circumstances of his past life: after his parents died, not a single relative came to help him again.
How even the nurse with the kind smile had offered to sell his kidney when the medical bills mounted.
The memory of the hospital's fluorescent lights buzzed in his mind—harsh, unforgiving illumination that exposed every indignity as he suffered from ALS, his body betraying him one muscle at a time while administrators in crisp suits discussed costs in hushed tones outside his door. ever.
In a world that offered no mercy, why should he feel any?
Now, where am I? Lucien wondered. After settling his complicated thoughts, he began to analyze his situation once again.
His eyes could pierce the darkness as if it were merely twilight—colors shifting to reveal details invisible to human sight.
Like most vampires he'd read about, perhaps because bats, the origin of vampire myths, use ultrasonic sound to perceive their surroundings.
He could see dust particles suspended in the air, motionless as stars; the minute cracks in the marble floor beneath the carnage; even the trapped air bubbles in the stained glass panels far above, imperfections invisible to mortal eyes.
The world had transformed into a canvas of extraordinary detail, overwhelming yet intoxicating.
The guns—especially the silver gun the young lady and the butler had carried—were adorned with gears as well, almost like the inner workings of a car.
Tiny pistons and valves were visible along their barrels, and what appeared to be steam vents lined their handles.
Why gears? Lucien wondered, his fingers twitching with the impulse to examine the intricate mechanisms more closely.
But for now, he chose to ignore that. Instead, he focused on analyzing the people and his circumstances, stepping carefully between the bodies, his movements unnaturally fluid and silent—no longer the stumbling, clumsy motions of his ALS-ridden former self.
If I am a vampire, I must sleep in a coffin, he mused, the corners of his mouth twitching at the cliché even as he acknowledged its apparent truth in this reality.
His gaze drifted to the coffin nestled between the twin spiral staircases, its ebony surface reflecting fractured moonlight.
Logically, in this old, ruined mansion—with even the coffin covered in debris, brass gears and shattered glass scattered across its surface like bizarre confetti—it was clear the place had long been abandoned.
Are these people intruders? Did they disturb my sleep? And do I really have no servants? He reached this conclusion, turning his attention to the clothing of the people around him—especially the two beautiful women from before, examining their garments with newfound clarity.
Their dresses, though now ruined, were clearly made of expensive materials—hand-embroidered silks, imported lace, silver threads that created patterns too complex for machine production.
They're probably nobles of some kind? Wait… Just as Lucien reached this thought, a memory surfaced like a bubble in thick liquid—one of the women had screamed something, her voice resonant with power, and then a burst of light had burned him, searing his newfound flesh like acid.
The sensation had been excruciating, leaving phantom pain that echoed through his body even now.
The butler had shouted as he attacked him, words in a language that seemed both foreign and familiar, and even the second woman had shouted while shooting him in the face, the silver bullet passing through his cheek with a hiss before embedding itself in the wall behind him.
All their shouts had sounded like chants, syllables charged with power.
A fantasy world… Maybe there are Elves, Orcs, and even Demons here? Lucien's eyes blinked with excitement, his pupils dilating and contracting with inhuman speed as adrenaline—or whatever now served as its equivalent in his transformed body—surged through him.
How could he not be excited, when all he ever did after being stricken with ALS was lie helpless in bed?
So this world… it's not medieval. Gears, Victorian-era clothing… could it be steampunk? A fantasy steampunk setting? The revelation clicked into place in his mind, pieces fitting together like the intricate clockwork surrounding him.
The mechanical birds, the brass-adorned weapons, the fusion of magic and technology—it all pointed to a world where steam power and sorcery coexisted in delicate balance.
Just as Lucien grew excited at the thought, his heightened senses detected a glint among the debris—his gaze landing on a shard of mirror that lay half-buried under a fallen sconce.
The cracked glass caught the fractured moonlight, reflecting his own figure back at him with merciless clarity. He stepped closer, movements fluid and predatory, as he bent to examine the stranger who stared back.
Tall—about six foot six, towering over what must have been the average height in this world. More like a basketball player's frame, but with an unnatural grace that no human athlete could achieve.
He noticed, of course, the clothing he wore—a once-pristine white poet shirt now grotesquely transformed into a canvas of violence.
The fine linen, originally crafted for nobility, hung in tatters from his broad shoulders, the delicate lace detailing at the collar now stiffened with dried blood that had turned from bright crimson to rusty brown.
What had likely been elegant cuffs with intricate embroidery were now shredded ribbons dangling from his wrists, exposing marble-pale forearms corded with supernatural strength.
His lower half fared no better—black trousers that might have been fashionable in aristocratic circles were now reduced to rags in places.
The heavy fabric, once richly dyed and impeccably tailored, was slashed across the thighs where claws or weapons had found their mark.
His shoulders stretched broader than he remembered, tapering to a powerful torso that showed no sign of the wasting disease that had once claimed him.
His eyes: red, glowing with an internal fire, with slit pupils like a snake—terrifying and hypnotic simultaneously.
The irises seemed to pulse with each thought that crossed his mind, brightening with his curiosity.
His hair was long, unkempt, and dark brown, falling past his shoulders in waves that appeared almost liquid in the strange light.
But the most terrifying part was his mouth, stretched in an unintentionally wide grin, perhaps from his earlier excitement, exposing four fangs that gleamed like polished ivory daggers.
Yes, four fangs—two on top, two on the bottom. It was like a saber-toothed cat, but with additional fangs protruding from below, designed not just for piercing but for tearing.
The sight was primeval, awakening instinctive fear even in himself.
At this sight, Lucien's eyebrows furrowed, his expression darkening as revulsion and fascination warred within him. The mirror captured the conflict playing across his features—still recognizably human yet fundamentally altered.
As if responding to his will—or perhaps his disgust—the four long fangs gradually shortened, receding into his gums with a sensation like pins and needles.
He felt the bone and tissue reshape itself, a strange tingling that wasn't quite pain but wasn't comfortable either.
And, unexpectedly, so did his height. His perspective shifted as his body compressed slightly, the strange internal rearrangement accompanied by a soft cracking noise that reminded him of knuckles popping.
From six foot six to six foot three—which made him breathe a sigh of relief, though he noted with detached curiosity that the breath was unnecessary, merely a lingering human habit.
That's scary as hell—no wonder they called me a monster, he laughed inwardly, the sound echoing strangely in his own mind.
While the body was still unusually tall, once the long fangs vanished he became only slightly taller than the average human—not abnormal.
And the face was actually quite handsome—aristocratic features with high cheekbones, a straight nose, and a strong chin that spoke of nobility. The red eyes remained, though less intensely glowing now, like banked coals rather than roaring flame.
Of course, most vampires were described this way, Lucien thought, touching his sharp jawline with newfound fascination and tracing his bold eyebrows, which gave him a piercing, deep stare—eyes capable of charming any lady who looked into them for too long.
His skin was pale but not corpse-like, more like fine marble with a subtle luminescence that seemed to absorb and reflect the moonlight simultaneously.
Just like the fiction always claimed: vampires were perfect, except for…
Their hunger and their weaknesses… At this, Lucien's brows furrowed, creating a crease between them that made his reflection look suddenly dangerous.
He remembered that silver gun the butler and one of the beautiful women had used—nearly killing him.
Not just that—anything silver, even a fork, caused him pain; it was a weakness that made his skin crawl just thinking about it.
But the most painful was…
That burst of holy light—Lucien stared at the body of the woman who had cast that spell or magic.
The memory of that light made his skin prickle with remembered agony, as if every cell in his body had been set ablaze simultaneously.
He had screamed then—a sound unlike anything his human throat could have produced—as the purifying radiance had burned through layers of undead flesh.
Now, besides holy light and silver, what other possible weaknesses might he have?
At this point, Lucien began recalling every vampire film and story he'd ever seen, his mind cataloging potential weaknesses with academic precision.
Garlic—their pungent scents supposedly repelling the undead; sunlight—burning vampiric flesh to ash; silver weapons that seared unholy flesh; running water that could not be crossed; even those old, absurd tales where vampires couldn't enter a home without being invited, trapped on thresholds like beggars awaiting permission.
But aside from the weaknesses, he also remembered that vampires could master magic—manipulating minds, transforming into mist or beasts, commanding vermin and weather alike.
A spark of excitement flickered within him at these possibilities, but quickly dampened as realization set in. The real problem was...
"I have no memory of anything about this body," Lucien muttered, a wry smile twisting his lips while shadows darkened his already gloomy face.
This was bad. Knowledge is power for a vampire—and now, he was basically a newborn, with no experience. He flexed his fingers, feeling the unnatural strength coiled within them but having no idea how to properly harness it.
Like giving a Ferrari to someone who'd never driven, his new capabilities were as much a danger as an asset.
"UGH..." Just as Lucien was lost in thought, a low groan broke the silence, sending a jolt through his heightened senses.
The sound—barely audible yet somehow deafening to his transformed ears—came from one of the two beautiful women—the one he'd dropped from his mouth earlier. Her fingers twitched against the marble floor, scraping faintly as consciousness returned to her ravaged form.
"M...mo..." she tried to say something, her voice a rasping whisper that scratched at the air. Her eyelids fluttered, revealing glimpses of irises once bright but now clouded with approaching death.
Noticing the looming shadow of the towering vampire above her, she attempted to recoil, but her drained body could manage only the slightest tremor.
But...
Through her blurred and fading consciousness, she heard something chilling:
"If my memory serves me right, I think a vampire can turn a human into... what is it called...a fledgling?"