Chapter 11: Gaslighting Max-Level Boss!
Upon hearing the tall, towering vampire's words, Elara fell silent. Her newly crimson eyes—vertical pupils dilating in the fractured moonlight—narrowed and darted away from his unblinking gaze.
She could feel his stare like a physical weight, pressing against her heightened senses as she struggled to process her transformation. A faint tremor ran through her athletic frame, her chestnut hair bristling slightly as if charged with static electricity.
When you put it that way... she thought silently, her jaw clenching tight enough that she felt the unfamiliar pressure of fangs against her inner lip.
An abandoned mansion: the perfect place for her family, the once-great d'Armande line, now in ruins and far from the Imperial City..
Not only could they hide in this remote region, but according to the records, the mansion had been abandoned for generations.
No one dared to live here because of its proximity to the main battlefield between humans and demons.
But who would have guessed that their wise decision would turn her family into a pile of corpses?
Elara's narrowed eyes grew moist, the tears welling up unnaturally bright against her red irises.
Her lower lip trembled uncontrollably, fangs momentarily visible as they pressed against the soft flesh, turning downward in a grimace of raw sorrow.
Her claws extended unconsciously, digging half-moons into her palms as the scent of her own blood joined the overwhelming miasma of death.
Especially when Elara looked again at her elder sister's smiling face: even in death, Lyra smiled radiantly—unwavering, as she had been when the court accused her of heresy.
As Elara pondered in silence, Lucien—the tall, imposing vampire—mirrored her quiet. His broad shoulders cast elongated shadows across the carnage-strewn floor as he observed this beautiful woman, transformed yet somehow maintaining her essence.
For him, his crimson pupils narrowed to razor-thin slits as he listened, hearing her heart still beating with unnatural rhythm: perhaps, like him, she was still unaccustomed to her new vampire body.
Her breath came unnaturally loud in the cavernous space, disturbing dust motes that danced in the colored light between them.
This time, the corner of Lucien's wide, unsettling mouth slowly curled upward in a predatory smirk, his fangs momentarily visible before receding with that curious tingling sensation he was still adjusting to.
His long, unkempt dark brown hair shifted like liquid shadow as he tilted his head, studying her with clinical fascination.
It was truly a miracle—witnessing this firsthand, not merely as a scene from a movie or a passage from a novel.
She hadn't become a mindless zombie, or even a skeleton, nor an unstable vampire driven by bloodlust alone.
She had simply returned, her appearance almost human despite the supernatural changes—the healthy flush replacing death's pallor, the predatory grace infusing her movements, the pulsing blue veins visible beneath golden-warm skin.
And her memories, miraculously, remained intact.
How amazing was that? For Lucien, who had always believed in logic, this resurrection made no sense to him.
His crimson eyes widened slightly, the vertical pupils dilating with fascination as he observed the impossible miracle before him.
The stained glass above cast shifting patterns of color across his marble-pale features, highlighting the bewilderment etched there.
Yet, like a magician displaying a trick, Lucien simply found himself enjoying the experience, his broad shoulders relaxing almost imperceptibly beneath his tattered shirt as a strange thrill coursed through his transformed body.
What made Lucien even more curious was the realization: So, my words can basically control her?
He tilted his head slightly. Back when this vampire woman had attacked him, Lucien had pondered how to use his power, drawing on the countless novels he had read.
It had been just a test, but as it turned out, it worked perfectly. The corner of his mouth twitched upward, revealing the edge of a fang that caught the fractured moonlight with a gleam.
And something stirred in my body when I spoke those words, Lucien added inwardly, feeling the echo of that strange energy coiling in his chest like a serpent awakening.
Beyond that, he had noticed that when this vampire woman was still overwhelmed by unstable emotions, a thick, bubbling mist had appeared around her—a crimson haze that seemed to dance and writhe with a life of its own, distorting the air around her athletic form like heat rising from sun-baked stone.
Perhaps that was what they called bloodlust? This time, Lucien placed one hand on his chin, his long, elegant fingers caressing the sharp line of his jaw while narrowing his eyes as he examined the aura surrounding the vampire woman.
He recalled how that thick bloodlust had enveloped her when she had tried to attack him—how it had swirled and pulsed in time with her rage, casting eerie shadows that moved independently of the light sources in the cavernous hall.
So if I get angry, can I do that too? Just as Lucien pondered this new power, the vampire woman—who had been staring at anything except him, her gaze darting between the blood-slicked floor and her sister's still form—suddenly broke down.
"Hisk...hisk..." Tears streamed from her eyes, but unlike before, these were truly human tears, white and liquid, catching the colored light from above and refracting it like prisms. They traced gleaming paths down her cheeks before falling to soak the wild, chestnut-dark, disheveled hair that clung to her body.
Her shoulders heaved with each sob, the movement causing the torn fabric of her once-elegant gown to shift and whisper against her skin.
In this vulnerable state, for some reason, Lucien noticed her fair skin with striking detail; the vampire transformation had gifted him with vision sharp enough to see every pore, every tiny blue vein pulsing beneath the surface, the subtle flush of unnatural life that made her glow in the dim light.
She looked even more stunning and beautiful.
But, as a young man, Lucien couldn't help but stare. His gaze, drawn like a magnet, slid down her torn dress.
Where the fabric ripped, plump, smooth flesh peeked through—especially the full curves of her tits. The ragged cloth shifted with her breathing, barely covering her modesty.
He saw everything: the hard pink points of her nipples, the ripe, round swell of her perfect breasts.
"Ehm..." Lucien coughed, his dark brown, long, unkempt hair swinging like liquid shadow as he shifted in embarrassment.
His glowing crimson eyes lingered only—only briefly—a fleeting moment before he forcibly wrenched his gaze away, the vertical pupils contracting sharply as if in physical pain.
But even with determined intention, his forehead wrinkled in a frown, the skin between his brows creasing as he swallowed hard.
It was truly difficult not to glance at that part, to resist the temptation pulling at him like a physical force.
Not to mention—such a beautiful face! How can I resist? Once again, he shook off those thoughts with an almost violent twist of his head, sending his hair cascading across the torn remains of his once-fine shirt.
He exhaled sharply, the sound unnaturally loud in the cavernous hall where dust motes and tiny droplets of blood still hung suspended in the colored light. Then he glanced at her briefly, his shoulders straightening as he composed himself. "Stand up."
His voice was cold and neutral, though he felt something stirring inside his body as he spoke those words—a coiling power that vibrated through his chest and throat, charged with unnatural authority.
And, in an instant, the vampire woman—who had been sobbing, her tears falling to mix with the blood pooling at her knees—was compelled, or perhaps unconsciously caused, to stand up.
Her reddened eyes, with crimson pupils still shimmering with moisture, looked at him from beneath wet lashes that clumped together like dark stars.
Gone was the fierce, calculating, and complicated impression she once gave; now, this vampire woman appeared only as a fragile figure before Lucien, her tattered blue gown hanging precariously from her shoulders, the silver threading catching what little light remained in dull gleams.
Focus... huff... Silently, he inhaled, mimicking the calming techniques he used when he was still human, though air no longer served its original purpose in his transformed lungs.
Then he looked at her again, studying her. "How is it? Do you feel any pain? Headache? Or hunger?"
He needed more information—about his ability, about his blood that could actually revive a person on death's door into a perfectly intelligent vampire.
But little did Lucien know: when this vampire woman, Elara, was asked those questions, her reddened eyes drifted away from his face, sliding down to fix upon his exposed throat where the tattered collar of his shirt had fallen open.
Hungry... yes, I'm hungry... Her lips twitched awkwardly, the upper one curling just enough to reveal the edge of a fang that caught the light with deadly promise.
Her nostrils flared slightly, inhaling his scent—a complex mixture of power, copper, and something uniquely male that called to her transformed senses.
For some reason, after she cried, the resentment—the anger she should have directed at the towering vampire before her—temporarily vanished, replaced by an intense focus on the smooth, long, and strong muscles of Lucien's neck.
Her gaze traced the path of what would be his pulse, lingering on the hollow of his throat where moonlight created a pool of shadow.
Almost unconsciously, she swayed forward half an inch, her claws beginning to extend from her fingertips with a soft, barely audible sound like knives being unsheathed.
Hungry... I'm really hungry. Her lips parted slightly, a thin trickle of saliva gathering at the corner of her mouth before her logical mind snapped her back to awareness with the force of a physical blow.
The colored light from the stained glass above caught the moisture on her lips, giving them an unnatural sheen as her expression shifted from predatory to horrified.
What? What just happened?! Why?! Why am I thinking like that?!
Her eyes flew wide open, unblinking crimson pools with pupils suddenly contracting to thin vertical slits.
Her chestnut hair seemed to bristle again, rising slightly as if charged with static electricity as her gaze jerked toward Lucien.
This time, she hastily wiped away her tears with the back of her hand, her claws inadvertently scratching fine lines across her cheek that healed almost instantly.
The scent of her own blood—sharp and metallic—briefly filled the air between them before she glared at him with renewed intensity.
Once again, this vampire—the one who had caused her elder sister's death and slaughtered her servants—became the target of her rage, the feeling of anger burning through her veins like liquid fire, causing the pulsing blue lines beneath her skin to darken visibly.
"No, I don't need your pity," she spat, red eyes meeting red eyes as she glared at this towering vampire who had killed the rest of her family.
Veins bulging at her temples and neck, she shouted at him, her voice filling the cavernous space with righteous fury. "Let me ask... We came here at our lowest—desperate and with nowhere to go. Yes, it's not ours, but it was empty, forgotten—how could it be so wrong to seek shelter? Does that really justify what you did?!"
Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, her claws digging crescents into her palms once more.
She tried—tired and desperate—to justify her actions, but deep down she knew: how could a human argue with a hungry-looking vampire?
Yet, seeing him stand there, silent, speaking like a normal human, his marble-pale face betraying no emotion despite the vivid crimson of his eyes, perhaps... perhaps he would feel guilty. Or should he?
"You slaughtered everyone," she continued, her voice cracking slightly as she gestured wildly at the carnage surrounding them. "My sister, the servants—none of them deserved that! Even if we were trespassing, punishment shouldn't be death. Isn't there any part of you that feels that's too much?"
By now, two fangs had suddenly protruded from her upper lip, pressing visibly against the soft flesh.
Their unexpected emergence made her glance away in shock, one hand flying to her mouth as she felt their sharp points with her fingertip.
The sensation was alien, terrifying—another reminder of what she had become. A tiny droplet of blood welled where her fang pierced her fingertip, and the taste of it—her own blood—sent a shudder of unwelcome pleasure through her transformed body.
But the towering vampire, Lucien, looked at her impassively, his broad shoulders silhouetted against the fractured moonlight that streamed through the stained glass above.
Yes, at first he had felt remorse, guilt—but how could he not know? Or should he explain that he was not the one who killed them?
Thus, seeing her like this—desperately justifying and glorifying an act of trespass—Lucien only stared at her, expressionless.
His long hair hung like a curtain of darkness around his face, catching the prismatic light in subtle highlights of mahogany and amber.
"To find shelter is human. But not all empty doors are safe, and not every house is lost to time."
A vampire this old must be the real owner of this house, Lucien thought.
His confidence came from his earlier question and the woman's reaction when he asked it—the subtle flinch, the momentary flicker of guilt that had crossed her face before rage consumed it.
Guilty, huh.
"You rage at what you've become, and rightly so. You woke to hunger; so did I.
"The choice I made was imperfect—life in darkness instead of an ending. I won't call it mercy, only necessity," Lucien continued, his brows furrowing like storm clouds gathering over a pale horizon as he crossed his arms across his broad chest.
But...