The world breathed in silence.
Deep beneath a mountain wrapped in mist, a cavern of black crystal pulsed with a heartbeat that was not quite alive, not quite asleep. The air was thick with mana—heavy, ancient, unmoving. For five thousand years nothing had stirred here except the slow drip of condensed dew from the ceiling, falling on the coffin at the cavern's center.
The coffin itself was carved from obsidian and blood-red gemstones, its surface etched with veins that glowed faintly like embers under ash. At the first tremor, dust danced. At the second, the mountain sighed. On the third, the coffin lid shifted with a soft scrape.
A pale hand pushed it aside.
From within rose a man whose skin looked as though moonlight had settled upon it too long. His hair fell silver-black, eyes closed, lips curved in a lazy smile. When he finally opened them, crimson light rippled through the cavern, and the heartbeat of Gaia itself seemed to pause in recognition.
Abba yawned.
"Hmm," he murmured, stretching as though he had merely taken a short nap rather than half an age. "Was it five hundred years this time? Or five thousand? I always forget."
He swung his legs over the edge of the coffin. His bare feet touched the stone floor; mana stirred like a breeze meeting fire. Every mote of air in the cavern bent toward him in worshipful obedience. He paid it no mind. Instead, he rubbed the sleep from his eyes and squinted toward the entrance tunnel.
"It smells different," he said to no one. "Humans again, perhaps? Or did the dragons finally burn themselves out?"
His stomach growled, low and ominous.
"Ah, right. Breakfast."
He flicked his fingers. The shadows around him quivered and took form—thin, serpentine shapes that darted out of the chamber. Moments later they returned, whispering wordless information into his mind. Abba listened, chuckled, and rose.
"Villages now where forests once stood. Mana weaker in the air. And—oh?—a new king calling himself 'divine'? How adorable."
With a casual sweep of his hand, his ancient garments—long since crumbled to dust—were replaced by a flowing black coat trimmed with silver thread. He glanced down, satisfied. "Still fashionable," he said. "And still devastatingly handsome."
As he stepped out of the cavern, the first sunlight he had seen in millennia kissed his face. The mountain range sprawled before him, green and gold under morning haze. Birds took flight at his presence; the wind changed direction, bowing unconsciously.
Abba inhaled deeply. "Good morning, Gaia. Did you miss me?"
He descended the slope with unhurried grace, teleporting short distances when the terrain grew tedious. Each flicker left a faint distortion in the air, the mark of forbidden mana smoothing space itself. By the time he reached the valley, the world had already begun to notice his return: rivers swelled, mana beasts hid, and a few unlucky spirits fled screaming into the void.
Abba ignored them all. His attention had snagged on something far more interesting—a small human village nestled by a lake, smoke curling lazily from chimneys.
Humans again. They never failed to rebuild.
He smiled faintly and murmured, "Let's see what flavor this age carries."
The village of Hearthglen was peaceful that morning. Farmers led mana-oxen to fields, children chased glowing beetles near the lake, and the local mage's tower sputtered harmless sparks into the sky. No one noticed the stranger who appeared at the edge of the road until he was already walking among them.
He moved like a dream: silent, graceful, yet unmistakably present. Heads turned, conversations paused. His eyes—too red to be human, too calm to be threatening—swept the market with mild curiosity.
A girl selling bread blinked at him. "Um… traveler? You look lost."
"Do I?" Abba tilted his head. "I suppose I am. I slept longer than planned."
She laughed, uncertain. "Must've been quite a nap."
"The best kind," he said, taking one of her loaves. The coins he placed on the table shimmered faintly before turning mundane. She didn't notice. "Tell me, little one, who rules this region now?"
"The Kingdom of Valen," she said automatically. "Our capital's north, past the White River. You're not from around here, are you?"
"Not recently," he replied, tearing the bread in half and tasting it. "Hmm. Softer than I remember. Humanity's baking has improved."
Her brows knitted. "You… remember humanity's baking?"
Abba gave her a charming smile. "I'm older than I look."
He continued down the street before she could respond, leaving the girl staring after him with wide eyes.
He wandered until he reached the lakeside, where sunlight scattered across the surface like shards of glass. There he paused, watching his reflection ripple. For a moment the world seemed peaceful enough to lull even an ancient being back to sleep.
Then he heard it—a scream.
Abba sighed. "Ah. Trouble already. Every era is the same."
With a flick of his wrist, shadows coiled around his feet and shot forward like arrows. He vanished, reappearing a heartbeat later beside the source: a group of armored bandits cornering a woman near the water's edge.
"Hand over the crystals, witch!" one snarled. "No tricks, or we'll—"
They didn't finish. A breeze brushed their necks; suddenly their weapons lay in pieces on the ground. The lake behind them steamed, rippling with faint red light.
Abba stepped into view. "Forgive me," he said lazily. "You were disturbing my sightseeing."
The men turned, trembling. One managed to stammer, "W-who—who are you?"
"Just a passerby." He smiled pleasantly. "Now, begone."
They didn't need more convincing. In moments, the bandits fled into the woods, tripping over each other.
Abba turned to the woman. She was young, perhaps in her early twenties, cloaked in travel-stained robes. Her eyes—emerald green—met his, and for the first time since awakening, his pulse quickened.
Ah, he thought. So it begins again.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, offering a hand.
She shook her head slowly, still staring. "Your eyes… they're glowing."
"They do that sometimes," he said. "Especially when I skip breakfast."
She laughed despite herself, a sound bright enough to make the lake shimmer. "You saved me. Thank you, stranger."
"Abba," he corrected gently. "Call me Abba."
"I'm Lyra," she said. "A traveling mage."
Abba inclined his head. "A pleasure, Lyra. Tell me—what year is it?"
Her brows rose. "Year 5021 of the New Age."
He nodded thoughtfully. "I see. I overslept again."
He walked with her back toward the village, listening as she spoke about kingdoms and wars and the rediscovery of mana technology. He absorbed every word with detached amusement, occasionally commenting on how humans never changed: always fighting, always dreaming.
When she asked where he was from, he only smiled. "From a time before your history began."
Lyra laughed, thinking he was teasing. "Then you must have many stories."
"Too many," he said softly. "But perhaps I'll share one over dinner."
That evening, as the sun set and the lake reflected crimson, Abba sat outside the inn with a cup of blood-wine he had quietly conjured from his own mana. Lyra joined him, holding a book and smiling shyly.
He looked at her, at the golden light painting her face, and thought how predictable yet fascinating the cycle of his existence was. Each time he awoke, the world offered him new sights, new flavors… and someone new to love.
He took a slow sip. "To new beginnings," he murmured.
Lyra clinked her cup against his. "To new friends."
Abba's smile deepened. Friends first, perhaps.
The night breeze carried laughter across Hearthglen, and somewhere deep within the mountain, the world's mana shifted, whispering an ancient name it had almost forgotten.
The sun of Gaia rose in soft amber hues, stretching its light across the rolling green hills that surrounded Hearthglen. Morning dew clung to the blades of grass like little jewels, and faint mist still lingered over the dirt road leading toward the heart of Luminaris—the capital, Vasili. Birds sang above the tree line, their voices carried by the wind that smelled of pine and distant rain.
Abba walked leisurely along the winding path, his boots silent despite the gravel beneath. The weight of centuries sat lightly on his shoulders, and even in this humble human kingdom, he moved like the world itself bent a little to accommodate him. Lyra trailed beside him, her leather satchel bouncing against her hip, her eyes still flicking toward him as if to confirm he truly existed outside of dreams.
"So you really meant it when you said you'd travel with me," she said, adjusting her cloak. "Most strangers say things like that out of courtesy."
Abba glanced at her, a faint smile curving his lips. "Do I look like someone who does things out of courtesy?"
She hesitated, realizing that—no, he didn't. "You look like someone who does whatever he pleases."
"Exactly," he said softly, his crimson eyes gleaming with amusement. "And right now, what pleases me is walking beside you."
Lyra flushed, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "You really know how to make people flustered, don't you?"
"I've had a long time to practice." His voice held an effortless tease, yet it carried the kind of calm that made the air feel heavier for a moment, as if the wind itself dared not interrupt.
They walked for hours beneath the shade of tall elms. The road gradually widened as they neared the outer provinces. Caravans and merchants began to appear, their wagons creaking under goods bound for the capital markets. Every traveler they passed seemed to unconsciously step aside, giving the pair a wider berth than necessary. None of them could explain why—they only felt an instinctive weight pressing on their chests when Abba's gaze brushed over them.
Lyra noticed it, too. "People keep avoiding you," she murmured.
"Do they?" He tilted his head, pretending surprise.
"Yes. It's like… they sense something."
"Perhaps they do." His tone was mild, but the faint smile returned. "Predators recognize predators, even when they cannot see the fangs."
Lyra gave a nervous laugh. "You make it sound so ominous."
"Only if you're prey," he said, glancing at her sidelong. "And you're not, are you?"
Her lips parted, but she couldn't quite find an answer. The warmth in his tone softened the words, yet the underlying confidence—the unshakable presence—made her heart beat faster. There was nothing threatening in him, but something vast and untamed lingered beneath the surface, as if he could turn mountains to dust if mildly inconvenienced.
By midday, the towering white walls of Vasili shimmered in the distance like sunlight on water. The city was built around seven concentric rings, each representing a noble rank, with the royal castle at its gleaming heart. Magic crystals floated above the main gate, channeling mana into glowing runes that repelled monsters and cleansed the air of miasma.
As they approached, the guards straightened immediately. Though Abba wore no insignia or crest, something in him made the captain of the gate stammer and bow as if addressing a king.
"Welcome to Vasili, travelers," the captain said quickly. "May I—may I ask your names and purpose?"
Lyra began to answer, but Abba's gaze swept lazily toward the man. His crimson eyes gleamed, a ripple of mana brushing the air like the first touch of a storm.
The guard's knees buckled slightly. "Forgive me—I meant no disrespect."
Abba's smile remained light, almost kind. "There's no need for apologies. I only dislike unnecessary questions."
"Y-Yes, my lord," the captain stammered, stepping aside immediately.
As they passed through the gates, Lyra shot him an incredulous look. "You didn't even do anything."
"I disagree," Abba said mildly. "I smiled."
She sighed, though amusement tugged at her lips. "That poor man will probably have nightmares about your smile."
He chuckled, a low, velvety sound that somehow made her chest feel light. "He'll live. Fear is healthy for mortals. It keeps them aware of what's above them."
They entered the bustling streets of Vasili—vendors shouting, mana lamps glowing, carriages clattering over cobblestones. The air was thick with spices and perfume. Yet even amidst the noise, an invisible space formed around them; no one dared brush too close. Abba seemed entirely unaffected by the attention, gazing up at the towers with lazy curiosity.
"This city is loud," he said finally.
"You don't like it?"
"I didn't say that. I like watching life unfold," he murmured, eyes reflecting the golden spires. "But I prefer quiet places. The kind where I can hear the wind and maybe, if I'm lucky, someone's heartbeat."
Lyra's breath caught at his words. "You're… strange."
"Only compared to humans," he replied, turning his gaze back to her. "And that's precisely why you find me interesting."
She opened her mouth to protest, then stopped—because he was right. Completely, unflinchingly right.
As the afternoon sun bathed the streets in orange light, they made their way toward the Silverwing Inn near the royal plaza. Lyra walked a little closer now, though she wasn't sure when she had started doing so. And Abba, without comment, let her.
For the first time in centuries, the vampire who had slept through empires and ages felt something faintly alive stir within him again—not hunger, nor boredom, but curiosity.
And that, for someone like him, was dangerous
The Silverwing Inn sat near the heart of Vasili, its whitewashed walls glowing softly in the afternoon sun. Mana runes engraved along its frame shimmered faintly, warding minor disturbances and keeping wandering mana spirits at bay. To Abba, they were trivial—barely more than decoration for a city too small to contain him. Shadows curled around his boots as he entered, moving lazily over the polished floorboards before vanishing into the cracks between the stones.
Lyra followed him, heart beating faster than it had on the road. She had expected travelers to notice Abba's eyes, perhaps even fear them—but nothing prepared her for how the city seemed to bend around him. Patrons froze mid-step, innkeepers bowed instinctively, and even the ambient mana seemed to hesitate.
The innkeeper, a stout woman with soot-streaked hands, froze mid-step, her tray trembling. "M-may I help you?"
Abba smiled gently, tilting his head. "A room with a view of the plaza, and perhaps some wine." His voice was light, teasing, but the weight behind it was undeniable. Shadows pooled slightly at his feet, and for an instant, the air thickened with quiet awe.
The innkeeper curtsied so low she nearly touched the floor. "Of course, my lord. Right this way."
Lyra exhaled quietly. "You… you don't even have to speak, and people act like you're a king."
"I prefer to think of it as a courtesy," Abba said lightly, winking. "Fear is unnecessary if respect comes naturally."
Later, Abba leaned against the balcony overlooking Vasili's bustling plaza. Merchants called out, announcing exotic goods from distant provinces. Children darted between stalls chasing mana-imbued insects, while novices practiced harmless spells along the canal. A few nobles in gold-trimmed cloaks passed beneath him, their eyes briefly meeting his—and faltered, unable to reconcile instinctive fear with their assumptions.
Lyra stood beside him, whispering, "Everyone seems… tense around you."
"Not tense," Abba replied softly, crimson eyes sweeping the plaza. "Alert. Even mortals have instincts, Lyra. Some can sense power before it manifests. That is all." He tilted his head, lips curling in that easy, teasing smile. "And a well-placed smile doesn't hurt either."
"You're ridiculous," she muttered, though a small smile tugged at her lips.
"Ridiculous, unstoppable… close enough," he replied, letting the wind tug at his coat. "Now tell me—what's worth seeing first in this city? Where do the intrigues hide?"
Lyra hesitated, then began explaining districts, temples, marketplaces, and rumors of the noble houses' rivalries. Abba listened with mild amusement, raising an eyebrow here or tilting his head there.
"Politics," he said finally. "Humans vying for power with words. Delightful." His gaze lingered on the rooftops, then on Lyra. "I suppose I'll need to meet some nobles. They'll be charming… if they survive noticing me first."
By evening, Abba and Lyra moved through the streets toward the royal plaza. Lanterns glowed softly along the cobblestones, reflecting off the river that curved through the city. Their steps drew attention, as always, though no one dared approach.
A small delegation of nobles approached, cloaks rustling, eyes darting. One stepped forward—a tall man with a straight back and pride etched in every line. "Lord… sir," he said, voice steady but cautious, "you saved the plaza earlier. Might I ask your name?"
"Abba," he replied lazily. "And you are?"
"I am Duke Alaric of Valen," the man said. "We wish to formally thank you for your… intervention."
Abba's gaze swept the duke like sunlight across a plain—gentle, yet all-consuming. The faint pressure of his aura brushed the air around them, enough to make the noble's knees weaken slightly. Shadows pooled subtly at Abba's feet, stretching toward the duke as if testing their obedience.
Finally, he smiled—a casual, teasing smile. "You are welcome. I hope your gratitude does not come with expectations?"
"N-no, lord. Only honor," the duke stammered.
"Good. That's the way I prefer it." Abba's eyes flicked to Lyra. "Now, is your wine as good as they say?"
The duke blinked. "Y-yes, finest southern vineyards, my lord."
"Excellent. We shall see." He turned to Lyra. "Shall we?"
Lyra's hand brushed his arm as she followed, a mixture of amusement and awe in her chest. Even in his casual presence, he radiated authority. Every passerby whispered, stared, or instinctively avoided them—yet Abba walked on as if the world itself were politely stepping aside.
That night, the duo dined at a terrace overlooking the river. Lanterns reflected in the water like floating stars. Abba sampled the wine with a slow, deliberate satisfaction, while Lyra watched him carefully.
"Everyone is talking about you," she whispered.
"I know," he said lightly. "The nobles suspect I'm a vampire lord of great renown. They have no idea." His crimson eyes glimmered as he leaned back. "Some rumors may even reach the vampire quarter itself. Interesting."
Lyra shivered slightly. "You really do like… this attention, don't you?"
"I prefer recognition," he said softly, smirking. "Attention is trivial. Recognition… that leaves an impression." He swirled the wine in his cup, letting his aura drift subtly over the terrace. Lantern flames flickered, and even the river shimmered differently, as though responding to his presence.
Lyra shook her head, smiling despite herself. "You're impossible."
"Unstoppable," he corrected, finishing his wine. And with that, Vasili, this grand city of humans and minor nobles, began to whisper his name—believing him merely a legendary vampire lord, never imagining the true depth of the being who walked among them.
Abba's crimson eyes glinted in the moonlight. "Let's see what other curiosities this city holds," he murmured, a faint smile teasingly dangerous on his lips