On a very cold, snowy night—
A man stood alone.
Snow fell thick and heavy, swallowing sound, turning the world into a suffocating white void. Blood steamed faintly where it dripped onto the white snow, staining the ground in red, out of place patterns.
The man's blonde-white hair clung to his face, matted with frozen blood. One eye was swollen shut. His clothes—once fine, once expensive—were torn to rags, soaked through with blood and filth. Every breath tore at his lungs. Every movement screamed pain.
He stood only because he refused to fall.
Steel boots crunched through the snow.
It was Raphael Duskborne.
Raphael breathed like a dying animal.
"Surrender yourself, vampire!" a rank four knight barked, voice sharp with authority and hate. His armour gleamed even under the storm— "You are surrounded!"
Raphael laughed.
Or tried to.
It came out wet and broken.
He spat blood onto the snow, straightened his back with what little pride he had left, and threw his arms wide.
"IF YOU WANT ME—" his voice cracked, raw and hoarse, "THEN COME AND GET ME!!"
The words were a lie.
A beautiful, but fragile lie.
Inside his train of thoughts, something had already collapsed.
This is it.
His thoughts slowed, drifting backwards.
To Naro's eyes.
To Dracula's throne.
The castle halls filled with gold, blood, whispers, and power.
All gone.
Luck had abandoned him the moment that boy entered his life.
Eight years.
Eight years of running.
Ever since he fled his castle, the world had turned against him with terrifying intent. Vampires branded him a traitor. Humans hunted him like a rabid beast. Rumours spread faster than truth—Raphael Duskborne, mastermind behind Dracula's disappearance.
The irony nearly made him laugh.
He was guilty of stealing a Nyx.
Just not that sin.
A sharp pain flared across his face—the old wound burned. A Light Path scar. No matter how perfect his Blood Mask Nyx was, it always betrayed him in the end.
Damned luck…
He stumbled.
Pain consumed him—his vampiric regeneration barely clinging to life. His body screamed for blood, but there was none. His throat felt like sandpaper. His muscles trembled, failing him one by one.
Still—he didn't fall.
Then—
A presence descended like a calamity stepping onto the world.
A Rank 5 aura exploded outward.
The snow froze mid-fall.
Knights staggered, dropping to one knee as if the heavens themselves pressed down on them.
Raphael's eyes shrank to pin size.
No…
"There is no escape, vampire" a calm voice said.
The aura crushed everything.
Raphael's legs buckled. He hit his knees hard, blood splashing into the snow. He stopped pretending. Stopped resisting.
"I guess…" he whispered, breath shaking, "…this is it."
The Rank 5 knight stepped forward, axe humming with power, its edge glowing faintly.
Raphael closed his eyes.
Suddenly—
The world tore open.
A rift split the air behind him—black, twisting through space. Shadowy arms reached out, dozens of them, clawing Raphael.
They wrapped around Raphael's body.
"What—?!" a knight shouted.
The shadows pulled.
Raphael didn't even have time to scream.
He vanished.
The rift snapped shut.
Silence.
Snow fell again.
The knights stared at the empty space, dumbstruck.
…
Raphael woke screaming.
His body was laying on clouds… Solid clouds.
He lay on a smooth, pale floor that felt neither warm nor cold. The ceiling stretched endlessly upward, layered with drifting mist and faint moonlight. Pillars rose like frozen storms, carved from vapor given form.
It was an unknown palace.
After a little pause—A surge of aura blew out.
Raphael's breath hitched as an invisible hand closed around his soul. Pressure crushed his thoughts, twisted his instincts, dragged terror straight from his core.
This wasn't Rank 5.
This made the Rank 5 knight feel like a joke, like an ant that could be crushed.
His vision blurred. His heart slammed as if it was going to explode. He crawled backward on shaking limbs, sobbing, choking, reduced to something pitiful and small.
It felt like death was better than such a feeling…
…deciding whether he was worth keeping alive—
"Awwww…" a soothing voice said gently yet mockingly.
"You poor, poor soul... So pitiful."
Raphael turned.
His bloodshot eyes widened.
She stood there—calm, relaxed, utterly in control.
A woman with a body sculpted like art: strong yet feminine, curves perfect, presence overwhelming. Black short hair flowed like a void spilling down to her shoulders. Horns curved elegantly from her temples. Her eyes were darker than night itself.
Yet her face—Smooth, radiant, it was like jade kissed by moonlight. Her lips cherry with a mole on the left of her her chin.
For a heartbeat, Raphael forgot everything. He forgot all the fear, all the pain and even reality itself.
She was beautiful beyond reason.
But she was also the source of that monstrous aura.
Rank seven immortal aura.
"Who…" Raphael whispered, voice breaking. "Who are you?"
She smiled, slow and indulgent.
"I am the witch who watches between worlds."
She stepped closer, each movement elegant.
"You may call me—" her pinkish lips curved, "—The Velvet Moon Witch."
Raphael trembled violently. "H-how did I get here?!"
She laughed softly. "That Nyx you carry..."
Raphael froze.
"It was mine," she continued, amused. "A failed immortal creation. Designed to allow me to pass freely between realms. I discarded it… and somehow, it slipped into your pathetic little mortal world."
She tilted her head, studying him.
"And now," she chuckled, "it brought you to me."
She laughed—at the Nyx, at fate, and at him.
Raphael's mind shattered.
Of all places… of all beings… He ended up at an immortal's palace!
His luck truly was cursed.
"Sigh," she said, waving a hand. "Don't look so terrified, child."
She knelt before him.
A warm glow enveloped Raphael.
Pain vanished.
In a blink, every wound healed. His body restored, stronger than it had been in years... Even his light path scar was healed.
He stared at his hands, breath stolen.
She lifted his chin gently, forcing his gaze up to hers.
Their eyes met.
Raphael's heart nearly stopped.
He didn't know whether to blush—or beg—or die.
"So interesting," she murmured.
The truth was simple.
She didn't kill him for a reason.
She saw a tool to use.
A pawn who had, by accident and misfortune, placed himself on the board of immortals.
And this time—
Raphael Duskborne would not escape the game.