Chapter 20: Unbelievable, How Can Women Talk So Long?! My Feet Are Rooted Here!
Her gaze darted between the corpse of the butler—the silver mustache now matted with dried blood, the weathered face peaceful despite the violence of his end—and Lucien's face before lowering her head again, ash-blonde hair falling forward to shield her expression.
She knew what this towering vampire wanted, but how could she do that? Even she herself was full of regret for becoming a vampire; the thought of never again feeling the warmth of sunlight on her face, of being forever cut off from her goddess's grace, carved lines of anguish across her delicate features.
Why should she willingly turn her loyal servants, condemning them to the same cursed existence?
"J-just two drops of blood... will be enough?" Unexpectedly, Elara, still ashamed from the previous incident, asked with a trembling voice that seemed to vibrate in the air like a plucked string.
Her fingers unconsciously wiped at the corner of her mouth where a smear of Lucien's blood still lingered, dark and accusatory.
Though her shoulders hunched slightly beneath the tattered remains of her once-fine gown, her spine remained straight—yet she remained resolute.
After all, the promise from him was to revive her elder sister and all their loyal servants in exchange for her entire self—her body and soul—to serve as his servant.
The deal was already sealed, so what was there to be shy about?
But to Lyra, who had already been shocked by how her little sister had just sucked the blood of this towering vampire—the memory still fresh and vivid, the sounds of Elara's desperate gulping echoing in her enhanced hearing—seeing Elara now ready to make such an obviously wrong decision was too much.
Her pale face contorted with horror, the red of her pupils flaring like suddenly stoked embers. She couldn't help but grab Elara's tattered hem, pulling it hard enough that the delicate fabric tore further with an audible rip, the sound sharp and violent in the cavernous space.
"ELARA! What are you saying!" This time, Lyra was angry, her voice rising to a pitch that made the broken shards of crystal from the chandelier vibrate on the marble floor.
Her eyes glared at her little sister as she even called her by name. Her ash-blonde hair seemed to rise slightly with the force of her emotion, floating around her face like pale seaweed in dark water.
The act of bloodsucking was bad enough—even she had lost her rationality, had felt the overwhelming rush of need that obliterated all thought—but turning others, their loyal servants who should be resting peacefully in heaven?
Dragging them back and making them suffer more? That was crossing the line!
Her hands trembled as she clutched at Elara's gown, knuckles whitening with the force of her grip, the silver threading in her own ruined dress catching the fractured moonlight like distant, accusing stars.
"Sis-"
...
While the two sisters fiercely argued once again—Elara's voice rising in defensive counterpoint to Lyra's righteous anger, their words overlapping and echoing in the vast space—Lucien found himself sighing deeply.
How many times would they argue and comfort each other? His gaze was one of disbelief—perhaps this was the first time he had ever watched, and even waited for, women to finish an argument that seemed eternal and never-ending.
At first, Lucien had respected their feelings, thinking they needed to sort things out, but now veins bulged on his forehead, prominent against his marble-pale skin like rivers on a relief map.
His jaw clenched, grinding his teeth together with enough force that a faint, ominous cracking sound emanated from his mouth.
"ENOUGH!" he shouted, the word exploding from him with such force that it disturbed the dust motes floating in the air.
This time it caused the two sisters to flinch and look at him with fear in their eyes, their argument dying mid-sentence.
Clicking his tongue—Lucien's red, blinking eyes looked coldly at them—at these two chatterboxes. His pupils contracted to vertical slits, focusing on them with predatory intensity. The shadows beneath his cheekbones deepened, giving his face a skull-like quality that emphasized his otherworldliness.
"What did I tell you?" he asked again, his voice now deceptively quiet but filled with menace. Each word fell into the silence like stones into a deep well, clear and unmistakable.
Lucien didn't even bother to hide his anger and this time, something seemed to flow from inside his body, a palpable wave of power that dissolved into the surrounding air—perhaps projecting itself into the sisters' vision.
…
Time was limited, and Lucien had already had enough. Only then, after his outburst, did the sisters—following his command—each drop two drops of blood onto the near-dead bodies of their loyal servants.
The crimson droplets fell like rubies, catching the fractured moonlight before landing with tiny, audible splashes on cold flesh.
Lyra's hand trembled as she bit her own wrist, her fangs piercing her marble-pale skin with surprising ease. Each time she released her blood, her eyes squeezed shut in silent prayer, lips moving in wordless apology.
Beside her, Elara worked methodically, her movements more precise, her expression hardening with each servant she touched.
Soon enough, once all of the more than ten servants had received the drops of blood—either from the first or second vampire woman—their bodies began twitching.
The movements started subtly—a finger curling, an eyelid fluttering—then escalated to violent jerking that made their limbs slap against the blood-slicked marble with wet, percussive sounds.
So their blood works too? Or does any vampire blood work? Lucien pondered, his head tilting slightly as he observed the scene with clinical detachment.
But unexpectedly, instead of stopping like when he had revived the first or second vampire woman—clearly due to a lack of blood—these servants' skin and wounds began to heal before his eyes.
Torn flesh knitted together with audible, wet sounds; shattered bones realigned with sickening cracks; pallid skin flushed with unnatural vitality. They even started slowly standing up, movements jerky and puppet-like, which made Lucien frown, his massive brow furrowing as he took an instinctive half-step backward.
"S-Sir Bastian..." Elara's voice caught in her throat as the elderly butler's body twitched and rose, his silver mustache still matted with dried blood, the broken monocle hanging precariously from one ear.
On the other hand, Elara and Lyra were so touched they began crying, holding their mouths to stifle their sobs as they watched one by one as their followers and servants came back to life.
Blood-tinged tears tracked down their cheeks, leaving faint crimson trails on their pale skin that glowed eerily in the colored light from above.
Yet...
Their eyes were wild, maddened like lunatics; pupils completely dilated until only a thin ring of iris remained, reflecting the fractured moonlight like polished obsidian.
Their mouths hung open, exposing elongated fangs that dripped with viscous saliva that hissed when it hit the floor, steam rising from each droplet.
Their heads slowly rose on necks that cracked and popped, tendons visibly straining beneath skin that was simultaneously healing and transforming.
This isn't right, Lucien thought, noticing the subtle differences. Unlike when the first or second vampire woman had been revived, these newly revived vampires looked to be in a state of ravenous hunger—just as he had been when he first transmigrated into this body.
That means...
Before Lucien could finish his thought, all of the vampires—their former servants, now mindless vampires—charged, their movements a blur of tattered uniforms and bared teeth.
"GRRR!"
The floor beneath them cracked with their newfound strength, tiny marble shards flying upward with each powerful step. They rushed past Lucien, the displaced air ruffling his dark brown hair, and headed straight for the two sisters, who stood frozen in momentary shock.
"Ahh! No, Sir Bastian! It's me!" Lyra's voice rose to a desperate pitch as the butler lunged at her, his once-dignified face contorted into a mask of hunger, his weathered hands transformed into claws that reached for her throat.
"Agnes! It's me! Clara!" She dodged another maid whose blonde hair, once neatly pinned, now flew wild around a face twisted with bloodlust.
Lyra shouted, and—perhaps after having charged at the towering vampire twice and tried to pull her little sister before—she managed to gain some control over her enhanced physique.
Her tattered blue gown swirled around her legs like disturbed water as she easily dodged the mindless charges and lunges from her loyal servants, her movements graceful despite the panic evident in her wide, crimson eyes.
"What are you doing, Maria!" But unlike her elder sister Lyra, who was careful to just dodge, afraid her strength might accidentally kill her loyal servants, Elara was blazing with fury.
Her dark chestnut hair rose around her face as if electrified by her rage, her fangs fully extended as she snarled.
BANG!
She was a whirlwind of tattered silk and righteous anger—kicking and punching the relentless, mindless vampire maids who lunged at her.
Each impact produced a sound like thunder in the enclosed space, and where her fist or foot connected, bodies flew backward, crashing into walls and furniture with splintering force.
BANG!
A particularly vicious uppercut sent one maid sailing through the air, her body arcing gracefully before crashing into a display cabinet, sending crystal and china fragments flying in a glittering cloud.
BANG! The whole mansion trembled as if struck by an earthquake, ancient timbers groaning in protest as plaster dust rained from above like pale snowfall.
The stained glass in the vaulted ceiling—centuries-old artistry depicting celestial bodies and divine figures—cracked with a sound like ice breaking on a frozen lake before dropping piece by piece in a deadly, prismatic shower.
Fragments caught the moonlight as they fell, casting kaleidoscopic patterns across the chaotic scene below before shattering on the blood-slicked marble with musical, crystalline destruction.
Another maid-vampire was flung backward by Elara's fist, her body carving a shallow groove in the marble floor as she skidded to a stop against the far wall, leaving a spiderweb of cracks in the ornate wainscoting.
"And Sir BASTIAN! YOU OLD MAN! YOUR DUTY IS TO PROTECT YOUR MASTER, NOT ATTACK OUR MASTER!" Perhaps venting her frustration at being unable to land a hit on the towering vampire—and hiding her embarrassment from the earlier scene where she sucked his blood—Elara now took it all out on these punching bags.
Her voice rose to a pitch that shattered more glass somewhere in the mansion's depths, her dark chestnut hair whipping around her face like angry serpents with each violent movement.
Her fangs fully extended with her rage, gleaming wickedly in the fractured moonlight as spittle flew from her lips with each accusation.
"Stand still," Lucien said unexpectedly, his voice carrying the same weight of command that had silenced the sisters earlier, hoping the relentless vampires would stop.
The words seemed to ripple through the air, carrying with them that strange power that had emanated from him before.
But to his surprise, the only ones who stopped were the two sisters; their bodies freezing mid-motion like exquisite statues, eyes widening with shock at their sudden immobility.
The charging, relentless servant-maids didn't react at all, continuing their frenzied assault with single-minded hunger, jaws snapping and claws extending.
His eyes widened, crimson irises expanding with genuine shock. Fine lines appeared at the corners of his eyes as they narrowed in confusion, his mouth parting slightly to reveal the tips of his retracted fangs.
It didn't work? He was stunned, his long fingers flexing unconsciously at his sides as if trying to physically grasp the situation.
But with no other choice and no time to waste, Lucien walked toward them despite his bewilderment.
Yet just as he did, he paused, one foot suspended mid-step as the scene before him transformed.
All of the servant-vampires, who were about to charge and drain the blood of the two mortified, frozen sisters, suddenly knelt, their knees hitting the marble with a simultaneous crack that echoed through the cavernous space.
They growled, the sound low and reverent, in front of Lucien as he strode toward them. Their heads bowed in unison, exposing the napes of their necks in a gesture of submission as primal as it was unexpected.
This... Lucien's eyebrows furrowed, his mouth twitching with uncertainty.
Even he couldn't fathom this outcome, the revelation that his mere presence commanded such obedience sending a strange thrill through his towering frame.
He looked at the kneeling servants—their tattered uniforms still wet with their own blood, their breathing synchronized in ragged, hungry pants—then shifted his focus to the frozen sisters, who remained immobilized by his earlier command, their eyes alone conveying their horror and confusion.
"Try giving them a command, like I did," Lucien said, his voice now deliberately gentle, almost coaxing. The words seemed to break whatever invisible bonds held the sisters, and immediately the two of them managed to break free from the frozen state caused by Lucien's command.
Lyra gasped audibly as control returned to her limbs, her ash-blonde hair swinging forward with the sudden release, while Elara staggered slightly, catching herself with the newfound grace of her transformed body.
"Snap out of it," Then Elara said without hesitation. As she spoke, her eyebrows furrowed in concentration—she felt something, something like mana, enchanting her words and voice.
It seemed to come from within her core, a warm current that flowed up her spine and into her throat, making her body slightly warmer before vanishing like morning mist in sunshine. The air around her lips seemed to shimmer briefly with each syllable, as if her words had physical form and substance.
"Ah?!" A young maid blinked rapidly, her hand rising to her head in confusion, the wildness in her eyes receding like a tide.
"W-why am I here?" One by one, the vampire servants who had drunk from Elara's two drops of blood began to snap back to their senses. The feral hunger drained from their expressions, replaced by bewilderment as awareness returned.
Their fangs retracted with visible discomfort, some wincing and touching their mouths in shock.
"Everyone, please, remember the sun. Remember who you were. By the soul you still hold, be still." Unlike Elara's simple command, Lyra's words were far more elaborate and suited her personality.
Her voice carried a melodic quality that seemed to resonate with the very air itself, causing tiny ripples in the pools of blood surrounding them. As she spoke, her ash-blonde hair lifted slightly as if by an unseen breeze, the silver threading in her ruined gown catching the fractured moonlight in flashes of cold fire.
The remaining servant-vampires—including Bastian—responded immediately, their bodies shuddering as if passing through an invisible threshold.
The wildness drained from their eyes like water from a broken vessel, leaving clarity in its wake.
But, still kneeling, as soon as this clarity returned to their minds, their first sight was, of course, the towering vampire.
This caused them to freeze on the spot, muscles locking with terror.