"…In that moment, I felt a fear that pierced straight to the bone. The kind of fear that comes when facing death, facing the extreme darkness of the unknown — the primal animal instinct inside me finally overwhelmed the curiosity I had once been so proud of. I wanted to open my mouth and scream, wanted to flail my arms, wanted to push him off me and then run out of that dark castle shrieking, never to look back… but it was all too late. His fangs had already sunk deep into my neck."
The black-haired man sat in the soft armchair, his blue eyes vacant, as though he were using every ounce of strength to recall the event. Then he stubbed out his cigarette with a soft "hiss"; a thin wisp of blue smoke slowly rose in the room before dissipating into nothing.
The figure sitting opposite him shifted slightly, as if trying to shrink deeper into the chair.
"So… what happened next?"
"…" The man paused, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. "That sensation of blood slowly draining away… it's hard to describe. It's like watching death approach step by step while being completely powerless to stop it. Only in that instant did I truly understand how bloody and cruel every one of those stories the vampire had told really was." He took a deep breath and continued, "It felt as though time had frozen. My neck burned with sharp pain, as if thousands of needles had pierced through it at once. I wanted to scream, to groan, but in the end no sound came out. Beneath the dim chandelier, I was simply pinned under him, without the slightest ability to resist. All I could hear was the slow, deliberate sound of him sucking; it was like the tolling of a death knell. And the feeling of his soft, wet lips against my neck — it was like the kiss of Death itself."
His gaze drifted toward a corner of the room before he went on:
"At that point, I gradually began to hear what sounded like drumming coming from far away — one beat after another pounding against my eardrums. And the sound grew faster, louder, until it became unbearable; soon my entire mind was filled with nothing but that frantic, restless noise. Only later did I realize… that tremendous sound was my own heartbeat. I was terrified — my heart felt like it was about to leap out of my throat as the blood kept draining — I have no idea how much time passed. When I finally came back to myself, I found I was already lying on an enormous, soft bed. And he was just… watching me. There was this indescribable look of control in his eyes."
The black-haired man fell silent. In the empty room, a faint rustling sound suddenly broke the quiet. The figure opposite shifted again, as though about to stand, but in the end only fidgeted a little in the chair.
I slowly sat up on the bed, my head splitting with pain, a buzzing ringing in my ears as though something heavy had struck my skull. I looked around and realized this was a luxurious sitting room. The bedroom itself exuded extraordinary opulence; everything breathed refined taste and wealth. The walls were covered in dark wallpaper, its delicate patterns faintly visible under the light, lending the room an air of mystery. The high ceiling had no grand chandelier like the living room; instead, several weak candles flickered dimly in the four corners. The bed was a massive four-poster, draped in luxurious silk bedding and down pillows. At the head of the bed hung an exquisite painting depicting scenes from the vampire master's glorious past. On one side stood an elegant cabinet holding various ornaments and an ancient book, its cover already worn and mottled, clearly weathered by centuries.
He heard me stir, slowly set the book down, and raised his head. A trace of cold amusement, almost imperceptible, flickered across his features.
"Awake?" His voice drifted carelessly through the room, as though I were merely another insignificant passerby in his endless existence.
My mind gradually cleared from the foggy haze; confusion slowly turned to anger.
"You… exactly how much blood did you take from me?"
"You're not dead, are you?" His tone was light and airy, vanishing along with the turning of a page. He stood up, closed the heavy book, ignored my anger entirely, and gazed out the bay window into the thick darkness of night. "Another lonely evening. People rush about frantically in the mortal world," a deep melancholy appeared in his eyes, "…while I remain trapped in this eternal night." His gaze stretched far away, as though chasing memories of past splendor. "So many moons, so many centuries — time slips through my fingers, yet nothing ever stays. I am so thirsty… thirsty to return to that brilliant 18th century, the golden age I call my own."
I noticed the book in his hand.
"What book is that?" I asked, even though my body still felt terribly weak from blood loss.
He turned his head, a faint smile touching his lips.
"Martin Heidegger's Being and Time."
I stared at him.
"You like philosophy?"
He gave a soft laugh.
"The petty trifles of the mortal world are nothing more than passing clouds to me. I prefer to immerse myself in the long rivers of history and philosophy, savoring the traces of time, contemplating the rise and fall of human civilization."
Suddenly something occurred to me.
"You just said you miss the 18th century?"
He looked intoxicated.
"The 18th century? Hah… that era had none of the noise and frivolity of modern society, nor the pollution brought by late industrialization. It was a quiet, comfortable, beautiful, and romantic time — the past I miss most. Back then, the nobility were elegant and noble; they lived lives of extravagant indulgence — endless wine, endless delicacies, endless splendid garments. Of course, that century was also chaotic beyond measure, but within the chaos there was clarity, and everything was possible." He picked up the nearby decanter and poured himself another glass of red wine.
"So were you born in the 18th century?"
His eyes darkened.
"No. I was born in the early 14th century. The exact year… I no longer remember. Too much time has passed."