Chapter 154: A New Enemy
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(Meanwhile, somewhere in the middle domain of Null...)
The middle domain of Null did not have a sky in the way lower territories did.
It had a ceiling of reality so thick that the light never looked honest. Colors existed, but they were muted, as if the world itself had learned to whisper. The air carried weight. Every breath felt like you were borrowing it from something larger.
Here, mountains did not sit politely on the horizon. They leaned. They watched. Rivers flowed uphill when nobody was looking. The wind changed direction for no reason other than to remind travelers that logic was a privilege, not a law.
And above all of it, there were places the living avoided even when paid.
One such place was a castle that did not belong to stone.
It belonged to hunger.
It rose from a black plateau like a wound that refused to heal. Its towers were thin and sharp, not built for beauty, but for intimidation. Every edge looked like it could cut a cloud. The walls were dark enough that the eye struggled to confirm they were real. They drank moonlight even when there was no moon.
The gate was always open.
Not because the master was welcoming.
Because the master did not need a gate.
Inside, silence lived like a servant. It cleaned the halls. It folded itself into corners. It swallowed footsteps and turned whispers into prayers.
At the heart of the castle was a hall that stretched too long for the building’s exterior. Space did not obey architecture here. The ceiling was high enough that shadows could hide armies, and the floor was polished so perfectly it reflected people like mirrors reflected nightmares.
A throne sat at the far end.
Not gold.
Not jeweled.
Not designed for comfort.
It was carved from something that looked like dried blood turned into crystal, and it pulsed faintly as if it still remembered the heartbeat it had once belonged to.
On that throne sat a man.
If you looked at him quickly, he looked almost normal.
That was the trick.
His face was handsome in a cold, precise way, like someone had sculpted him out of marble and then regretted giving the statue eyes. His hair was pale, not white but the color of old bone polished by time. His skin was flawless, smooth in a way that did not belong to flesh. It looked like the idea of skin, not the truth of it.
His eyes were the worst part.
They were not red.
They were not black.
They were deeper than both.
They looked like a wine-dark sea under a storm, and if you stared too long, you began to feel as if you were drowning in your own blood.
His presence did not fill the hall like a loud man.
It filled it like gravity.
The air leaned toward him. The shadows behaved around him. Even the long banners hanging from pillars seemed to droop in respect.
This was not a Chaos Rank Three thug leader.
This was not a Chaos Rank Two assassin captain.
This was not even a lord of a city.
This was a god-level powerhouse whose name was spoken carefully even by those who hated him.
Klaus.
Among the blood-consumed, among those who had tasted the legacy of the Blood God and survived, Klaus was one of the Blood Sovereigns.
A title that sounded ceremonial until you learned what it meant.
It meant he was old enough to remember wars that had erased continents. It meant his blood could poison a city’s river with one cut. It meant he could speak a command and make a hundred lesser vampires fall to their knees without knowing why.
And it meant he was hungry.
Not the hunger of a starving animal.
The hunger of a ruler who had eaten kingdoms and still felt empty.
Beneath the throne, on the lower steps, stood his subordinates.
They were not common servants. They were not soldiers.
They were things that had once been people.
Some wore armor that looked like it had been forged out of bone. Some wore silk robes so dark they looked wet. Some had eyes that never blinked. Some had mouths that smiled too easily, like they had forgotten what normal happiness looked like.
The hall’s torches did not burn with fire. They burned with a red flame that did not cast light so much as it cast mood. It made every face look sharper, every shadow look more violent.
Klaus sat with one elbow resting lightly on the throne’s arm, his fingers near his cheek as if he was bored.
He was not bored.
His boredom was a mask.
In his chest, something had just moved.
Not physically.
Spiritually.
A ripple had passed through his blood.
A shockwave.
It had been brief, like a breath.
But it had been unmistakable.
Because it had not come from a normal conversion.
It had come from something deeper.
Something older.
Something that made the Blood God’s legacy twitch like a sleeping beast turning in its dreams.
Klaus’s eyes narrowed slightly.
The hall’s temperature dropped by a degree without any wind.
Some of the subordinates stiffened automatically, sensing the shift in him even before he spoke.
Klaus’s voice was calm when he finally spoke.
Not loud.
Not dramatic.
Calm in the way a blade was calm.
"An original vampire was born."
The words fell into the hall and did not echo.
They did not need to echo.
The subordinates reacted like prey hearing the first snap of a predator’s jaw.
A few heads lifted sharply.
One subordinate’s hand tightened on the hilt of a weapon.
Another’s eyes widened for half a heartbeat, then narrowed again as discipline reclaimed them.
From the side of the hall stepped a woman.
She moved like a dancer trained in assassination, her posture graceful but always balanced for violence. Her clothing was fitted, designed to flatter and to allow movement. The fabric shimmered faintly with protective runes that were not visible unless you knew where to look.