Earth.

Somewhere in the ocean. A small island was covered with a thick layer of fog, and not even the sunlight could pierce through it. The sky above was grey and heavy, the clouds hanging so low they seemed to scrape the jagged cliffs. The air hummed with an unnatural stillness, the kind that made birds avoid the area entirely.

On the island was a castle.

Its spires stabbed into the clouds like black fangs, half-devoured by ivy and mist. The walls were carved from dark stone older than memory, streaked with veins of crimson crystal that pulsed faintly, as if the castle itself had a heartbeat.

The gates were chained, not with iron but with links of shadow, each one writhing as if alive. Yet the chains were not meant to keep intruders out—they were meant to keep what dwelled inside from getting free.

Inside the castle halls, torches burned with crimson flame, casting long shadows across murals of battles fought in blood and fire. The air reeked of incense, iron, and old earth, heavy with centuries of silence broken only by the drip of water and the whisper of ancient spells.

In the deepest part of the castle, far below the roots of even the largest tree, lay a crypt, and within it, coffins carved of darkest stone and polished ebony. On each stood a rune, each one bound with chains of silver, and each one written in a language lost long ago to the race of men.

The silence here was not natural. It was oppressive, alive, as though the very darkness pressed down on intruders like a living hand. Even the torches dared not burn in this place.

And then—

Thud!.

A single coffin trembled, its lid groaning under unseen pressure. Dust sifted down in thin streams, and the chains rattled like angry serpents. Another thud. Then another. The sound multiplied, echoing across the crypt as dozens of coffins began to shake in unison.

The crimson veins running through the castle walls flared like arteries, pulsing faster, stronger. The air filled with the heavy stench of blood, so thick it became mist, seeping from the cracks in the stone.

A whisper rose—not from any throat, but from the coffins themselves. A thousand-layered voices murmuring hunger, rage, memory. And one other word. A single word. A single command.

Awaken.

The largest coffin was set in the center of the chamber, split with a thunderous crack. Its lid slid free, crashing against the stone. From within, a clawed hand, pale as bone but slick with black ichor, tore through the silver chains like paper. Then came another hand, then shoulders, then a face—an ancient visage, sharp and gaunt, eyes burning with the feral light of eternity.

A vampire.

One by one, the other coffins followed, lids splintering and chains snapping. The crypt thundered with the sound of monsters pulling themselves from centuries of slumber. Their eyes glowed red, gold, violet—each one a lord, a matriarch, a beast that had once drowned kingdoms in blood.

Yet all of them hail from the same family.

The Tepes family.

Morgana’s parents, her grandfather, her aunt, and her uncle.

The five of them took a moment to gather themselves. First, they brushed the dust and cobwebs off their luxurious outfits. Each wore a finely tailored suit—the vampires of Tepes liked the Victorian gothic look. Similar to what they used to wear in the past, but darker in color.

“Cough!… Cough!”

Lord Dmitri was the first to clear his throat, his long, ash-grey hair falling over one shoulder as he straightened to his full height. His coat – black velvet embroidered with veins of silver – shimmered faintly as the crimson veins in the walls pulsed like a heartbeat.

“No one to greet us?” he said with a hint of annoyance in his voice, glancing left and right. “How rude. Don’t we deserve a proper welcome after… How long, Vlad?”

Lord Vladimir, Morgana’s father, stepped from his coffin with a slow, deliberate grace. His tall frame cast a long shadow across the crypt, his suit dark as midnight, lined with crimson thread that glimmered faintly in the pulsing glow of the veins in the walls. His eyes—two crimson embers—swept the chamber with the calm weight of a predator who feared nothing.

“Five hundred years,” Vladimir said at last, his voice low and resonant, carrying the weight of centuries. “Half a millennium of slumber, bound by chains and forgotten by mortals.”

“Where is my daughter?” Veronica’s voice carried through the crypt like a haunting melody, sweet yet laced with venom. Her scarlet gown shimmered as the blood-mist clung to her, her crimson eyes burning brighter with each syllable. She stepped gracefully onto the cracked stone, her heels clicking like a death knell.

“Maybe she’s having fun somewhere, Veronica,” Maria, Morgana’s aunt, said with a sly smirk. She was the only one who knew the true perverted nature of her niece; after all, they teamed up against her sissy son, Michael.

“If Morgana isn’t here, then what about our kids?” Lord Alexander, Morgana’s uncle, spoke; his voice rolled across the crypt like a low growl, steady and cold. His golden eyes cut through the blood-mist, narrowing as if searching the darkness for answers. He adjusted the cuffs of his obsidian coat, and for the first time since his awakening, the elder vampire moved his hand. His veins flared, a swirl of ink on pale skin.

“Kids? Hah!” Dmitri let out a sharp laugh that echoed through the chamber, half-bitter, half-amused. “Do you expect them to be waiting outside the gates with flowers and tears?

“Anastasia, Katarina, and Lucas are good kids too, Uncle,” Alexander went on, brushing some dust off his vest, his golden eyes softening for the briefest of moments. “They would never abandon us… not willingly.” His voice carried both pride and a razor’s edge of worry.

“Good kids?” Dmitri tilted his head, his ash-grey hair slipping forward as he smirked, baring a fang. “Perhaps. But the children of Tepes are more than that. They are wolves dressed in silk. If they are still walking this world, they will have carved themselves thrones of blood by now. Or…” He chuckled, low and sharp. “…be rotting in the bellies of lesser beasts.”

Maria twirled a strand of her raven hair around one finger, golden eyes glowing with cruel amusement.

“Oh, I’m sure at least one of them inherited Morgana’s… appetites.” Her lips curled in a grin that was all too knowing. “Our bloodline breeds monsters and queens, after all. Nothing in between.”

“Careful, Maria,” Veronica hissed, her voice cutting through the mist like a blade. “That’s my daughter you’re mocking… your queen.”

“Don’t give me that,” Maria snapped back, her smirk twisting into something sharper, more venomous. “You know as well as I do—our sweet Morgana was born with claws dripping in lust and blood. And that is exactly why I adore her.”

Her laugh rang out, cruel and mocking, bouncing off the crypt walls like broken glass.

Veronica’s eyes burned brighter, two molten rubies in the mist. The blood at her feet began to boil, hissing as it curled around her gown.

“Mock her again,” she whispered, her tone deathly calm, “and I’ll carve your heart from your chest and drink it dry before you hit the floor.”

The two seemed as though they could rip each other apart at any moment; fortunately, someone decided to step in before that happened.

“Enough.” Dmitri’s voice thundered through the chamber, freezing the vampires in mid-snarl. With one step, his towering form loomed between the two women. His eyes flickered across the space between them like blood, and he sighed.

“You two are still acting like little brats,” Dmitri said, his deep voice resonating through the crypt, shaking the dust loose from the ceiling. He straightened his back, his ash-grey hair sliding down his broad shoulders as his silver-embroidered coat shimmered faintly in the crimson glow. His gaze lingered on Veronica, then on Maria, sharp as a blade honed for centuries.

“Have five hundred years taught you nothing? Or are you both still trapped in the same petty games of jealousy and spite?”

Veronica’s lips curled, her fangs flashing, but she held her tongue. She couldn’t speak up to him, after all, he was her father.

Maria, by contrast, only laughed, a low, velvety chuckle that curled around the chamber like smoke.

“Oh, Uncle, still taking no guff, even now. Good to see your time in the ground hasn’t ruined the wit—nor the wine, judging by the taste in the air. Oh, no wait, it’s all this blood-mist.” Her nose scrunched, fangs gleaming. “Something is wrong here, wouldn’t you agree? Five hundred years—well, longer now—is an awfully long time for someone not to notice us awakening. I can’t blame my darling niece, but what about the others, I wonder?”

“As annoying as you are, she has a point.” Vlad stepped up, standing next to his father-in-law. “Standing here would do us no good. Let’s search the castle and the island first, and if we find nothing, then we head to the city.”

The four elders nodded, turned around, and headed for the exit. They first made their way to a room that was linked to the crypt via a hidden passage. In that room, five hidden vaults rested under the watchful eyes of magic formations that could only be opened by blood.

Without hesitation, the five of them bit their wrists and poured their blood over the vaults. In the blink of an eye, the vault doors disappeared like an illusion, revealing what was left behind after five hundred years.

Treasures of gold, silver, and jewels, the weapons and armors they used in the last great war, and books filled with the most precious magical knowledge. The true wealth of the vampires was kept right here inside this castle. The knowledge gathered and refined over centuries and even beyond.

From an Unspoken Realm brought here by Morgana’s husband, Lith. Who, in fact, was Lilith pretending to be a man in front of Morgana’s family. Only Maria knew the true identity of Lith/Lilith, thanks to all that fun they had in the past.

“Let’s go,” Dimitri said before leading the rest of the family out from the crypt, and soon the entire castle, their bodies so strong that even after awakening from a long coma, their movements didn’t falter for a second.

However, the moment they stepped into the castle hall away from the magical barrier that Morgana placed, all five of them were able to feel the link again. Or in this case, the absence of the link.

“NOOOOOOOOOO!!” Veronica was the first to react. She clasped her chest, and blood poured out of her eyes. “My little Morgana, I…I can’t feel her.”

The rest froze, unable to say a word or react.

The absence of the link to their queen meant only one thing…

Morgana was dead!

“I see that the world is tired of living,” Dimitri snarled, his fangs bared. He turned to the rest with a look that could cause fear in the heart of men. “Ready for some bloodshed?”

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Source: Webnovel.com, updated by NovelKeep