Damien opened his eyes, the harsh, crimson glare of the dying Earthly sun replaced by the soft, ambient glow of a luxurious interior. He was lying on a plush, velvet couch. A slight sway and the rhythmic clacking of wooden wheels told him everything he needed to know: he was inside a high-end horse carriage.
Before he could sit up and evaluate his surroundings, a shaky, deeply relieved voice cracked through the cabin.
"Thank the heavens and the gods! You've recovered, Young Master!"
Damien turned his head. An old man dressed in a immaculate but slightly worn butler's suit was leaning over him. Looking into the old man's eyes, Damien's trained mercenary instincts didn't detect a hint of falsehood—only genuine, borderline desperate fright and loyalty. For a brief second, a strange warmth bloomed in Damien's chest. Is this my own feeling, or a remnant of whoever lived in this body before me?
Then, the true agony arrived.
"AHH!" Damien gasped, clutching his temples as a violent surge of disordered, fragmented memories slammed into his brain.
It felt like a hard drive being forcefully overwritten. Jagged pieces of a life that wasn't his flashed by: a sprawling estate, cold glares from relatives, and the face of the old man currently panicking in front of him. This was Crowley, his personal butler, the one who had raised him since childhood. But the memories were a chaotic mess, incomplete and out of order.
Crowley scrambled closer, his hands hovering over Damien anxiously. "Are you okay, Young Master? Please, take it easy on your body! You are still recovering. If anything happens to you, I... I wouldn't be able to face your late father in the afterlife!"
Damien forced his breathing to slow, adopting a mask of calm. "I am okay, Crowley. Just... incredibly tired. My memory is foggy. Everything is a bit of a blur. I might need you to help me fill in the blanks."
Crowley's eyes lit up with fierce, sincere enthusiasm. "I will help you in any way I can, Young Master! After all, it is my absolute duty."
Seizing the opportunity while the old butler's emotional guard was completely down, Damien leaned back against the plush cushions and asked casually, "Remind me... how exactly did I get hurt? And where are we going?"
Crowley let out a long, heavy sigh—the kind of sigh that carried the weight of a shattered dynasty.
"It all fell apart after the news of your father's death, Young Master," Crowley began, his voice dropping to a somber whisper. "The moment the Master passed, your uncles and cousins moved swiftly. They stripped you of your succession line to the Grand-Duchy and orchestrated your banishment to the frontier. In desperation, you sneaked into the family's ancient vault. You stole the sacred vial."
Crowley shuddered, looking around as if the ghosts of the Grand-Duchy were watching. "The family rumors claimed it contained a drop of blood from an ancient, primordial, or perhaps even a divine being. Its value was incalculable. You drank it, hoping to awaken a powerful bloodline to reclaim your birthright. But instead, it nearly killed you."
The butler shook his head bitterly. "You fell into a deathly coma. Your uncles, cousins, and the dissatisfied vassals used this 'sacred theft' as the perfect excuse. They petitioned the current Grand-Duke to have you hung for your crimes. But the Grand-Duke... despite his profound disappointment in you, couldn't bring himself to sign the execution order. He loved your father, and executing his brother's only son would have permanently stained his reputation."
"So, after days of deliberation, he chose exile," Crowley continued, his tone turning hollow. "They dug through the archives and unearthed a dusty, completely unused title of 'Baron'—originally awarded to your great-great-grandfather for defending the Holy Empire. They handed it to you, but the decree was absolute: you are to establish your own family line on the frontier. You are no longer considered part of the main Ducal house."
As Crowley narrated the grim tale, the fragments of memory in Damien's mind began to violently snap into place. The sudden influx of knowledge triggered a wave of bitter, resentful emotions inherited from the previous host.
But there was a massive detail the old butler didn't know.
The predecessor hadn't failed. The vial hadn't rejected him. The ritual had successfully awakened the bloodline of the absolute ruler of the night and darkness: The Vampire.
The previous soul had simply lacked the mental fortitude to endure the final, excruciating stage of the transformation—the complete evolution of the biological vessel. To survive the heat of that internal metamorphosis, the body required a massive catalyst: fresh blood. The predecessor had died of systemic shock right at the finish line, allowing Damien to transmigrate into the perfectly prepared, starving vessel.
Digging deeper into the newly organized memories, Damien analyzed this new world. It was a massive planet, teeming with hundreds of races—Orcs, Goblins, Elves, Trolls, Kobolds, Harpies, and Giants. There were defined paths of power: Wizards, Knights, Warriors, and Warlocks, each granting immense strength and longevity.
Yet, searching through the host's entire education, Damien found absolutely zero mention of 'Vampires'.
A cold, calculating unease crept into his mind. If a vial of primordial vampire blood existed, vampires obviously existed—or used to. He narrowed it down to three distinct possibilities:
1. Vampires were an isolationist, hidden race that refused to interact with the mortal world.
2. They existed at such a staggeringly high tier of reality that only the absolute elite of the universe knew of them.
3. They had been hunted to absolute extinction by a catastrophic enemy.
If it's the third option, Damien thought, a ruthless smile playing on his lips, I need to be incredibly restrained in how I use my powers until I am strong enough to butcher anyone who comes looking.
Though this start was brutal, Damien's lawful evil mind immediately saw the grand silver lining: Absolute Freedom.
Back on Earth, he had been a mercenary captain, but in his downtime, he was a hardcore kingdom-building and strategy game enthusiast. Now, he had his own legal, completely isolated frontier territory. It was the ultimate sandbox. He could initiate an industrial revolution, introduce advanced technology, and implement sweeping societal reforms. Because he was a vampire, he would actually possess the eternal lifespan required to rule, manage, and enjoy the fruits of his digital-turned-physical empire, rather than watching a line of incompetent descendants squander his life's work.
He was at the absolute bottom of the food chain right now, but his territory was rich in untapped resources. He just needed to survive the night.
Knock. Knock.
A firm, armored rap on the carriage door shattered Damien's daydream. A deep, disciplined voice echoed from outside. "Young Master, Sir Crowley. The sun is setting. We should make camp and prepare dinner. The scouts have successfully hunted a deer."
Damien recognized the voice. It belonged to Sir Frederick, the commander of his exile escort and the only Grand Knight in his service.
Damien smiled, his fangs subtly scraping against his lower lip as a biological, primal hunger flared in his throat. He spoke clearly. "Sir Frederick... could you please instruct the servants to drain a fresh glass of blood from the deer and bring it to my carriage?"
Silence stretched outside. Sir Frederick, a proud military man, felt completely bewildered. On one hand, he was relieved the useless young master hadn't died under his watch—a death on transit would have been a catastrophic stain on his unblemished career. On the other hand, he couldn't fathom why a noble would make such a bizarre, barbaric request.
Remembering the young master's longstanding reputation as a eccentric, good-for-nothing fool, Frederick simply chalked it up to another mental break.
"...Yes, Baron," Frederick replied after a long, hesitant pause.
A short while later, a nervous servant opened the carriage door, placing a silver tray inside. On it sat a plate of cooked venison and a crystal goblet filled to the brim with thick, swirling, unholy crimson deer blood.
Sensing that his master required privacy, Crowley bowed politely. "I shall leave you to your dinner, Young Master. I will go inspect the perimeter camp and ensure the guards are alert."
The door clicked shut. Damien was left entirely alone in the dimming twilight. He reached out, his hand trembling slightly from a sudden, overwhelming biological compulsion, and lifted the heavy crystal glass of blood to his lips.