Chapter 9

-----------------------------------------------------------------

Translator: penny

Chapter: 9

Chapter Title: Blood Feast

-----------------------------------------------------------------

I blankly stared at Yuria, perched on the edge of the bed.

At 170cm, she was quite tall for a woman.

Proportions mattered for a frame like hers, but Yuria had no flaws from head to toe. In simple terms, a flawless, perfect body without a single imperfection.

Her skin stayed purely white, showing no sign of changing no matter how grueling the outdoor labor.

Her only moles were nestled between her cleavage and around her throat.

"Beautiful as always, Yuria."

"...Thank you if you're satisfied, Master."

Yuria averted her eyes just a bit as she replied, resting a hand on her arm. Lately, she'd been seeking me out far less often. Now she was even dodging my gaze.

A month ago, she'd at least met my eyes and spoken more casually.

It wasn't like she suddenly hated me or anything.

On the contrary, her favorability rating told me it had gone up.

"...Ugh."

I reached out a hand to Yuria.

She accepted my touch without resistance.

I traced her elegant jawline down to her softly settled shoulders.

The dip between her collarbones was warm and plush.

With the feminine softness and scent layered on top, even I struggled to keep my wits about me. I had to fight the impulse to pull her straight into my arms.

And past her shoulders loomed her breasts, whose size ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠I'd definitely confirmed last ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠time.

'Looked like F-cups from the outside, but when I stripped her, she was hiding G-cups under compression bandages... for sure.'

As if sensing my stare, she tugged her collar a touch higher. The gesture only stirred me more.

She'd meant to cover up, no doubt.

But Yuria had no idea that a slight peek like this was even more tantalizing.

I released her shoulder and reached for her hair instead. It was pristine as the night sky, carrying a fresh fragrance when you nuzzled close. Courtesy of the noble-exclusive shampoo from the Magic Tower that Harzen had prepared.

'The head butler, was it? He must pull a hefty salary, but I should get him a gift.'

He'd commissioned several tailor-made maid outfits for her, treating Yuria like a daughter ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠of his own. Canonically a bachelor, Harzen had every reason to feel that loneliness.

"Alright, up we go."

"Yes, Master... Huff. Let me assist you."

I rose from the bed. She dressed me with meticulous care, stitch by stitch, just as she'd been taught. Thanks to her one-on-one lessons with Harzen, Yuria could out-noble me in speech and etiquette if she wanted. Her service toward me was flawless.

Today was the night for a stroll with the head butler and Yuria in tow.

Rachel had decreed it as a special measure, fretting that I never left the mansion anymore, just fiddling endlessly with magic formulas.

'Eh, sucking in some night air sounds nice anyway.'

With my outfit complete, Yuria stepped back from my embrace.

The mirror showed me sharply angled and impeccably dressed.

The old butler watched the sight with approval, twirling his white mustache as he swung the door open.

...

"Hmm..."

The chill wind cooled my head refreshingly. A fine breeze. In that wide-open space, I could forget my reality for a fleeting moment. If I could bask in this crispness forever, maybe my incurable illness would vanish like a bad dream. But that was just empty hope.

Before me sprawled a garden too breathtaking to describe.

Finicky blooms dotted it here and there. Word was, Yuria had personally instructed the maids on tending every last one. She plucked a bud with blue petals and held it out to me.

"Brewing this as tea helps ease fatigue and restore vitality."

"Yeah? Hand it over, then."

Ian smoothly grasped the stem beneath the bud and inhaled its scent. His breathing settled even deeper.

Ian widened his eyes with a hum.

"Suits me fine. What's its flower language?"

"None."

"Hmm? Never been named?"

"Not that. I chose not to name it. This flower only opens at night and seals its bud fast, so humans barely know it.

If it's known anywhere, it's to vampires. Their flower. It was already growing here before I arrived, but humans prized it as the one refuge from vampires besides 'blood'—a true suppressant.

To the point: vampires call this flower 'human'."

"Intriguing flower language."

"Its meaning? Human lifespans are brief, they're fussy to cultivate, and when they rebloom, they blight the crops around them in grotesque fashion. All that, wrapped up."

The head butler, who'd been listening raptly, couldn't mask his fascination and let out a hearty chuckle.

"Yuria, you've got remarkable knowledge. Even I never knew its language. Thirty years in this mansion, and today's the first I've heard."

"Thank you, Head Butler Harzen."

"But where'd you pick up a flower language even I missed? ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠Don't recall it in any books..."

"My mother used to sing me a fairy-tale lullaby back in childhood. Memory's fuzzy from the years, but it went something like,

'Hurry now, shut your eyes, or Likuini's 'roots' will gobble every red rose.'

Likuini means this flower—humans. Red roses are vampires. Probably some countryside tune my mother picked up."

"Heh heh, that's a gem."

...

The protagonist's saga was about to kick off.

'Imperial Calendar 891, January 1st.'

The Britna mansion had been buzzing for that reason.

New Year's marked the count and his eldest son Dillon's homecoming.

A grand banquet to celebrate.

Officials, vassals, and nobles angling for connections had all RSVP'd. Even nouveau riche commoners—swimming in cash or wielding massive sway—got invites.

'One hell of a banquet.'

Merchant wares, Dillon's breakthroughs, heir talk, converging plotlines—the saga's launchpad.

Family head Britna Carman's assassination attempt.

Mass casualties there, so I'd shifted beyond magic formulas lately.

Daily drills? Mere minutes. Tough, intricate ones offered little gain right now.

What I needed: canon knowledge for self-defense.

Shielding Yuria above all.

Protecting Rachel from the hit.

Signaling to vassals and officials that I'd changed. Bolstering my rep with select formulas and insights.

Magic Tower mages or big-name wizards rarely visited a count's estate.

An event I couldn't afford to botch.

But.

Like a cruel joke, before that fateful day, disaster struck early.

"B-Blood... Blood..."

It began with Angelina—Knight Captain Rupert's daughter, freshly minted as my exclusive maid—bleeding out.

A baron's daughter with means, but unlike Yuria, she couldn't master tasks overnight.

Inevitably, a deep gash, blood plopping steadily.

And her instructor? Yuria.

Ian, barricaded in his room prepping for canon events, hadn't clocked that it had been 31 days since her last feeding.

"Ugh... Hic."

The girl ahead wept, stemming blood gushing like a busted faucet.

She begged the maid in front for a potion, pronto.

But

"..."

Her plea never pierced Yuria.

The serene glass vessel overflowed, cracks spiderwebbing as forbidden liquid poured in.

Instinct drove her to paw at her bosom for something—anything—but Harzen's new maid garb left Ian's bloodstained handkerchief nowhere.

Her limbs quaked.

The whole world's air stabbed her skin like needles.

Sounds faded. Only the crimson pool ahead and its siren sweetness ensnared her.

"Haa... Haa..."

Her feet shuffled forward, slow. Her gait wobbled, alien.

Her room brimmed with blue flowers to curb her bloodlust—the first thing she'd drilled into the maids.

But now, even those blooms failed to leash her instincts.

Unlike lesser vampires, elder vampires—million-to-one noble heirs, luck-favored—craved fiercer.

Yuria's case wasn't the worst.

But racial instinct demanded feeding every ten days, or rampage: knight orders warned they'd paint the world red. Innate blood magic mastery let a newborn elder wipe a full order. That was their terror.

Yet Yuria had white-knuckled thirty days on sheer final-boss grit.

Ian's blunder factored in: he'd let it slide after one ecstatic tongue-dip, blind to true blood's allure.

This perfect storm of woes.

Pain wracked her like heart-ripping agony. Clutching her chest, she lurched to the wall, nails gouging scars.

"Ugh..."

Her scalp flushed crimson. Eyes blazed scarlet.

What followed was inevitable.

Wallpaper shredded.

Yuria's ragged gasps.

Blood dripping right there.

The woman could only scream.