Show menu NOVEL BIN5Novel Reincarnated with a lucky draw system Chapter 76: THE CURSED AND BLESSED ONEREINCARNATED WITH A LUCKY DRAW SYSTEMC76: THE CURSED AND BLESSED ONE
Chapter 76: THE CURSED AND BLESSED ONE
"What nonsense are you spewing, Dracula? How can you receive both a blessing and a curse?" Veylar demanded, his voice sharp, yet tinged with disbelief. His obsidian-black eyes narrowed, searching for sense in the words that cut against everything he understood.
Dracula stood there, calm as still night, crimson eyes glimmering faintly. "It was the universe's foolishness," he replied, his tone smooth, deliberate, carrying weight without effort. "Naturally, the Lord of the Eternal Night would never relinquish the blessing offered to him. As punishment, the universe will extended beyond its norm... and gave me a curse. An irony, is it not?"
His words carried both mockery and bitterness, though his face betrayed none.
"I was granted the Blessing of Blood... and chained with the Curse of Blood."
---
"Impossible," Veylar shot back, his voice rising as his aura flared. "The Blessing of Blood grants absolute precision, absolute control over one's own blood. With it, imagination itself becomes the only limit—an infinite potential locked in the veins. That is what I was told of you, Dracula. It was why no one—myself included—dared claim equality before you."
His expression twisted. "Not until you defied the universe will, and were stripped of your privilege."
---
"Then..." Veylar's voice lowered, suspicion dawning. "What is your curse?"
"Simple," Dracula said, his calmness colder than any fury. "A curse designed to cripple my gift. I was rendered unable to use my own blood. A handicap meant to make my blessing meaningless."
The void trembled faintly as he spoke, as if the endless chaos itself recoiled from his words.
---
Veylar sneered, though unease tugged at his heart. "Without blood, you are nothing more than a crippled primogenitor. A sovereign in name alone. But that—" his brows furrowed, his voice uncertain, "—that doesn't explain the madness before me."
Dracula's lips curved faintly, neither smile nor frown. "Veylar... how low have you fallen? Did you truly think I would bow to the universe will forever? So what if I cannot control my blood? Then I will simply craft something greater. I labored endlessly—succeeded. I converted my very blood into essence. With my blessing, I reshaped it into something unique. My curse rendered useless."
He stepped closer, each movement deliberate, his words like blades piercing the air.
"If I cannot wield my own blood... and essence itself is too inert to be weaponized... then I shall wield the blood of my adversaries. That is the path I carved. That is the truth before you."
The declaration hit like thunder. Veylar shuddered, for the first time the unshakable mask of a sovereign cracking.
"You... you monster," he breathed, horror and awe entwined in equal measure.
---
Dracula chuckled, low and unhurried. "A monster, am I? Then so be it. I was always meant to be what the universe feared." His gaze burned brighter, a crimson moon in the endless void.
Veylar's lips curled into a bitter laugh, his body trembling as if accepting the inevitability. "Hahahaha... I see it now. I was fighting a losing battle from the very beginning. To think I, Veylar Morvane, believed I could defeat one who defied the universe itself."
He steadied his voice, curiosity pushing through the dread. "Then tell me, this essence of yours... why can't I sense it? I am no fledgling. A sovereign like me should perceive even the faintest unnatural essence. Yet from you, I sense nothing."
---
Dracula's gaze sharpened, his answer delivered like a verdict. "Because I willed it so. With my imagination, I ensured my blood essence became indistinguishable from the natural essence of the universe will itself. Do you not realize, Veylar? The very mana you breathe, the power you rely on, is already intertwined with my blood essence."
Veylar's eyes widened, disbelief warring with dread. Dracula continued, relentless.
"The stronger you are, the deeper your reliance on mana. And the more confident you grow in wielding it, the tighter my grip upon your blood. This is the truth, Veylar Morvane. The higher you soar, the tighter my chains wrap around you. Consider your curiosity satisfied."
---
Veylar lowered his gaze, his fists trembling. At last, the weight of inevitability crushed him. His voice cracked, softer than before. "Then... if I may have but one request..."
His obsidian eyes glistened, not with weakness but with the last flicker of dignity. "Spare some of my clan. My daughter... Velira. Spare her, even if it means placing her in eternal sleep."
Dracula regarded him in silence. Then, after a long pause, he nodded slowly. "Very well. I will spare her—not in chains, nor in eternal sleep. She shall walk free, untouched, unharmed. Consider this my final compromise, Veylar. A gift... to my once brother."
"Thank you," Veylar whispered. His head rose high, carrying the dignity of a sovereign even as death loomed.
Dracula turned, his cloak whispering like shadow. The void trembled—and Veylar's body burst into blood mist, scattering into the endless nothing.
---
The universe wailed.
---
"It seems Dracula has put an end to Veylar. The universe itself mourns the death of a sovereign." Athena of the god race whispered, her golden hair darkened by the black rain that fell across realms. Each drop sizzled with divine sorrow.
"Dracula grows ever stronger," Zeus muttered grimly, seated upon his grand throne of Olympian stone. His gaze pierced beyond the walls of his citadel, through the falling black rain, into the endless beyond. "Not a single being could spy upon his battle. Not even Odin himself. If we do not act soon, he will become... a problem none of us can solve."
---
Far in the demon realm, Baal reclined lazily upon his throne of skulls, crimson fire burning in his eyes. A crooked smile tugged his lips.
"So... Dracula wins. How arrogant. This black rain—his message to us. 'I need no help.'" He chuckled, the sound low and dangerous. "How amusing."
---
Panic spread like wildfire.
"He... he is dead! Lord Veylar is dead! I don't want to die!!!" A vampire of the conservative clan shrieked, his fear echoing across their citadel.
They knew the truth. When a primogenitor perished, every vampire tied to his cursed bloodline perished alongside him. Only those born of his flesh—his true children—survived. Turned vampires, those made from his blood rather than born of it, were doomed.
"No! No, this can't be happening!" another screamed, eyes wild with despair. "It's his fault! That damn fool of a primogenitor! We should never have provoked Dracula!"
Chaos overtook them. The black rain poured harder, drenching the worlds, marking the passing of a sovereign.
---
At the heart of the storm, Velira Morvane, daughter of Veylar, stood by her window. Seventeen years old. Barely awakened. A child by vampire reckoning. Tears gathered in her crimson eyes as she pressed a pale hand to the glass, watching the endless rain of mourning.
Her father was gone. Soon, her clan would follow. She would be left alone.
Perhaps her mother's clan, the Nightstalkers, would accept her. Yet the thought twisted her stomach. The Nightstalkers—flesh eaters, cannibals of their own kin. To live among them was a fate crueler than solitude.
Her heart ached. She prayed she would not be forced into their embrace.
---
"It's your father's fault we're dying!" a voice screeched. The door behind her splintered as a blood-soaked vampire staggered in, eyes wild with rage and despair. His claws gleamed red. "If I kill you, Velira, then I will have my revenge!"
Velira froze. Her young body trembled, powerless. She hadn't undergone her awakening ceremony, nor her blood awakening. Her bloodline slumbered, unawakened. The little vampiric power she'd wielded till now had been a gift—her father's blood sustaining her. With him gone, she was nothing.
Weaker than the weakest. Prey.
She closed her eyes. Tears streamed down her cheeks as she whispered in her heart, Father... I'm coming.
---
But then—
"How dare you raise a hand against a pureblood?"
The voice cut through the air like an executioner's blade. Cold. Chilling. Final.
The crazed vampire froze mid-stride, terror slamming into his heart. His limbs locked. He dared not breathe.
"It would have been better had you awaited death patiently," the voice continued, dripping with disdain.
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Show menu NOVEL BIN5Novel Reincarnated with a lucky draw system Chapter 77: SAFEST GUARDIANREINCARNATED WITH A LUCKY DRAW SYSTEMC77: SAFEST GUARDIAN
Chapter 77: SAFEST GUARDIAN
"Mother..." Velira whispered softly, disbelief lacing her voice as she looked at the figure standing before her.
The attacking vampire froze on the spot, his whole body trembling. His instincts screamed at him that the woman before him was no ordinary vampire. She was a Nightstalker — the devourers of their own kind, predators among predators. They called themselves hunters, though they were vampires themselves.
"I... I... I'm sorry," the vampire stammered, his impulsive rage already replaced by pure terror.
"It's alright," Vemora, Velira's mother, spoke with a calm voice, yet each word carried a cold finality. "All I have to do is kill you to correct your arrogance."
"No—please... please just let me—urgh!"
The vampire's plea was cut short, his chest torn open in a blur. A pale hand reached directly into his ribcage, curling around his beating heart.
"Please... don't..." he begged weakly, but his words were wasted. His heart was ripped out with merciless precision, his life snuffed out before he could even comprehend his death.
The heart was raised up, and another vampire — taller, sharper, with dark hunger in his eyes — sniffed it with disdain. "Such a bland heart," he said, disgust dripping from his tone. Without hesitation, he bit into it, devouring it with unnerving calm.
This was Draziel, the right-hand of Vemora, feared even among the Nightstalkers.
"Let's go, my sweet child. This place is no longer safe for you," Vemora said softly, turning back to Velira. "From now on, you will stay with our clan."
Velira's small hands clenched tightly at her sides. She didn't want to speak, but she couldn't keep it in. Her chest ached with resistance. "Mother... I... I can't." Her eyes were wet, trembling as tears brimmed.
"Don't be a spoiled brat, kid," Draziel interjected coldly, tossing aside the rest of the heart as though it was trash. "You either come with us... or fend for yourself. From what we just saw, you won't last a single day alone."
"I know," Velira whispered, voice quivering. "But I can't... I just can't." She took a step backward, her tears finally spilling down her pale cheeks.
Vemora's eyes softened. "My child..." she called gently, torn between her role as a mother and her duty as a Nightstalker.
"Tch. Buzzkill," Draziel muttered, his lip curling into a predatory grin. "If you don't want to be one of us, then you're better off as food. You won't survive anyway." He began to step forward, his tongue sliding across his lips. "What can I say? I've never tasted the flesh of a pureblood myself..."
"Draziel, stop!" Vemora snapped, her command sharp, but her subordinate didn't slow. His hunger drowned out reason.
"And why should I?!" Draziel snarled. "Need I remind you of the clan leader's orders? If she refuses our kindness, she is to be killed on the spot. That was the instruction, Vemora. Don't think your motherly feelings can overwrite that."
The room's air shifted—thick, suffocating.
"Take one more step closer to her," a voice said, low and thunderous, "and what you'll be eating is your own heart."
Everyone froze. The voice didn't shout, yet it rang louder than any roar.
Standing at the doorway was Dracula. His crimson eyes glowed faintly in the shadows, his presence towering, suffocating, inevitable.
"Dracula..." Vemora whispered, her face draining of all color. Fear gripped her like a vice, stronger than anything she had ever felt.
Dracula walked forward slowly, every step deliberate, every movement heavy with unshakable authority. "So many dare defy me today. First, the conservatives tried to recruit my son... and now you scavengers dare show your faces before me?" His voice was calm, but beneath it was the promise of death.
"We are not scavengers!" Draziel roared back, his fear drowned by reckless pride. "We are vampires hunters!" His eyes blazed with defiance as he met Dracula's gaze.
Dracula's lips curled faintly. "He dares talk back to me. You really have no regard for your life... Very well. I shall grant you your wish."
"You can't kill me!" Draziel shouted, his confidence flaring. "If you do, my clan leader will come for you. You might be the most famous vampire alive, regarded as the strongest of all, but perhaps I should remind you of the difference in age between my clan leader and you! Millennia! The age gap is that vast!"
Dracula's eyes narrowed, his tone cutting like a blade. "A fool, even in death. Do you think that cockroach of a clan leader scares me simply because he is older? So if I kill you now, your clan leader will intervene?"
"Of course he—"
"No, Lord Dracula!" Vemora cried out, cutting him off desperately. Her body trembled, but her voice was firm. "My clan leader does not wish to make an enemy of you!"
Draziel's eyes widened. He turned on her in disbelief, rage twisting his features. "Vemora! What nonsense are you spouting?!"
Vemora avoided his gaze. "Simply saving our entire clan... and our sireline."
Dracula chuckled darkly. "Vemora, always clever. You know what must be done."
Before Draziel could even react, his body exploded into a crimson mist. His life ended instantly.
Dracula's gaze fell upon Velira, then back to Vemora. "As I promised my friend, I will be taking Velira with me. I will ensure her secrecy until the day she desires independence, and until I am convinced she can protect herself." His voice was not a request. It was a decree.
Vemora bowed her head deeply. "Thank you... I beg of you, for the sake of your friend, please look after my daughter."
Dracula gave no verbal reply. He simply nodded, appearing beside Velira. The next instant, both of them vanished, leaving the room empty.
Silence lingered.
"...Was it reasonable," another Nightstalker whispered to Vemora, "to hand your daughter to the very cause of her clan's downfall?"
Vemora's eyes were heavy with conflict, but her words were steady. "The safest guardian anyone can have right now... is Dracula. And despite everything, he still considered Morvane a friend."
She turned sharply, masking her emotions. "Come. We must report everything to the clan leader immediately."
Some of the other Nightstalkers grumbled, their eyes glinting with hunger. "But what of the soon-to-be vampires? You can't expect us to leave them untouched. Their blood is... tempting."
Vemora looked at them. Their expressions were united, hungry and expectant. She clenched her jaw, torn. In the end, she could only sigh and give in. "...Fine. Do what you must."
---
"Father," Kaelith said respectfully as Dracula appeared in the great hall, Velira standing silently beside him.
"Liam?" Dracula asked.
"He has chosen to lock himself away," Kaelith admitted. "Forgive him, Father... but the guilt of exterminating an entire clan weighs heavily on him."
"Pathetic." Dracula's gaze hardened. "Kaelith. See to it that the young vampire before you receives one of the royal chambers. Treat her no different than we are treated."
Without waiting for a response, Dracula turned and left.
Kaelith was left with Velira, the silence between them suffocating. She stood stiffly, unable to meet his eyes, her body trembling faintly.
After a moment, Kaelith exhaled and offered her a small smile. "Shall we?"
Velira nodded quietly, still too drained and overwhelmed to utter a word.
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Show menu NOVEL BIN5Novel Reincarnated with a lucky draw system Chapter 78: LOVE AND DOOMREINCARNATED WITH A LUCKY DRAW SYSTEMC78: LOVE AND DOOM
Chapter 78: LOVE AND DOOM
A hundred years had passed since the fall of the Conservatives, and in that span of time, much had changed.
Velira Morvane, once a trembling child forced into the shadows of grief and survival, had long since matured. She had grown into her place within the Ripper clan. At first, it had been nothing short of terrifying. To be torn from the warmth of her father's clan—where mercy still had its place, where the vampires chose to feed without cruelty—only to be thrust into the heart of the Rippers, who bore no restraint, no morality, no hesitation when it came to blood and survival.
The transition had been agonizing. The sights of flesh devoured and blood drained openly had kept her sleepless for years, her heart recoiling with every hunt. She had clung to the faint hope of refusing her mother's path, but reality had swallowed that innocence whole.
Yet, she had not been alone.
Lucien—who shared her softness, who bore that quiet compassion against the cruelty of their world—had been the anchor that kept her spirit alive. Kaelith, sharp-edged yet ever watchful, had been her other pillar, though his path was harder, darker, and laced with the fire of ambition. Together, the three had faced trials, rites, and wars. Together, they had carved their names into the Ripper clan's tale.
Velira stood now in the glow of the twin moons—one crimson, one pale. Noctra, their eternal home, was bathed in its eerie beauty. Twelve hours of red moonlight, drenched in haunting color; twelve hours of white, cold and serene. A world born for predators.
She found Lucien where she always expected him: at the tall window pane overlooking the castle grounds, his form caught in silver light. He leaned against the frame, silent, lost in thought as though the night sky held secrets only he could read.
"I knew I'd find you here, Lucien," Velira said softly, her voice carrying the faintest amusement. Her pale skin shimmered under the lunar light, her crimson eyes catching his reflection. "Why do you always stay here, staring endlessly into the void? Do you never tire of it?"
Lucien turned, a faint smile tugging at his lips, though his eyes remained distant. "No reason in particular," he murmured, his tone low and gentle. "I just enjoy the quiet. The night sky... the stillness of it. It helps me think."
Velira stepped closer, her gaze lingering on him. She had known him long enough to read the weight he carried in his silences. A hundred years together had changed her, but it had changed him even more.
Lucien, once ridiculed and shunned as the unwanted heir, had clawed his way out of that shadow. He had gone through his awakening, survived the blood rites, and astonished even Dracula himself. Against all expectation, he had manifested not just the bloodline gifts of his father, but also those of his mother—a rare dual inheritance that made his future terrifyingly boundless.
Kaelith, his twin, had not been left behind either. His growth was sharp, disciplined, and focused entirely on their father's line of power. He was still the expected heir, the golden child who mirrored Dracula's will. But in the clan's whispers, Lucien's name now carried equal weight.
And Velira herself... she too had awakened, her bloodline singing with the same duality as Lucien's. Among them, the three had become the shining promise of the Ripper clan's next era. Their rise was further cemented during the war against the werewolves—a brutal conflict that turned youths into killers and left behind nothing but blood-stained moons. Victories had forged their respect; battles had woven their bond.
But with victories also came complications.
A love triangle had silently taken root, twisting around their bond. Velira had not meant for it—her heart had not meant to split the twins—but affection and time had turned sharp. In the end, she had chosen Lucien. The wound of that choice had carved a rift between brothers, one that lingered across decades.
"I was hoping," Velira broke the silence again, a mischievous lilt in her tone, "that we could have another spar. Or maybe a hunt. Anything but this endless castle stillness." She sighed, stepping into his arms as though the gesture were as natural as breathing. His warmth steadied her, and she rested against his chest, content.
"Whatever you want, Velira," Lucien replied with a rare, tender smile. His lips brushed hers, a fleeting kiss that burned with the intimacy of their stolen hundred years. "Though I should warn you... if it's a spar, you'll lose."
Velira laughed lightly, though her gaze softened. "Then a hunt it is. And... perhaps we should ask Kaelith to come along."
The mention of his twin made Lucien's smile falter, the tension instantly returning to his eyes. "You know he avoids us. Ever since you chose me..." His voice carried quiet frustration, the weight of a decade's silence pressing against him. "It's been years, Velira. He hasn't spoken a word to me. He won't even look at me unless he must."
"He'll come around," Velira said gently, though a trace of guilt lingered in her tone. "Give him time. He's too stubborn, but he's still your brother. He can't possibly ignore you for another century."
Lucien let out a small laugh, shaking his head. "I hope you're right." He laced his fingers with hers, leading her away from the room, ready to chase the hunt together.
But fate had a way of answering in its own timing.
As the pair stepped out of the castle gates, they found Kaelith already waiting. He stood under the pale moon, arms crossed, his expression unreadable.
"Where are you two headed?" Kaelith asked, a faint smile curving his lips.
Lucien froze. His heart stuttered, hope flickering where bitterness had long been. "Brother... we were just about to go for a hunt."
For the first time in decades, Kaelith didn't turn away. Instead, he nodded slowly, his voice softer than expected. "Then... may I join you? I've been bitter. Petty. Forgive me, brother. You know why I acted the way I did. I was hurt... but time has its way of healing. I needed to face it myself."
Lucien's eyes widened, relief flooding through him. A genuine smile broke across his face as he embraced his twin tightly. "Of course, brother. Always."
Velira watched them, her chest tightening with a joy she hadn't realized she craved—finally, the rift seemed to mend.
"Then," Kaelith said, stepping back with a steadier smile, "let's make this hunt worthy. There are rumors of a stray werewolf on Planet Mexia. Young. Untrained. Likely left behind when the rest were expelled by Father's hand."
"Then we should bring an elder," Velira suggested quickly. "Just in case."
"How strong do you think this werewolf is?" Lucien asked, his brow furrowing.
"From what I've gathered—weak," Kaelith replied. "Barely blooded. It shouldn't be an issue."
"Then let's go ourselves," Lucien said immediately, determination hardening his voice. "If an elder comes, the werewolf won't stand a chance. He'll be sentenced to death the moment they arrive. At least this way, we can decide his fate."
Kaelith narrowed his eyes. "You're too soft, brother. What if the information is wrong? What if he's not weak at all?"
Lucien shook his head. "I'm a demigod. Velira is a demigod. You're a step away from reaching it yourself. We've fought dozens of werewolves in fifty years of war—what's one stray? No elder is needed. Let's go, treat it as sightseeing if nothing else, and put this to rest."
Silence stretched. Velira glanced between the two, reading the truth behind Lucien's stubbornness. It wasn't arrogance—it was mercy. He didn't want the werewolf killed simply for existing. He wanted to give the creature a chance, perhaps even to spare his life if it was possible. That was Lucien's way—soft, defiant, and unchanging.
Kaelith sighed heavily. "You know Father will call this weakness. Mercy isn't for enemies, Lucien. You should abandon that ideal."
Lucien only smiled, unwavering. "Perhaps. But when cruelty isn't needed, why wield it? That's my way. No one—not even Father—will strip that from me."
With that, he placed a hand on his brother's shoulder, his other wrapped around Velira's. Together, they walked toward the vessel waiting at the edge of the castle grounds.
Though he and Velira had ascended to demigods, travel between planets still required vessels to pierce the boundaries of space. Only gods themselves could freely traverse without such means. For Kaelith, who had not yet crossed that threshold, the ship was a necessity.
Lucien had chosen this route deliberately. And in that choice—a choice born of mercy and caution—lay the shadow of regret that would soon come to meet them.
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Show menu NOVEL BIN5Novel Reincarnated with a lucky draw system Chapter 79: PLOT AGAINST DRACULAREINCARNATED WITH A LUCKY DRAW SYSTEMC79: PLOT AGAINST DRACULA
Chapter 79: PLOT AGAINST DRACULA
A hall overflowing with dense, purified mana hummed with tension. It wasn't often that so many sovereigns of the universe gathered in one place. The chamber itself was grand—polished white marble floors lined with intricate runes, pillars carved from starstone, and a ceiling so high it seemed to disappear into a swirling mist of cosmic energy. Here sat the rulers of countless races, each one carrying an aura that could shake worlds. Yet despite their power, an unspoken weight pressed down on them. There was only one reason these beings would set aside their pride to meet: Dracula Highborn.
Odin, the all-seeing god and chief of the Asgardians, sat at the head of the table, his single eye gleaming like a storm contained. Beside him, Zeus lounged in his seat, barely concealing his irritation, lightning flickering faintly across his golden cuffs. The leaders of other godly pantheons flanked them, each carrying the same mixture of pride and unease.
Seraphel, the serene yet stern leader of the angelic race, shone with holy radiance, his calm expression hiding the calculations running behind his glowing eyes. Opposite him, the fallen angel Lucifer leaned back casually, his black wings folded, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. The tension between them was a living thing, though neither acknowledged it.
Baal, the demon sovereign, exuded controlled malice, his presence sharp like a blade. Mephistopheles, the devil ruler, wore his usual unreadable grin. Even the mechanical race's cold, efficient leader had attended, its metallic body clicking faintly as it processed everything silently. There were dragons—ancient and proud, their scales glimmering like starlight; elves of otherworldly grace; spirits, undead lords, and other high races, all gathered for one purpose.
And that purpose was fear. Fear of a single name: Dracula Highborn.
---
"We need to face the truth," Mephistopheles began, his voice carrying across the vast hall like a measured blade. "Dracula has gone unchecked for far too long. He is growing out of control, and while some of you pretend not to care, you all feel the noose tightening around your necks. We ignored him when he wiped out a vampire clan. Fine—most of us care little for their politics. But when he turned his attention to the werewolves, when he hunted them to near extinction and drove the remnants out of the universe, it became our problem. That was not just a feud. That was dominance. And it keeps the rest of us awake."
"That's the werewolf clan you're talking about," Zeus scoffed, his tone dripping with disdain. "They were never strong enough to matter."
Mephistopheles' smile widened, but his words cut like poison. "Is that so? How is your son, Ares, these days? Has he healed from the humiliation of being called 'mediocre' after Dracula fed on his blood? And your wife, Hera—must sting, doesn't it, knowing her blood was tasted by another being?"
The room shifted as Zeus rose slightly, his fury sparking, literal lightning dancing across his frame. "Say that again."
"What are you going to do?" Mephistopheles didn't flinch, devilish energy coiling around him like smoke. "I'm simply speaking truth, and your pride can't stomach it. We all know it—even you. None of us can match Dracula. Not as things stand."
"Enough," Odin's voice thundered, the sound vibrating through the hall. "Sit down, both of you. This is not the time for petty rivalry." His one eye swept the room. "And Zeus, Mephistopheles is correct. Whether we like it or not, Dracula has become something beyond containment. We need to decide, here and now, how to prevent the universe itself from bending to him. If we delay, he will not just hunt—he will consume."
A deep, ancient voice rumbled through the hall then, shaking the very pillars. "The devil speaks truth, for once." The Primordial Dragon, its massive body curled behind an enchanted barrier, shifted its gleaming head. "Dracula cannot be ignored. His immortality alone tilts the balance. He will outlast us all unless we strike first. Better to hunt him now than allow him hunt us in the future."
Baal chuckled darkly, drawing every eye to him. "You are all speaking like frightened children. I've been expecting this outcome for centuries. While you wrung your hands, I was preparing."
Mephistopheles raised a brow, his grin sharp. "Baal. Always the schemer. Tell me, why is it the angels still breathe? Did your little plots lose their edge?"
"Let's say," Baal replied smoothly, his crimson eyes glinting, "I like to keep some toys around. Even the angel race is amusing if you play the game right. But Dracula is not a game. Dracula is inevitable—unless we are clever."
Seraphel ignored the bait, his golden eyes narrowing. "Then speak. What is your plan?"
"Simple," Baal said, standing slowly, letting his presence stretch over them like a shadow. "You do not crush a being like Dracula through force. You strike where even gods are blind—through the heart. Love, loyalty, blood. The things that make him... not invincible."
"Out with it already," Zeus snapped, impatient.
"It is already in motion," Baal said with a devil's smile. "Kaelith—the loyal son—is leading his brother into a trap as we speak. And the brother? Lucien. The perfect key."
There was a ripple of murmurs. Seraphel leaned forward. "Explain. How does a boy solve this?"
Lucifer finally spoke, his voice like velvet laced with knives. "Do not underestimate sentiment. All of you know Dracula's first love. You know what her death did to him. And now his son, Lucien... the mirror of that woman. The living reminder. Baal understands this better than you. If Dracula has a weakness, it is that boy."
Baal grinned wider. "Exactly. I will take Lucien. The rest will fall into place. But I will require your cooperation when the time comes."
"You're sure of this?" Odin asked quietly.
"Absolutely," Baal replied, already turning. "You'll see. When this is done, the universe will no longer bow to a single vampire."
One by one, the others began to leave, some silent, some doubtful, but none denying that the demon's words carried dangerous logic.
---
Far away, within the dark fortress of the Ripper Clan, a voice interrupted the silence of the throne chamber.
"Lord Dracula—"
"I know," Dracula said without looking, his tone calm but sharp. "They gather, those who believe themselves kings and gods. They plot. Let them."
"My lord, forgive me, but these are not small enemies," the elder continued cautiously. "Their retaliation may come swiftly."
"They are nothing," Dracula said, rising slowly. His crimson gaze burned like a star. "They forget whose shadow they live in. Their whispers do not reach me. But... preparations must be complete. Tell me, how goes the work I commanded?"
The elder's expression shifted, awe creeping into his features. "Almost complete, my lord. By tomorrow, the Infinite Blood Pool shall be finished. A device capable of holding the blood of every conquered race. It will replicate endlessly, regenerate without fail. With it, your thirst will never again be a weakness."
Dracula's smile was faint, but deadly. "Good. Then the chains of my curse will break. Let them come; I will meet them as I always have—alone."
He paused then, his expression softening for just a moment. "After it is done, summon my sons. It is time they learned the truth of their mother."
The elder hesitated. "My lord... they are not here. The young princes have gone to Mexia. It seems there is word of a stray werewolf on the planet."
"Mexia..." Dracula's gaze darkened briefly before he waved a hand. "Very well. Inform me when they return. And complete the pool. When the time comes, I will truly be invincible."
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Show menu NOVEL BIN5Novel Reincarnated with a lucky draw system Chapter 80: SECURING LEVERAGEREINCARNATED WITH A LUCKY DRAW SYSTEMC80: SECURING LEVERAGE
Chapter 80: SECURING LEVERAGE
Lucien, Velira, and Kaelith stepped onto the dusty plains of Mexia, their presence enough to silence the planet. The trio walked with the kind of calm confidence only predators carried, their every step echoing authority. The kobold inhabitants barely dared to breathe in their direction; they scattered like frightened birds, too aware of whose bloodline these three carried. No one wanted to be the fool who provoked Dracula's children.
Lucien's golden eyes scanned the horizon, his senses stretching like a net across the small world. "So, Kaelith," he said, his tone cool but edged with curiosity, "where exactly is this werewolf? I've swept the planet twice, and all I see are kobolds hiding in their holes."
Kaelith, hands folded behind his back, didn't break his stride. His expression was calm, almost amused. "Keep looking. If it's here, we'll find it. Don't tell me your senses have dulled."
Lucien gave a dry chuckle but didn't argue. Velira, walking just a step behind them, closed her eyes and joined the search, her own aura spreading like silver threads through the air. Together, their power covered every inch of Mexia.
Then—
"There's no need to tire yourselves." A voice, smooth and amused, drifted down from above. "There is no werewolf here."
All three heads snapped upward. A figure stood in the air as if the wind itself obeyed him.
"Kaelith," Lucien said slowly, golden eyes narrowing, "care to explain? Who the hell is that?"
The answer came before Kaelith could speak. A ripple in space, and Baal—the King of Demons—appeared behind them, so close his breath could stir their hair. "Relax, little prince. I wouldn't ruin the surprise. Kaelith and I arrived almost at the same time."
Kaelith turned his head slightly, his calm expression never breaking. "We did."
Lucien's jaw clenched. "You know him? Since when are demons your traveling companions?"
"I said there was no werewolf," Baal interrupted, voice laced with mockery. He stepped forward, the air thickening with his demonic energy. "But there is a wolf, and it's me. Allow me to properly introduce myself. Baal, ruler of demons, a face your father is well acquainted with. And dear Kaelith... well, he's been helping me."
The words landed like daggers. Lucien froze for half a breath, his mind stuttering before his body reacted. "Kaelith? What is he talking abou—"
Agony cut him short. A sharp, unnatural pain ripped through his torso as something pierced his flesh. He looked down to see a wooden dagger jutting from his side, Kaelith's hand still on the hilt.
"Lucien!" Velira's scream sliced the air. Her bat familiar burst forth, wings slicing like blades as it darted for Kaelith.
But Kaelith didn't hesitate. Blood spilled from his palm, shaping itself into a crimson sickle. One clean swing and the familiar was split mid-flight, its pieces evaporating into mist. He stepped back, cold and deliberate.
Lucien's knees hit the ground, one hand gripping the dagger. "Why...?" he rasped, blood pooling between his fingers.
"Careful." Baal crouched beside him, voice low but cruel. "That isn't just any wood. A branch from the elf's World Tree. Pull it the wrong way and it will kill you before your next breath."
"Get the fuck away from him!" Velira's voice was a snarl now, her eyes flashing between onyx black and molten silver. Power surged through her frame, muscles tightening, aura flaring.
She lunged, fist swinging with enough force to crack mountains. Baal didn't even blink. He caught her punch as if she were a child throwing a tantrum, his expression twisting with mild irritation.
"Go away." A flick of his wrist, and Velira was sent flying, her body vanishing into the distance like a meteor.
"Don't hurt her!" Kaelith's voice finally cracked, anger breaking through his calm facade. "That wasn't part of our deal!"
Baal chuckled darkly, straightening. "Oh, poor Kaelith. You think she'll ever forgive you? Betrayal leaves a mark that even time won't heal."
"She's not yours to touch. And what I fix with her is my business," Kaelith snapped, his composure fraying.
"Charming," Baal said, and in the same breath blurred forward, a streak of shadow and steel. Before Kaelith could react, another stake was buried in his abdomen.
The pain was instant and searing, a weapon not meant to kill but to tear at the essence of what he was.
"You—" Kaelith coughed blood, his glare shaking. "You promised to help me take him down! You swore—"
Baal tilted his head, almost pitying. "Lesson one: never bargain with a demon. Everything has a price. You were simply too naïve to read the fine print."
"You bastard!"
"You really don't get it, do you?" Baal's grin widened. "Your father's name terrifies gods, yet somehow he raised sons who walk around thinking the universe owes them something. It's almost cute."
"I'll kill you," Kaelith hissed, blood dripping from his lips. "My father will—"
"That's the idea," Baal interrupted smoothly. "You were useful, Kaelith. Thank you for five entertaining years of pretending to be my friend."
His gaze shifted, sharp and cold. "Now... how to make this message clear to Dracula himself? Ah, yes. The perfect collateral."
Before they could blink, Baal was gone, then there again, holding Velira by the throat. She struggled, claws digging at his wrist, but his grip didn't waver.
"Velira!" Both brothers roared, panic slicing through their pain.
"Dear Kaelith," Baal said softly, almost kindly, tightening his hold until Velira's face paled, "you wanted her gone. Let me help you finish the job." His free hand hovered over her chest, ready to strike.
"Stop!" Lucien's voice was raw, desperate. His eyes flared gold, power tearing from him like a storm. Mind compulsion slammed into Baal, heavier than anything he'd ever unleashed. It cost him everything—life force burned like oil, his body trembling with the weight of it.
For an instant, Baal froze.
That was all Velira needed. Her blood flared, and she did something no vampire dared. A familiar answered her call, but instead of sending it out, she pulled herself into it. The world warped; her figure blurred and vanished with the creature, leaving only a rush of air behind.
Baal blinked, amused rather than alarmed. "Reckless. Do you know what she just did? That familiar belongs to another universe. She's thrown herself into chaos, likely torn apart by the laws of travel. Luck was never her strength."
He turned back, smiling at the wounded princes. "And now it's just us. She left you when things got hard. What loyalty."
Lucien's gaze burned, his voice hoarse but unyielding. "She didn't abandon us. She saved herself—and something far more important."
"Oh?" Baal stepped closer, curious. "Do tell."
Lucien met his eyes, gold still glowing faintly. "She carries my child."
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Show menu NOVEL BIN5Novel Reincarnated with a lucky draw system Chapter 81: PLAN SUCCEEDSREINCARNATED WITH A LUCKY DRAW SYSTEMC81: PLAN SUCCEEDS
Chapter 81: PLAN SUCCEEDS
"What did you say?" Baal's voice cut through the tense silence, heavy with disbelief. His face, usually so composed, betrayed a flicker of genuine surprise.
By Lucien's side, Kaelith stiffened, eyes wide. He had faced battles, betrayals, and countless secrets, but this—this was new.
"She is pregnant," Lucien said, his tone sharp though his body trembled with fatigue. His crimson eyes burned with quiet defiance. "With my child."
Baal blinked once, then narrowed his gaze. "Impossible." He stepped closer, his imposing figure casting a shadow over the younger vampire. "A pure-blood vampire, barely matured, cannot sire a child. Especially with one just as young as you. It defies our laws and our nature."
"I know what it sounds like," Lucien replied, lowering his head slightly, sadness threading his voice. "But it happened. It's real. She carries my child."
Kaelith's jaw tightened. His brother's words struck something raw within him—guilt, anger, confusion. Was he angry at Lucien for his recklessness? Or guilty for not protecting him? Emotions warred in his chest, threatening to spill over.
Baal's expression shifted to something colder, darker. He let out a sharp exhale that might have been a laugh. "An anomaly. That's what this is. The cursed universe, always meddling, always birthing problems where none should exist." His gaze hardened like iron. "Lucien, listen well. I do not tolerate loose ends. That... thing inside her? That child? It's a loose end that I will not leave dangling. Pray to whatever gods you like that she is cast into the void or a barren world. Because if she lives—if that anomaly breathes air and sees light—I will find them both, and I will kill them."
Lucien glared up at him, rage flickering behind his exhaustion, but Baal was unmoved.
"Now," Baal said abruptly, as if brushing off the entire subject, "we plan your father's end." Without ceremony, he seized both brothers with unnatural strength. The three vanished into the stars, leaving Mexia silent and cold.
---
Castle Dracula – The Chalice
Dracula sat upon his throne, the ancient seat carved from obsidian and steeped in a presence that chilled the blood of even the bravest. Calm, but his sharp gaze missed nothing.
Regi, his second-in-command, approached and knelt, holding a silver chalice that seemed to hum with restrained power. "It is done, my lord," he said, voice reverent. "The ultimate invention of our kind."
Dracula's eyes, crimson pools of curiosity and authority, studied the artifact. "A chalice?" he mused. "Explain."
Regi stood, raising the cup with both hands. "The chalice is only the vessel. It connects to the true source—the main pool we engineered in an independent space. Countless theories, supernatural and technological, were woven together to create this. Pour blood into this chalice, and the process is executed instantly. No weapon, no spell in existence surpasses it."
Dracula took it, weighing it carefully. "You have done well, Regi."
Before more could be said, a vampire sprinted into the hall, dropping to one knee, his chest heaving. "My lord! The princes—they have been taken!"
Dracula's gaze shifted to him, his tone calm enough to unsettle even Regi. "Explain."
"The people of Mexia saw Baal himself," the messenger said quickly. "He departed with both princes. They say he carried them away."
Silence stretched, heavy and suffocating. Then Dracula stood, his expression unchanging, but the air thickened with a promise of violence.
"A trap," he murmured. "A deliberate provocation." His lips curved, not quite a smile. "It seems the universe has forgotten who I am."
Regi stepped forward urgently. "My lord, please. Take trusted warriors. Take me. We can strike together."
Dracula turned, chalice in hand, cloak trailing behind him like a living shadow. "I require no allies, Regi. I only require enemies."
---
The Gathering of Powers
Baal stood before the mightiest of the cosmos, gathered in a chamber of shifting stone and light. Zeus leaned against a pillar, impatience crackling like the storm within him. "Baal," he growled. "This cryptic emergency grows tiresome."
Baal smiled faintly. "The plan is in motion. A critical step has been taken. I hold Dracula's sons."
The room stirred; even gods found silence when shocked. Odin's single eye narrowed, his lips curling. "Fool," he spat. "We asked for a plan to end Dracula, not to enrage him into a frenzy."
Baal shrugged, his confidence radiating like heat. "Relax. Every move has its reason. This is phase two. And it is far from gentle. We will need every blade, every spell, every god and devil ready."
"Speak plainly," Odin said coldly. "We do not follow you blind."
"You will see soon enough." Baal's grin widened. "Sit back and enjoy the show."
---
Planet of Demons – The Blood Suckers
The demon world quaked when Dracula arrived. His voice, amplified by sheer will, swept across its mountains and caverns.
"Baal," he said, each syllable a threat. "Where are my sons? Where is Velira?"
The planet answered with silence. All that Dracula sensed were two fading life forces, one weaker than the other. He moved toward them without hesitation.
The trail led underground, deep into the planet's veins, until he found a chamber lit by an eerie, pulsating glow. There, two strange trees grew—fed by the lifeblood of his sons.
Dracula stopped, face unreadable, though a storm raged inside him. He approached slowly, studying the plants, recognizing them instantly. His eyes hardened. "Blood suckers."
He understood Baal's design: force him to choose. Save his sons at the cost of his strength, or keep his power and let them die.
The answer was not a choice. It was instinct.
He sliced open his palms, blood as ancient and potent as the first night spilling onto the roots. "Taste mine," he said calmly. "It is far richer than theirs."
The plants reacted violently, blooming in grotesque beauty, tendrils snapping toward the source. They latched onto his wounds, writhing up his arms, embedding deep into his body. Soon they found his heart, binding themselves to him.
Far away, Odin observed through mystic sight. "So he accepts the burden," he said softly.
Baal, clad in gleaming battle armor, smirked. "The hunt begins. Let us see who survives the game."
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Show menu NOVEL BIN5Novel Reincarnated with a lucky draw system Chapter 82: FALL OF DRACULA IREINCARNATED WITH A LUCKY DRAW SYSTEMC82: FALL OF DRACULA I
Chapter 82: FALL OF DRACULA I
A single day had crawled by since those vile blood parasites had latched themselves onto Dracula's flesh, embedding deep like iron nails driven by a wrathful cosmos. They were not mere creatures, but curses given form—each one gnawing, sucking, and siphoning his primordial lifeblood with a hunger that could unmake worlds. By every calculation, by every rule of vitality, he should have been a husk by now. A titan brought to its knees.
"They should've drained him to nothing already," said Seraphel, the seraphic sovereign whose wings shimmered like spears forged from starlight. Rising slowly from where he leaned against a pillar of crystal light, his voice carried a note of urgency that snapped through the chamber. "If they haven't bled him dry, they've at least weakened him to the brink. This is the moment to strike. Let him have no chance to recover. We move now, while he's bleeding, while he's desperate."
Their war council chamber was no ordinary hall. It was a sanctuary hidden between dimensions, suspended in a rift where time bowed and sound carried like whispers from the edges of galaxies. Ethereal mists curled along the floor, glimmering with the light of unseen suns, while the far-off pulse of collapsing stars painted the walls in faint, dying colors. Around a circular dais sat the powers of countless realms.
Baal, the demon architect, did not rise. Reclined on a throne carved from solid void essence, his presence coiled like smoke and shadow, a storm barely contained. When he spoke, the chamber trembled. "No. We adhere to the plan."
The other sovereigns stirred. Lucifer tilted his head, his smile that of a fox contemplating a snare; Odin sat as if carved from ancient stone, his single eye glowing faintly; Mephistopheles tapped clawed fingers against his knee, restless and dangerous; Zeus radiated barely leashed power, lightning itching along his frame; the Primordial Dragon coiled, silent but vast, its scales reflecting entire constellations; Nexus, the mechanical overlord, stood motionless but alive with the hum of countless computations.
Baal's voice resonated again, deep and certain. "Time is our greatest ally. Those parasites feast even now, draining the lord of night. Every moment he breathes, he bleeds. When he comes, he will not be whole. He will be cornered, rash, driven by pain. That is when we take him—not before." His gaze swept the ring of power. "And when he comes, the first blow belongs to Nexus. You hold no blood, no soul to tempt him. You'll face him first, unyielding, a wall he cannot drink dry. Every second you survive will peel away more of his strength. When the moment comes, when he stands stripped of essence, we strike together. And he will fall."
A silence followed, heavy with the weight of inevitability. Lucifer finally let out a soft chuckle, leaning forward, the shadows of his wings dancing across the luminous walls. "Then all that remains is to find the prey. Odin—his lair. Show us where he hides."
The All-Father closed his eye, the runes beneath his brow igniting as threads of power extended outward, weaving through dimensions like an unseen web. Seconds stretched, long and tense. The chamber seemed to darken as his sight traveled far. When he opened his eye again, the calm had fractured, just slightly.
"He's cloaked," Odin said grimly. "The void hides him. Whatever he's done, it clouds even my vision. But I caught a shadow before he vanished—a flicker of him moving his bloodline. Noctra. He's sent his sons into its vaults, sealing them deep. He is preparing."
Mephistopheles let out a guttural growl, pacing like a caged beast. Sparks hissed under his claws as they scraped against the floor. "Enough secrecy. Enough hiding. The longer we wait, the more he plots. Let us drag him into the light and crush him before he breathes another thought."
The air changed. A shiver ran through the sanctuary—a tremor not of earth but of reality itself. The walls vibrated with a frequency none could ignore. Odin's eye flared wide.
"He's moved," he said, his voice rising. "The parasites bite too deep. He seeks a cure. The world tree—he's heading for it. To the elven domain. To rip life itself from its roots and heal."
Baal's smirk was sharp enough to cut. His dark aura pulsed once, like a heartbeat. "Exactly where we wanted him." He stood, his shadow stretching across the chamber like a spear. "But he will find no forest, no salvation. Only ruin. Only steel. We stripped that world bare. Nexus's children wait there—machines without blood, death without life. And the dead walk with them."
Around the circle, the sovereigns exchanged glances, and in their silence burned anticipation. The game had shifted from theory to action.
---
Far across the void, Dracula did not waste a thought on them. His focus was narrow, honed to a single thread: survival. The parasites writhed beneath his pale skin, each pulse a theft of power. His blood—his essence—bled into them, and though his strength was vast, it was not infinite.
Before he turned to war, he turned to blood. Lucien and Kaelith, his sons, his heirs—he had carried them across veils of space, delivering them into the iron heart of Noctra. The ancestral stronghold of the Ripper clan was alive with wards: crimson sigils that bled light, labyrinths of protection woven from blood and bone. Layer upon layer he sealed around them, a father's fortress in a universe sharpening its knives.
Only then did he leave them, the weight of centuries heavy on his back, and step toward the path of battle.
When Dracula appeared on the elven planet, he expected majesty. He expected the vast forests older than memory, the whispering green, the colossal world tree whose branches cradled the sky. Even wounded, even hunted, he imagined he could tear what he needed from its heart.
But what met him was ash.
The land was dead. The forests were gone, replaced by steel and shadow. The soil was a carcass, the air cold and thin. Great mechanical constructs stalked the wastelands—towering walkers that shook the ground with each step, swarms of winged drones cutting through the sky with surgical precision, glinting red optics scanning the horizon. Between them moved the silent dead: skeletal armies rising from the dirt, flesh hulks bound with iron, phantoms drifting like mist.
It was a trap. A world turned to a weapon.
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Show menu NOVEL BIN5Novel Reincarnated with a lucky draw system Chapter 83: FALL OF DRACULA IIREINCARNATED WITH A LUCKY DRAW SYSTEMC83: FALL OF DRACULA II
Chapter 83: FALL OF DRACULA II
"Dracula," intoned a voice, resonant and synthetic, broadcasting from concealed amplifiers embedded across the ravaged terrain. "The hour of your demise has arrived." Stepping forth from the swirling dust clouds was Nexus, the unchallenged monarch of mechanical domains, his chassis an exquisite amalgamation of hyper-alloys, quantum processors, and adaptive nanotechnology, ocular sensors pulsing with data streams. At his side materialized Cronos, sovereign of the necrotic realms, his skeletal visage shrouded in billowing cloaks of shadow essence, wielding a scythe forged from condensed oblivion that hungered for life forces. Their arrival had been facilitated by Hermes, the elusive messenger deity, who dissolved into the ether the moment his conveyance concluded—ever evasive, prioritizing self-preservation.
Dracula wasted no breath on retorts; dialogue was superfluous in the face of annihilation. Deprived of his blood manipulation, unable to conjure crimson storms or essence-infused armaments, he reverted to his primogenitor essence: unadulterated physical prowess, vampiric agility refined through countless eons of conflict. He surged forward like a unleashed tempest, his initial strike a monumental fist impacting Nexus's torso with seismic force, buckling reinforced plating and eliciting cascades of electrical discharges that illuminated the desolate landscape.
Nexus responded with mechanical alacrity, appendages reconfiguring into serrated vibro-blades that hummed with ultrasonic vibrations, slashing arcs capable of bisecting asteroids. Integrated emitters unleashed volleys of plasma bolts, superheated projectiles streaking toward Dracula with unerring accuracy, compelling him to execute acrobatic evasions—somersaulting over craters, utilizing debris as improvised shields. Cronos amplified the assault, his scythe sweeping in broad crescents that propagated waves of entropic decay, corroding matter on contact and instilling debilitating weakness in any entity ensnared.
The engagement escalated into a symphony of destruction, the planet's surface transforming into a scarred arena of perpetual warfare. Dracula seized an errant drone from mid-air, wielding it as a makeshift flail to pulverize a cluster of skeletal warriors advancing under Cronos's command, their bony frames shattering into dust clouds. He propelled himself skyward to evade a colossus's earth-shattering stomp, which rent fissures miles long, then descended with a devastating aerial kick that imploded the giant's central processor, triggering a chain reaction explosion that bathed the battlefield in fiery radiance. Yet, the opposition adapted relentlessly—Nexus's systems recalibrating in real-time, forecasting Dracula's trajectories with predictive algorithms, countering with targeted electromagnetic pulses that momentarily disrupted his neural impulses, inducing fleeting paralysis.
Cronos invoked necromantic surges, resurrecting fallen automatons as hybrid abominations—mech-zombies lurching with fused circuitry and rotting sinew, their attacks a grotesque blend of laser fire and clawing grasps. Liches, ancient undead mages, materialized from ethereal portals, channeling bolts of soul-eroding arcana that gnawed at Dracula's resilience, forcing him to channel raw willpower to shrug off the spectral agony. Ghoul variants, twisted parodies of vampiric kin, swarmed in feral packs, their fangs dripping with corrupting ichor designed to accelerate the bloodsuckers' drain.
The ordeal spanned three interminable days, each segment a Chapter of escalating brutality. The inaugural day witnessed Dracula dismantling initial waves of drones and skeletons, his claws eviscerating reinforced hulls with surgical ferocity, but the parasites' incessant siphoning eroded his endurance, rendering each exertion more laborious. By twilight, the terrain was littered with metallic detritus and osseous fragments, acrid smoke mingling with necrotic fumes.
The second day elevated to personal duels; atop a improvised pinnacle formed from piled wreckage, Dracula grappled with Cronos in a visceral melee. Punches resonated like thunderclaps, fracturing ethereal ribs, while the undead king's curses inflicted accelerated aging, wrinkling Dracula's immortal skin and stiffening joints—yet he persevered, countering with headbutts and grapples that dispersed necrotic mists, his roars defying the encroaching fatigue.
The third day heralded Nexus's metamorphosis: assimilating surrounding debris, he expanded into a titanic mech colossus, dominating the horizon with artillery barrages of missiles and energy cascades. Dracula ascended the behemoth like a primordial predator scaling prey, infiltrating armored seams, sabotaging vital conduits with targeted strikes. Sparks flew as systems failed sequentially, the giant toppling in slow motion amid quakes that reshaped continents.
As the fourth dawn crested, resolution arrived. Dracula clutched Cronos's pulverized cranium, the king's essence unraveling in a final, despairing shriek. His heel ground into Nexus's deactivated form, circuits flickering their last. Breath ragged, lesions marring his frame without a hint of regeneration, Dracula scanned the horizon, sensing the inbound deluge. "Approach, then," he intoned lowly, voice a gravelly echo of defiance. "Unveil your full arsenal."
The sovereigns materialized en masse, their arrivals heralded by reality-warping phenomena—thunderous booms, infernal portals, rune-etched gateways. Baal directed from a vantage, his tactical acumen weaving the assault's threads, but the vanguard ignited with Zeus's cataclysmic lightning tempests, forking bolts each potent enough to annihilate worlds, scorching the air with ozone tang. Lucifer unleashed chains forged from hellfire, whipping tendrils that sought to ensnare and incinerate. Odin's runes materialized as binding sigils, attempting to rewrite Dracula's destiny into one of subjugation.
Seraphel commanded celestial phalanxes, their lances of divine luminescence piercing shadows with purifying zeal. The Primordial Dragon exhaled breaths of stellar plasma, rivers of flame hot as supernovae cores. Mephistopheles conjured labyrinthine illusions, duplicating the battlefield into deceptive mirages where foes multiplied endlessly.
Yet, the onslaught transcended mere sovereigns; legions from disparate universal races converged, unified against the crimson threat. Celestial seraphim from luminous higher planes descended in radiant flocks, their wings razor-edged, projecting beams of concentrated starlight that vaporized swaths of ground. Void walkers, enigmatic shades birthed in lightless abysses, phased through dimensions, extending tendrils of non-existence to engulf Dracula, dragging fragments of his essence into nullity.
Elemental titans lumbered forth: fire lords embodying volcanic fury, each footfall birthing magma pools, hurling pyroclastic barrages; ice behemoths from frozen nebulae, exhaling blizzards that encased in crystalline prisons, their strikes shattering with glacial force. Arcane sorcerers from secluded mystic enclaves wove incantations of deconstruction, spells unraveling molecular bonds, seeking to disperse Dracula's form into atomic chaos.
Bio-engineered chimeras, amalgamations of draconic might and insectoid agility, surged in coordinated swarms—scales impervious to strikes, stingers injecting neurotoxins calibrated to paralyze vampiric neurology, wings buzzing with supersonic evasion. Astral nomads, ethereal wanderers of star lanes, manipulated gravity wells to crush or hurl, their forms shimmering with cosmic dust. Shadow weavers from darkened realms spun veils of obscurity, blinding and disorienting while siphoning ambient life.
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Show menu NOVEL BIN5Novel Reincarnated with a lucky draw system Chapter 84: FALL OF DRACULA IIIREINCARNATED WITH A LUCKY DRAW SYSTEMC84: FALL OF DRACULA III
Chapter 84: FALL OF DRACULA III
Even lesser-known entities joined: lumen sprites, tiny orbs of pure energy zipping like comets, detonating on impact with force rivaling nukes; terra guardians, golem-like beings of living stone, earthquakes following their charges; aether sirens, whose hypnotic songs warped perceptions, luring into traps.
Dracula, bereft of blood and essence, embodied primal ferocity—a primogenitor vampire reduced to physical supremacy, instincts, and unyielding intellect. He navigated the maelstrom with predatory finesse, evading Zeus's bolts by vaulting into seraphim clusters, using their forms as momentary cover before dismantling them with claw rakes that severed wings and extinguished lights. Against the Primordial Dragon's inferno, he charged undaunted, skin blistering yet enduring, closing distance to unleash a barrage of strikes targeting vulnerable under-scales, eliciting roars that shattered nearby titans.
Lucifer's chains he intercepted mid-lash, coiling one around his arm to reel the sovereign closer, delivering a knee to the gut that expelled hellish vapors. Odin's runes he shattered with focused impacts, his will clashing against fate's weave, unraveling bindings through sheer defiance.
The conflict endured a full lunar cycle, segmented into phases of escalating intensity. The inaugural week saw numerical dominance from celestial and elemental forces; Dracula countered by toppling an ice behemoth into seraphim formations, creating avalanches of frost and feathers he exploited for ambushes—ripping through ranks, his movements a fluid dance of destruction despite the parasites' toll.
Blood from the slain he diverted not to sustenance but to his concealed artifact, the infinite myriad blood pool, a sub-realm reservoir amassing essences for future contingencies. Yet, feeding proved elusive; adversaries assaulted ceaselessly, martyrs diving to interrupt, their sacrifices denying him recovery.
The second week amplified with Mephistopheles's deceptions peaking—phantom legions materializing, blending real and illusory threats. Dracula's honed senses pierced the facade: discerning subtle discrepancies in scents, heart rhythms absent in fakes. He demolished mirages with sweeping attacks, transitioning seamlessly to genuine foes, his roars dispersing illusory mists.
Odin's fate chains intensified; Dracula broke them repeatedly, each liberation a testament to his anomalous nature, defying predestined defeat.
The third week shifted to void and arcane dominance, walkers phasing to ensnare, sorcerers unraveling. Dracula adapted ingeniously—grasping a walker during transition, using its momentum to propel into a sorcerer's ritual circle, inducing catastrophic feedback explosions that claimed clusters of attackers.
Seraphel's angelic choirs intoned searing hymns; Dracula silenced them with hurled debris—shattered golem fragments serving as projectiles, turning aerial assaults into plummeting graveyards.
The culminating week exacted the heaviest toll, fatigue compounding wounds: lacerations from chimeric venoms, scorches from fire lords, fractures from terra guardians' quakes. Yet, he persisted, slaying multitudes—lumen sprites popped like stars, aether sirens' songs turned against allies via disrupted echoes, shadow weavers unraveled by forced exposure to light bursts from fallen seraphim.
Atop the ever-growing mound of cadavers—entangled wings, shattered scales, dissolving voids, petrified stone—a defiant Dracula stood, his form a testament to endurance, lesions stark but bloodless.
"Indeed, this concludes it," Baal advanced, traversing the macabre heap with nonchalant strides, boots squelching in ichor. "A true monstrosity until the finale."
Dracula's sinews petrified, desiccation consummating its grip. No vitae remained; he was a statue of defiance. His gaze swept the encircling victors—expressions mingling terror, admiration, reverence. Conquering him at zenith? An impossibility etched in their souls.
"My stratagem orchestrated your downfall," Baal gloated, thrusting his palm into Dracula's thorax, digits encircling the pulsating core. No utterance of anguish escaped; satisfaction withheld.
"Final utterances?" Baal constricted.
A spectral grin emerged. "I shall return, exacting vengeance." Mentally, he dispatched the chalice into the void's labyrinthine depths, retrieval a near-mythical feat.
"Why that act?" Baal queried.
"Your essence. Zeus's. Mine. Odin's, Mephistopheles's, Lucifer's—all lineages' vitae—harbored in my kin's masterpiece. The infinite myriad blood pool. Infused with my essence deliberately, it guarantees rebirth afar. Then, retribution unfolds."
"Folly in disclosure," Baal sneered. "I'll locate and obliterate it." He extracted the organ with savage yank.
"Safeguard my heart and corpse diligently," Dracula exhaled faintly. "Proximity of pool, heart, form... heralds my revival." Vision dimmed, existence ebbed. Bloodsuckers desiccated, purpose fulfilled.
"Dispose of the husk as you deem," Baal addressed the assembly. "The heart's custody is mine." He pivoted to depart, but Zeus interposed.
"Destination with that? His admonition resonates. No resurgence permitted."
.
"A sovereign extinguished," he continued, disdain curling his tone as he shifted his colossal form aside, his crimson eyes glinting like dying suns. "There shall be no return for him."
But the cosmos stirred. Space folded, and a presence more ancient than ruin itself rippled through the gathering. The Primordial Dragon coiled into view, scales shimmering like fractured galaxies, its breath burning with stellar embers. When it spoke, the stars seemed to dim.
"Concern warranted," it rumbled, its words vibrating the fabric of reality. "He was anomalous. Unpredictable. A risk intolerable. And you suggest devouring his remnants for power? That—" its maw opened wider, revealing an infinity of burning teeth, "—is unacceptable."
Baal's irritation flared, a storm threatening to break. Black flames licked along his arms, and the ground—though it was no ground at all—fractured under his aura. Yet even he, in all his fury, knew when to stay his hand. To oppose the Primordial Dragon and the other sovereignswas to invite a war that could unmake creation itself.
So instead, he turned the confrontation to something else—a game, a challenge. His grin was a wound carved across the void.
"A contest, then, for amusement," he said, voice like grinding stone. "The sanctuary—a drifting refuge that roams the seams of existence. It is anchored briefly in this reality. Hide the heart within, beyond mortal and divine perception. When it drifts once more, we hunt. Whoever finds it claims the relic. Desire for this prize is not mine alone."
Lucifer leaned forward, the faintest curve of amusement tugging at his lips, his argent hair glinting in the void-light.
"Intriguing," he mused, his voice silk laced with malice. "And the corpse?"
Odin, who had remained silent until now, shifted his single, piercing eye toward the gathered lords. His presence was quiet yet absolute.
"Destroy it," he declared, the weight of prophecy in his tone. "If it cannot be undone, cast it into the deep—a place even arrogance dares not reach. For if it rises, all falls."
Thus the gods, demons, and ancients turned upon the remains of Dracula. Their combined power was not legend but apocalypse made manifest. Zeus summoned tempests of pure lightning, each strike splitting dimensions. Lucifer called down infernos that burned beyond color, flames that consumed concepts, not flesh. Odin unleashed runes older than time, weaving erasure into reality's threads.
The Primordial Dragon roared, hurling torrents of plasma hotter than stars, its wings eclipsing constellations. Seraphim descended, wings of light purging shadow. Voids answered, swallowing entire planes into nothingness. Arcane monarchs dissolved matter, bending laws until they screamed.
The universe trembled. Yet the body of the vampire lord endured. It did not burn, did not fade, did not fracture. It remained—mocking, defiant, an unyielding monument to a will that refused oblivion.
Frustration mounted. Defeat tasted bitter. At last, with silent accord, they gathered the indestructible shell and hurled it into the deepest abyss, a rift within the void so profound that even memory avoided it. There, in the nadir of existence, it was sealed, buried beyond ambition's reach.
But the heart—the last vestige of forbidden vitality—was different. It did not follow the corpse. Instead, it was entrusted to the Sanctuary, a relic-plane that drifted through universes like a ghost ship, accessible only in fleeting moments. There it would rest, waiting, until destiny's call.
---
Peace, if it could be called such, was bought with fire and blood. Dracula's death had not ended with silence; it had unleashed the fury of creation itself. The unified legions—celestials, elementals, voidborn, and more—descended on his legacy like a storm without mercy.
The Ripper clan, his progeny and loyalists, faced extinction. They fought with feral glory, their cries tearing the skies, but they were outmatched. The armies of gods and kings broke them piece by piece.
Lucien, blade in hand, carved through enemies until the light itself turned crimson. Kaelith burned her own soul to summon powers forgotten by even the ancients. But they were drowned in the tide, their deaths swallowed by the chaos. The last echoes of their defiance were snuffed out amid a world-shattering purge.
And then—silence.
The cosmos exhaled, not with joy but with wary relief. For though the shadow had been slain, a question lingered like a phantom in the stars:
Could the primogenitor's shadow ever truly fade?
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Show menu NOVEL BIN5Novel Reincarnated with a lucky draw system Chapter 85: LYRITH AND ISOBELREINCARNATED WITH A LUCKY DRAW SYSTEMC85: LYRITH AND ISOBEL
Chapter 85: LYRITH AND ISOBEL
Isobel's emerald eyes glinted with skepticism, narrowing as she leaned forward in her chair, her voice sharp with incredulity. "And why, exactly, did you feel the need to spin me this wild tale, Lyrith? What does any of it have to do with me?" Her fingers tightened around the armrests, the polished wood creaking under her grip, as if anchoring herself against the weight of Lyrith's cryptic words.
Lyrith, lounging with an air of casual arrogance, tilted her head, her silver hair catching the dim candlelight of the room. A playful smirk danced on her lips, her crimson eyes gleaming with secrets. "Oh, come now, Isobel. Not everyone gets the privilege of uncovering their family's hidden legacy. Consider yourself lucky—most would kill for such knowledge." Her tone was teasing, but there was an undercurrent of something heavier, something ancient, that made Isobel's skin prickle.
Isobel scoffed, tossing her raven-black hair over her shoulder, her voice dripping with disbelief. "You're seriously trying to sell me the idea that I'm a descendant of *Dracula*? That's absurd. It doesn't even make sense!" She crossed her arms, her posture rigid, as if shielding herself from the ridiculousness of the claim. The very notion felt like a slap to her family's memory, a mockery of everything she knew.
Lyrith didn't respond immediately. Instead, she slid off the edge of Isobel's desk with the grace of a panther, her boots clicking softly against the stone floor. She toyed with her slender fingers, twirling a strand of her hair as she fixed Isobel with a quiet, piercing stare. "Believe what you want, darling," she said, her voice low and deliberate, "but the truth doesn't bend to your doubts. It simply *is*." Her words hung in the air, heavy with conviction, as she perched on the desk again, her presence commanding the room.
Isobel's jaw tightened, her mind racing to process the implications. Lyrith's nonchalant demeanor only fueled her frustration. "Fine, let's entertain this nonsense," she said, leaning back, her tone laced with sarcasm. "You're saying my ancestor survived some cosmic ordeal, only to give birth in some forgotten corner of the universe?"
Lyrith's lips curled into a faint smile, as if savoring Isobel's defiance. "Exactly. Velira, your ancestor, barely clung to life after her desperate reverse summoning teleportation—a feat that drained her to the brink. She gave birth to Liam Highborn, your father, in a desolate, backwater star system, far from the eyes of the universe's enforcers. But childbirth, combined with the toll of her escape, was too much. She withered away, her strength sapped, leaving Liam to carry the weight of her legacy." Lyrith's voice softened, almost reverent, as she recounted the tale, her gaze distant, as if seeing the events unfold in her mind.
Isobel's heart stuttered at the mention of her father. "That's not true," she snapped, her voice trembling with defiance. "My father wasn't some... some *vampire*." The word felt foreign on her tongue, heavy with implications she wasn't ready to accept. Her father had been a beacon of strength, a demigod among men, not some creature of legend.
Lyrith's laugh was soft but cutting, like the chime of a blade against glass. "Oh, he was a vampire, alright—though a tragically weak one, considering the grandeur of his bloodline. You can't blame him, though. The universe slapped him with a curse so cruel it makes your little corrosive blood curse look like a child's prank." She waved a hand dismissively, her rings glinting in the flickering light.
Isobel's breath caught, her eyes widening in shock. "A curse? My father was *cursed*?" The words felt like a punch to her chest, stirring a whirlwind of emotions—anger, confusion, and a pang of grief for the man she'd idolized.
Lyrith nodded, her expression uncharacteristically somber. "The Curse of the Soul. The universe's cruelest punishment. It shackles a being's latent talent, dims their bloodline's brilliance, and stifles their potential. Your father, Liam, bore the weight of all four vampire clans' power—Ripper, Conservative, Nightstalker, and Nightmare—yet the universe deemed him too dangerous to flourish. After Dracula defied the cosmic order and Liam's anomalous existence threatened its balance, the universe wasn't taking any chances." Her voice carried a hint of pity, a rare crack in her usual bravado.
Isobel's mind reeled, her fingers digging into her palms. "How *special* was my father that you keep going on about him like this?" she demanded, her voice sharp but wavering. The more Lyrith revealed, the more inadequate Isobel felt, as if her own existence paled in comparison to the legacy she was supposedly tied to.
Lyrith leaned forward, her crimson eyes glinting with intensity. "Let me paint you a picture, Isobel. There are four vampire clans, each led by a primogenitor, each unique in their dominion. The Ripper Clan wields blood like a weapon, bending it to their will with unmatched precision. The Conservative Clan summons blood familiars—beings from alien realms bound by blood resonance. Nightstalkers surpass all others in raw physical prowess, their bodies honed to perfection. And the Nightmare Clan? They twist minds, weaving illusions and bending wills with a mere thought." Her voice was almost hypnotic, each word dripping with reverence for the ancient powers.
She paused, letting the weight of her words settle before continuing. "Now, consider this: your father, Liam, was born of Velira, whose lineage ties to the Conservative Clan's primogenitor and Vemora, a Nightstalker of near-primogenitor purity. Add to that Dracula and Meredith, primogenitors of the Ripper and Nightmare Clans. Liam carried the blood of *all four* clans—a convergence of power unseen in eons. Little wonder the universe shackled him to mediocrity." Lyrith sighed, a rare flicker of frustration crossing her face.
Isobel's heart pounded, her father's memory tarnished by this revelation. "My father wasn't weak," she said, her voice fierce, her hands slamming onto the desk. "He was one of the strongest demigods this planet ever saw!"
Lyrith's eyes softened, but her tone remained firm. "Please, Isobel. Comparing your father to the rabble of this backwater world is an insult to his bloodline. He was a titan bound by cosmic chains. And then came the anomalies—you and your brother. The universe, in its petty vengeance, cursed your brother with the same Soul Curse. But with your birth, the universe hit a wall. It couldn't curse two children from one generation with the same curse. I don't know why, it was as if it wasn't within it's power. It's The reason you have a lesser curse. Consider it as you brother shielding you from its full wrath. That's why you bear the corrosive blood curse instead—a lesser burden, but a burden nonetheless."
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Show menu NOVEL BIN5Novel Reincarnated with a lucky draw system Chapter 86: PLAN TO RESURRECT DRACULAREINCARNATED WITH A LUCKY DRAW SYSTEMC86: PLAN TO RESURRECT DRACULA
Chapter 86: PLAN TO RESURRECT DRACULA
Isobel's mind spun, her brother's face flashing in her thoughts. "So you're saying my brother's strength is limited too?" she asked, her voice barely above a whisper, fear creeping into her heart.
Lyrith nodded, her expression unreadable. "Yes, though he's shown more promise than your father. Awakening before twenty, like you, is no small feat. But don't mistake potential for freedom. The universe still holds his leash." Her words were blunt, cutting through Isobel's defenses like a blade.
A memory surged in Isobel's mind—her transformation into a vampire, not through awakening as Lyrith described, but through her brother's bite. Her stomach twisted. "What if... what if I didn't awaken my bloodline naturally? What if another vampire turned me?" she asked, her voice hesitant, her eyes flicking away from Lyrith's piercing gaze.
Lyrith's laughter was sharp, dismissive. "Impossible. A pureblood like you can't be turned—not even by a primogenitor. The universe would never allow such a glitch. All a primogenitor can do is share their strength until their offspring awakens naturally." She shook her head, her silver hair swaying, utterly convinced of her words.
Isobel bit her lip, her heart racing. She knew the truth—her brother had turned her, defying everything Lyrith claimed. But fear for her brother's safety sealed her lips. If Lyrith, or worse, her demonic allies, learned of this anomaly, what would become of him? She vowed to uncover the truth behind her transformation and break the corrosive blood curse that plagued her, no matter the cost.
The weight of Lyrith's revelations pressed down on her, each piece of information a puzzle piece that didn't quite fit. Her father, her brother, the curses, the clans—it was too much, yet not enough. She needed more answers, more clarity. "What's your angle, Lyrith?" she asked, her voice low, her aura flaring subconsciously, filling the room with a faint, oppressive pressure. "You're a demon. Your king wants Dracula's descendants dead. That includes me and my brother. Did you... did you have a hand in my parents' deaths?"
Lyrith's expression darkened, her crimson eyes narrowing. "If I wanted you and your brother dead, you'd be dust by now, Isobel. Don't test me." Her voice was cold, but then it softened, a wry smile tugging at her lips. "Not everyone despises Dracula. Some of us—crazies, as you might call us—dream of his resurrection. I serve Asmodeus, and he shares that dream. I've been your guardian in the shadows, sabotaging my colleagues' plans to deliver you to Baal. Every setback, every delay—it was me, working to keep you alive."
Isobel's breath hitched, her mind struggling to process the revelation. "So you're saying... you're protecting us? For Dracula's resurrection?"
"Exactly," Lyrith said, her voice firm, her eyes blazing with purpose. "You and your brother are the key to bringing him back. But time's running out. Baal's suspicions are growing, and I can't keep up the charade forever. You need to grow stronger, fast, if you want to survive the enemies you don't even know you have." She slid off the desk, her movements fluid, and began to pace, her boots echoing in the quiet room.
Isobel's mind raced. "But from what you've said, we'd need—"
"The Infinite Blood Pool, Dracula's heart, and his body," Lyrith interrupted, her tone grim. "None of which we have. The Sanctuary, where they might be hidden, hasn't been found in centuries—some say it's no longer in this universe. The Blood Pool? Lost to time. You've got a near-impossible task ahead, Isobel." She paused, her gaze locking onto Isobel's. "And you don't have much time."
Isobel's heart sank, the enormity of the challenge crushing her resolve. Before she could respond, Lyrith's voice cut through again, sharp and urgent. "One last thing. Beware the Blesseds. They're the universe's puppets, whether they know it or not. The universe can bend their will, and given how much it despises you and your bloodline, the day will come when they'll hunt you down." With that, Lyrith stepped toward a swirling portal that materialized behind her, its edges crackling with dark energy.
"Wait—" Isobel started, but Lyrith was already gone, the portal collapsing with a faint hum. The room fell silent, the weight of her words lingering like a storm cloud. Isobel sank back into her chair, her mind a whirlwind of fear, determination, and unanswered questions. She would uncover the truth about her transformation, break the curse, and protect her brother—no matter what it took.
The air in the shadowed chamber was thick with tension, the faint hum of arcane energy crackling in the dim light. The masked man stood poised, his dark cloak billowing slightly as he fixed his piercing gaze on Lyrith. "You're back," he said, his voice calm but laced with a subtle edge, as if testing the waters. "Must've had one hell of a conversation."
Lyrith's lips curved into a sly smile, her crimson eyes glinting with mischief under the flickering glow of the room's enchanted sconces. "Oh, I am," she purred, tossing her silver hair with a casual flick. Her tone was light, but her posture—relaxed yet coiled, like a predator at rest—betrayed her awareness of the game being played.
The masked man tilted his head, his expression hidden but his voice carrying a faint smirk. "I reckon your little chat with Dracula's descendant went smoothly, then." He extended a gloved hand, and from Lyrith's shoulder, a tiny creature—no larger than a fly—buzzed toward him, its wings shimmering with an eerie, otherworldly light. It landed on his palm, whispering secrets only he could hear.
Lyrith's smile didn't falter, though her eyes narrowed slightly. "Tch, it's rude to spy on a lady, you know," she teased, her voice dripping with mock indignation. She'd been caught, and she knew it, but her confidence remained unshaken, a spark of defiance dancing in her gaze.
The masked man's tone grew colder, though his calm demeanor held. "Just confirming my suspicions. And frankly, Lyrith, I'm a bit disappointed." His words carried a weight that made the air feel heavier, the faint hum of magic in the room dimming as if in response.
Lyrith laughed, a melodic sound that echoed off the stone walls. "Oh, please, spare me the lecture," she said, collapsing onto a plush velvet couch with reckless abandon, her lithe form sprawling as if she owned the room. "I'm just doing what's good for business. Besides, you can't exactly run to Baal and tattle. No contact with the higher-ups until this world is conquered, and Asmodeus made damn sure no other demons are dispatched." Her smile widened, a glint of triumph in her eyes as she played her card.
The masked man's posture stiffened, his cloak rustling as he took a step forward. "I see," he said, his voice low and dangerous. "But when I conquer this pathetic planet, and Baal learns of your traitorous schemes, your life ends. I've already made arrangements. Dracula's descendants won't live long—starting with the male. And you, Lyrith, won't interfere anymore. Plans are accelerating as we speak." He turned, his cloak sweeping dramatically as he strode toward the exit, his steps deliberate. There was no need for a fight—both knew it would end in a stalemate, a waste of time better spent elsewhere.
Lyrith's smile faded slightly, her fingers tapping rhythmically against the couch. The game was shifting, and the board was no longer hers to control.
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