My Wives Are Seven Beautiful Demonesses-Chapter 121 - No. Count Form!

[Location: Dungeon—Vampire King’s Castle]

Try to imagine being inside a filthy, rotten and dried-up blood-filled dungeon for ten days with nothing to do but either fight or see my shadows slaughter—

BOOOOM—

"FUCK YOU TOO!"

A crater formed ahead of us, dust and red mist exploding outward like a blood-filled volcano sneezing on my last threads of sanity.

Paimon’s helm turned slightly.

Astra’s golden eye narrowed.

Draugr cracked his neck like he was preparing to body-slam whatever dared appear.

And Bob—

Bob vibrated in circles around my leg like a caffeinated Roomba.

But what crawled out of the crater...

...yeah, no.

Absolutely not.

"Nope. Nope. I’m done. I want a refund. This dungeon is defective."

A pair of pale, skeletal hands—long, elegant, covered in ritual runes—gripped the crater’s edge.

Then a figure slowly, dramatically, emerged through the dust, as if he had been practicing this entrance in front of a mirror for centuries.

A tall, aristocratic silhouette.

Cloak swirling with supernatural flair.

Red eyes glowing like crystallized murder.

Long hair flowing like he used a conditioner made from virgin souls.

Astra froze.

Draugr’s massive form instinctively shifted in front of me.

Even Bob stopped vibrating.

Because this wasn’t the casual trash we’d been grinding like depressed gamers on a Monday evening.

This—

This had presence.

The air changed.

Mana thickened.

The entire cathedral floor bowed, just barely, under the oppressive weight.

A voice—silky, refined, dripping arrogance—echoed across the hall.

"Bow."

Yeah, go bow your ass somewhere else.

The dust cleared fully, revealing a tall figure in elegant crimson-and-black noble armour, ornate patterns etched like veins of black fire across his chestplate. His boots clicked across the cracked marble with aristocratic disdain.

Astra inhaled sharply.

"My king... This is Duke Veyrath Mediranth."

Astra said the name like it tasted poisonous.

Me?

I squinted.

"That’s the asshole who kept merging twenty thousand ghouls because he’s too lazy to fight me himself, right?"

Veyrath’s left eye twitched.

Good.

If I was going to suffer in this dungeon for ten days, someone else was taking psychic damage too.

He stepped forward, boots echoing on the cracked marble like he thought he owned reverb as a personality trait.

"Intruder... I’m curious, how did you even enter this sealed realm without harming the seal itself—"

"—like hell I would tell you anything," I finished flatly.

Veyrath froze mid-swagger.

Astra’s eyebrows shot up the way they do when she thinks I’m about to start a diplomatic incident—which, to be fair, I usually am.

Paimon lifted his sword slowly.

Draugr growled.

Bob vibrated like a dying microwave.

Veyrath’s eyelid twitched again.

"...You insolent—"

"Hold on," I snapped, raising a finger. "Before you get dramatic—because I can smell the monologue building—let’s make something clear."

I pointed at the ground.

"This hellhole has made me fight for TEN DAYS. No sleep. No food. No peace. I am one loud noise away from committing architecture-related homicide. So if you think I’m going to stand here and listen to your tragic backstory—"

"I was not going to give—"

"—save it," I cut him off.

His jaw went rigid.

Erebus looked between us, horrified but also slightly impressed.

Astra muttered, "My king... maybe let the ancient duke—"

"No," I said calmly. "He can respect my patience limit."

The air grew sharper, mana crackling like heated glass.

Veyrath lifted a hand, fingers twitching with killing intent. "You... are either brave or catastrophically stupid."

"Third option," I smiled, unsheathing Muramasa.

"I’m pissed."

BOOOOOOOOOOM!!!

My will exploded outward like a detonation of raw divinity, the marble tiles under my feet fracturing into a spiderweb crater. Crimson mist evaporated. Shadows recoiled. Even the lingering blood mana rippled like a frightened lake.

Veyrath’s cloak snapped back from the shockwave, his hair whipping violently behind him.

His expression?

A perfect blend of Who the hell do you think you are? and Did this brat just flex on me?

Yes.

Yes, I did.

Muramasa hummed in my grip, black-steel ripples glowing with spirals of pale spiritual light.

Paimon’s armour flared in supernatural resonance.

Draugr slammed his fists together, creating a shockwave of purple cracks across the floor.

Bob vibrated so violently that if someone dropped him, he’d probably tunnel straight into the Earth’s core.

Astra stepped beside me, shadows curling protectively around my back.

Veyrath didn’t move for a full second.

Then he straightened, slow and offended, brushing invisible dust off his perfect, aristocratic armour.

"...I see," he murmured softly. "You are that kind of creature."

"What kind?" I asked.

"The kind who doesn’t know fear."

"No, I know fear," I corrected. "I’m just too irritated to feel it."

Astra: "My king—"

"No," I cut in. "He started the entrance sequence. He was preparing to monologue at me."

"I was NOT—"

"You literally rose out of a crater in SLOW MOTION, bro," I snapped. "You practiced that in a mirror."

Veyrath’s face cracked. Just a little.

Just enough to confirm that yes, he absolutely practiced that in a mirror.

His fingers twitched.

"Well then," he said, voice lower. "If words bore you... allow me to speak through power."

He lifted his hand.

The world turned red.

—No.

Red wasn’t the right word.

It was bloodlight.

A crimson eclipse spilt from his palm, staining the entire cathedral. Stone cracked. Ruined pillars shuddered. Veins of blood spread across the marble like roots, pulsing with mana older than kingdoms.

Astra’s breath hitched. "My king—be careful. This is—"

Veyrath’s voice boomed:

"COUNT FORM."

The ground ruptured.

A towering aura—massive, dense, suffocating—erupted around him.

His body elongated, armour dissolving into swirling blood mist. Bone restructured beneath skin. Wings—jagged, skeletal, blood-soaked—burst open from his back. His hair turned silvery-white, floating as if underwater. His fangs lengthened. The runes on his arms glowed with ancient vampire scripture.

The air itself bent around his presence.

A Duke’s true form—

No, if I remember correctly, in "Codex of Nocturnal Sovereigns."

The exact texts were:

— Let me clear something up for the ignorant and incompetent. The Vampire Count Form is nothing more than the most talented Vampires recovering the Ancient Form that was used hundreds of thousands of years ago, when even the current Gods did not exist.

— The Form of Ancient Vampires. Our True Form. When a Vampire achieves full Vampire Count Form, he is only one step closer to returning to our Origins of the past.

Our original Power... It was a Power that even the strongest monsters of the past feared, and because of that fear, they joined with the other strongest monsters of the time and crippled our Race.

My brain processed the last sentence of that ancient codex—

"...crippled our Race."

—and then processed Veyrath’s transformation.

And then my brain said:

Nope.

No thank you.

Return to sender.

The Duke’s "Count Form" finished blooming like a demonic lotus dipped in blood and ego.

His wings—skeletal yet wrapped in living blood—expanded to twice his height.

His eyes—now glowing silver-crimson—burned with predatory hunger.

His aura—dense, oppressive, goddamn illegal—pushed down on the world like a collapsing dimension.

Even the dungeon walls groaned.

Astra whispered, almost reverently:

"My king... this is the Ancient Count Form. Only the highest lineage—"

"Yeah, no," I cut, pointing at Veyrath like I was calling out a scammer at a marketplace.

"That is illegal DLC content. He is using mods."

Veyrath’s head tilted.

His voice echoed like two beings speaking in perfect sync.

"Do you understand now, intruder?"

His wings unfurled fully, raining drops of liquid mana that burned the floor.

"This is the true shape of vampire nobility. A fraction of what we once were. A mere shard of our ancient terror."

His aura thickened.

Blood veins crawled across the walls like living serpents.

Paimon raised his sword, metal trembling.

Astra tensed.

Erebus slid into a lower stance, sinking into layered shadows.

Even Draugr’s molten cracks glowed brighter in instinctive aggression.

Bob vibrated like a pocket chainsaw having a panic attack.

Veyrath raised a hand—clawed now, dripping blood mana.

"Be grateful, boy... You will perish under the fangs of an almost-forgotten era."

He vanished.

Not blurred.

Not teleported.

VANISHED.

Astra screamed—

"MY KING—!"

And Veyrath’s voice whispered behind me:

"Too slow."

I spun—

Muramasa clashed against a blood-forged talon with a sound like glass exploding inside my skull.

A shockwave blasted the entire hall.

Pillars snapped.

Marble peeled upward.

Blood runes ignited.

My arms shook violently from the force of the impact.

Holy hell—

This guy was operating on a completely different game engine.

Veyrath’s eyes widened a fraction.

"...Survived a direct strike? Intriguing."

He pressed down harder.

My knees buckled.

My ribs rattled.

Muramasa wailed under pressure.

Yeah.

Okay.

So this was the power of an Ancient Count Form.

And I—

A tired transmigrator with questionable life choices—

was holding it back with my arms shaking like a wet noodles.

I smiled through gritted teeth.

"So this is your final form, huh?"

Veyrath’s fangs gleamed.

"No. Just the beginning."

The claws shifted—

aiming directly for my heart.

Astra screamed—

"PAIMON!"

Paimon’s sword ignited in a column of divine pressure as he charged.

Draugr roared and leapt like a monstrous juggernaut.

Erebus surged from below like a rising abyss.

Bob bounced once, then shot forward like he’d been fired out of an emotional cannon.

Veyrath’s wings flared—

An explosion of crimson force blasted outward, throwing my shadows back like leaves in a hurricane.

Only I was still locked with him.

Only Muramasa kept his claws at bay.

My arms were burning.

My bones vibrating.

My blood screaming.

Veyrath smiled wider.

"You are strong... but not strong enough to face a Count."

I grinned.

Because despite everything—

despite his overwhelming aura—

despite his ancient power—

despite the dungeon trying to kill me for ten consecutive days—

I still had one advantage.

One unfair, stupid, bullshit cheat.

In my mind, I voiced. ’System, use ’Random Skill Level Up’ card and allot stat points.’

[Status Window]

• Name: Dominic Nocturne von Morningstar

• Race: Demon (Incomplete Primordial Fragment) / ???

• Level: 176—> 180

• Job: Demiurgic Archon

• Rank: B

• Title: [Dances With Wolves], [The Forsaken Lucifer(Locked)], [He Who Shouldn’t Be Awake(Locked)], [God-Eater], [The One Who Creates in Defiance].]

• HP: 6340/6340 (+500)

• MP: 0/5040

[Stats]

• Strength: 719—> 723 (+50)

• Agility: 615—> 619

• Stamina: 635—> 639 (+50)

• Intelligence: 505—> 509

• Sense: 575—> 579

—Available Stats Points: 240)

Reduction in physical damage: 60%

[’Random Skill Level Up’ card is used.]

[Random skill selection...]

[Skill: Conqueror’s Coating] Lvl 1 → Lvl 2

[Allot Stat Points?]

’Put 77 points in Strength, and the remaining dump it into Stamina and Sense.’

[Strength: 723—> 800 (+50)]