Reborn as a Vampire in a Dying World: Blood, Power, and Pleasure-Chapter 63: A Glass of Blood and a War to Come

"You piece of—" Leywin coughed out a mouthful of blood as his monstrous bear form dissolved, shrinking back into his humanoid shape.

His body collapsed, still split nearly in half. Yet somehow, he clung to life just long enough to speak.

"I don’t really know what you’re planning, but to me it just looks like you’re trying to get some power for yourself," Corven replied casually, lips curling into a sly smile. He pressed his foot down on Leywin’s blood-slick chest, finding a cruel sort of amusement in the man’s current state.

After all, if you get brutalized by his gargoyles, then nearly killed by his vampire lackeys—and now the puppet master himself ends up crushed and bleeding just like you—who wouldn’t feel a little satisfied?

Leywin gave a ragged chuckle at that, rolling his eyes. Even now, even half-dead, he held onto a sliver of smugness. Or maybe it was just stubborn pride.

"And what? You expect me to believe that you’re the opposite?" he rasped.

"Of course not," Corven answered with a shrug. "We just have different methods to our madness. Who’s to say I won’t do the same thing you did someday?"

Then he leaned in close, close enough for his breath to tickle Leywin’s ear.

"But before you die... care to explain what you meant by me dooming us all?"

Leywin exhaled slowly, face twisting with a blend of exhaustion and faint amusement. With the last of his strength, he raised a shaking hand to grip Corven’s ankle—the only defiance he could muster.

"Why not? If I’m lucky, you’ll carry my legacy... even if you don’t mean to."

Corven smirked. He lowered his head slightly, just enough to hear the dying man’s final confession.

"Urzen is too weak... the Baroness is keeping power too balanced. If this keeps up... if the others decide to move first... we’re all screwed."

And with that, Leywin’s head dropped back against the floor. His body lay motionless, breaths slowing.

Corven tilted his head slightly. A short, humorless laugh escaped him as he processed the so-called revelation.

Then—

[Bloodreader Activated]

Leywin was lying, partially.

"Really? Is that it?" he scoffed, eyes gleaming. "I refuse to believe you’re telling the full truth."

Leywin coughed again—this time from laughter, not blood. There was no fight left in him. No strength. Only acceptance.

"It was worth a try," he muttered, voice fading.

But just as his mind began to drift toward the end, something flickered. A strange sensation pulled at his awareness.

He looked up at Corven—at his eyes—and froze.

There it was. That golden glow. Not just light. Not just magic.

[The Archivist Pities your Existence]

Leywin’s jaw fell open. His pupils quivered with a mixture of awe, horror... and something close to reverence.

"Y-you... my lord?" he breathed.

But those were his last words.

His eyes glazed over. Pupils faded. His hand fell limp against the ground.

Leywin, once a terror in the dark, was finally still.

Corven blinked. Not at the reverence, but at the weight of it. He didn’t know how to carry that.

Silence blanketed the room like fog.

The Baroness, bleeding out in the corner. Leywin’s corpse split and crumpled on the floor. The mangled bodies of countless vampire spawns scattered across the chamber.

A massacre. One with no easy explanation.

To any outsider, the culprit seemed obvious.

And soon, those outsiders arrived.

"Baroness!"

Shouted voices rang from outside the ruined chamber. Then, with heavy boots slamming against marble, three paladins burst in. Each was armed to the teeth with silver weapons, their armor bearing the same insignia Corven had seen before.

Blood stained their gear. Their expressions were tense—eyes glassy and unfocused, just like those under an illusion’s haze.

They’d been fighting, too. Fighting through their own ambush of bloodsuckers—likely the same ones Leywin had used to isolate the Baroness.

But now they were here. And all they could see was Corven standing in a room full of bodies, drenched in blood, with his foot still on Leywin’s corpse.

A perfect picture of guilt.

"Die!" the lead paladin roared, lunging with a silver longsword that gleamed in the light.

The blade caught the reflection of Corven’s crimson eyes.

"Stop!" the Baroness screamed hoarsely, just as the strike was about to land.

The paladin halted, blade frozen mid-air.

"He’s good!" she gasped. "Focus on helping me instead!"

And with that, she collapsed, her strength finally giving out. Her body hit the ground hard, blood pooling beneath her.

Corven blinked, shaken by the narrow dodge.

Then he remembered.

’Right... this entire area is still under my control.’

He’d forgotten. Everything was still part of the illusion. The chaos, the distorted senses, the residual pressure—they were all maintained by him.

But before he could even think to drop the illusion manually—

His system beat him to it.

[The Archivist Sleeps]

[Class: The Archivist (In Cooldown)]

CRASH.

The air shattered like breaking glass. A deafening pulse of magical backlash rippled through the room as the illusion collapsed, dispelling instantly.

Corven’s head throbbed. The strain hit him all at once.

"Ah—fuck!" he growled, clutching his skull with both hands as he dropped to his knees, unable to fight the pain.

A mess. A brutal, blood-soaked mess.

But still... a victory.

And one that was going to need a hell of a lot of explaining.

As the massive illusion Corven had cast over the entire compound shattered, the air seemed to shift—like the mansion itself was exhaling after holding its breath for far too long.

"The illusion is gone!" one of the paladins barked.

The Baroness immediately straightened, eyes clearing as the last remnants of the mental fog vanished. Her breathing evened out, and in the next second, her wounds began to close with frightening speed. Flesh knit together, bone cracked back into place, and blood reversed course—returning to her veins in grotesque but efficient fashion.

Then, without warning, she let out a loud, almost giddy laugh.

"Finally! I don’t feel like vomiting anymore."

The three paladins nearby exhaled in relief, visibly relaxing. Whatever corruption had dulled their senses was now gone. The haze in their eyes cleared as they looked around, taking in the carnage.

But their attention quickly returned to Corven—who was still on the ground, clutching his head in both hands.

He groaned, his face twisted in pain. The magical backlash from maintaining such a vast, complex illusion had hit him like a sledgehammer. It wasn’t just a strain—it was mental whiplash. And considering he’d only recently learned the spell, without any real practice, it was a miracle he was still conscious at all.

One of the paladins, the one in command, narrowed his eyes slightly and stepped forward. After a pause, he sheathed his silver longsword with a quiet click.

"What do we do with him?" he asked, voice calm but laced with tension.

The Baroness turned, barely slowing her stride as she exited the chamber. Her voice echoed smoothly behind her.

"Bring him to my chambers. I need to speak with him. And get him a glass of blood for his efforts—he’s earned it."

Her gown swayed as she vanished around the corridor, the wound that once tore through her side now completely gone, not even a scar remaining.

And just like that, she left the room without looking back—leaving her paladins behind to handle the aftermath.