what if I'm an undead! then so what?-Chapter 71: The first Damned

In the shadow of the Carpathian Mountains, where the wind howled like a grieving widow and the moon hung heavy with secrets, Valcular came into being. Not born, not made, but cursed. The year was lost to time, somewhere in the twilight of an age when gods still whispered to men, and blood was both life and offering. Valcular was not always a creature of the night. Once, he was a man—a healer, a lover, a dreamer—until the night a dying god’s spite twisted his soul into something eternal and wretched.

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knelt beside a fire in his village, the scent of pine and ash thick in the air. His hands, calloused from years of grinding herbs and binding wounds, worked deftly to save a child who’d fallen to fever. The boy’s mother, Elira, watched with eyes wide and desperate, her fingers clutching a wooden charm carved with runes. Valcular loved her—not with the fleeting passion of youth, but with the quiet certainty of a man who saw forever in her smile. They were to wed come spring, when the snows melted and the valley bloomed.

But the gods were cruel that night. The child’s fever broke, but not through Valcular’s skill. A shadow crept into the hut, unseen, unfelt, until it spoke in a voice that was not sound but pressure, like a storm pressing against the soul. "You steal from death," it hissed. "But death demands a price."

Valcular froze, his hands trembling over the boy’s now-still chest. Elira’s sobs filled the silence. "What are you?" he whispered to the dark.

"I am the Forgotten One," the voice said. "And you, healer, will bear my mark. You will live when all others perish, but you will hunger. You will love, but you will destroy. You will be eternal, but you will be alone."

The air grew thick, and pain seared through Valcular’s chest. His blood burned, his vision darkened, and when he woke, the hut was empty. Elira was gone. The boy was gone. The village was silent, save for the wind. His heart no longer beat, but his hunger roared.

Valcular stumbled through the forest, his body no longer his own. The hunger was a living thing, clawing at his insides, whispering of blood and warmth. He tried to ignore it, to cling to the man he’d been, but the scent of life—deer, wolves, even the distant pulse of a sleeping village—drove him to madness. By dawn, he’d torn a stag apart, its blood painting his hands, his face, his soul. It sated him, but only for a moment. The hunger returned, sharper, demanding more.

He found Elira days later, in a neighboring village. She stood in a market square, bartering for bread, her face pale but resolute. Valcular hid in the shadows, his heart aching at the sight of her. He wanted to run to her, to beg forgiveness for whatever he’d become, but the hunger surged, and he saw her not as his love but as prey. Her pulse thrummed in his ears, a siren’s call. He fled, cursing the gods, cursing himself.

The village shunned him when he returned. Whispers of "demon" and "cursed" followed him. They saw his pale skin, his too-sharp teeth, the way his eyes caught the moonlight like a wolf’s. They drove him out with fire and prayers, and Valcular, heartbroken but unable to argue, retreated to the mountains. There, in a cave carved by time, he made his home, a solitary king of a desolate kingdom.

Centuries passed, and Valcular learned to live with the hunger. He fed on animals when he could, on bandits and wanderers when he could not. He avoided villages, but he could not avoid the world. He watched from afar as empires rose and fell, as men built churches and burned them, as love and war painted the earth in equal measure. He was a ghost, a myth, the shadow in the corner of every campfire story.

Yet, even in his exile, Valcular found moments of life. In a small hamlet in the 12th century, he met Alina, a weaver with eyes like the sea and a laugh that made his dead heart ache. She found him one night, wounded by a hunter’s trap, and tended to him without fear. "You’re no demon," she said, her hands steady as she stitched his torn flesh. "You’re just lost."

For a decade, Valcular lived a semblance of life with her. He helped her tend her garden, carried her baskets, sat by her fire as she wove tapestries that told stories of gods and heroes. At night, he slipped away to feed, careful never to let her see the monster he was. He loved her, and she loved him, though she never knew the full truth. They spoke of a future—a cottage, children, a quiet life—but Valcular knew it was a dream he could not have.

The hunger grew stronger with time, not weaker. One night, as Alina slept, Valcular’s control slipped. Her scent, her warmth, her pulse—it overwhelmed him. He fled, but not before she woke and saw the truth in his eyes, the fangs he could no longer hide. She didn’t scream, didn’t curse him. She only wept, and that was worse.

He left her that night, never to return. Years later, he learned she’d married a blacksmith, borne children, lived a full life. He was glad, but the pain of losing her carved a wound deeper than any blade.

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Society never accepted Valcular. In every age, he was the outsider, the monster. In the 15th century, a priest branded him a servant of Satan, rallying a mob to hunt him. Valcular escaped, but not before the priest’s cross burned his skin, leaving a scar that never healed. In the 17th century, a village offered him shelter, only to betray him to witch hunters who bound him in iron and tried to burn him. Fire could not kill him, but it left him screaming, his body regenerating only to suffer again.

He tried to blend in, to live among men. In the 19th century, he posed as a reclusive scholar in a bustling city, attending lectures, reading poetry, even falling in love again with a painter named Clara. She saw beauty in his melancholy, capturing his likeness in oils that made him look almost human. But when she discovered his nature—when she saw him feed on a thief who’d broken into her studio—she turned away, her love replaced by fear. "You’re not a man," she whispered, her voice trembling. "You’re a demon."

Valcular burned her paintings and left the city. He vowed never to love again, but eternity is long, and the heart is stubborn. In the 20th century, he met Sofia, a nurse during a war that tore the world apart. She bandaged his wounds, not knowing they’d heal in hours. She shared her rations, her stories, her warmth. For a moment, Valcular believed he could be more than his curse. But war breeds desperation, and when soldiers caught him feeding on a dying man, they called him a ghoul. Sofia defended him, but the mob was merciless. They drove a stake through her heart, mistaking her for one of his kind. Valcular’s rage painted the night red, but no amount of blood could bring her back.

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By the 21st century, Valcular was weary. The world had changed—cities of glass and steel, skies choked with smoke, hearts hardened by progress. He lived on the fringes, in abandoned warehouses, in forgotten forests, feeding only when the hunger threatened to drive him mad. He was a relic, a creature out of time, feared and hated by those who glimpsed him.

Yet, even in his isolation, he found moments of connection. A homeless man shared his fire one winter, telling stories of a life lost to addiction. A runaway teenager offered him a cigarette, mistaking him for another lost soul. These fleeting encounters reminded Valcular of the man he’d been, but they always ended the same—fear, rejection, or death.

One night, in a city that never slept, Valcular met Lila. She was a street musician, her violin singing songs of sorrow and hope. Her music drew him from the shadows, and for the first time in centuries, he felt something stir beyond hunger. They talked under a flickering streetlamp, her unafraid of his pale skin or quiet intensity. "You look like you’ve seen the world end," she said, smiling. "Tell me about it."

For months, Valcular lingered near her, listening to her play, sharing stories of a world she’d never know. He told her of ancient forests, of kings and wars, of loves lost to time. He never told her what he was, but she sensed his otherness. "You’re not like anyone else," she said one night, her hand brushing his. "But that’s okay. Neither am I."

He wanted to believe her. He wanted to believe in a world where he could be loved, not feared. But the hunger was relentless, and one night, as they walked through an empty park, it surged. Her scent, her warmth, her pulse—it was too much. He turned to flee, but she grabbed his arm, her eyes searching his. "Don’t run," she said. "Whatever you are, I’m not afraid."

He should have run. Instead, he kissed her, and for a moment, the hunger was silent. But it was a lie. The kiss deepened, and his fangs grazed her lip. A drop of blood touched his tongue, and the monster roared awake. He pushed her away, but it was too late. She saw the truth, her eyes wide with shock, not fear. "Valcular," she whispered, "what are you?"

He couldn’t answer. He fled, leaving her alone in the dark. Days later, he learned she’d been attacked by men who’d seen her with him, men who thought her tainted by his presence. She survived, but her music stopped. Valcular watched from afar as she packed her violin and left the city, her spirit broken not by him, but by the world that feared him.

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Valcular sits now in a cave, not unlike the one he first fled to. The world outside hums with life—cars, voices, the pulse of a million hearts he can never join. He is the first vampire, the eternal outcast, damned to hunger, to love, to lose. He carves their names into the stone—Elira, Alina, Clara, Sofia, Lila—a litany of grief that stretches across centuries.

Sometimes, he dreams of the man he was, the healer who saved a child, who loved a woman, who believed in a future. But the dream always ends the same: blood on his hands, fear in their eyes, and the endless road ahead.

The hunger gnaws at him, but it’s the loneliness that hurts most. He wonders if the Forgotten One still watches, laughing at his torment. He wonders if redemption is possible, if a monster can ever be more than his curse. But the world has no place for him, and so he remains, a shadow among shadows, forever bound to the night.