[Location: Dungeon—Vampire King's Castle]

Dead.

The word settled between us like frost over a grave.

"So it was true," the butler repeated, voice almost… nostalgic. "He is gone."

[Vampire King's Right Hand Man, Alexios Payne]

The name written in red letters floated above his head — the system's quiet confirmation of the monster standing before me.

Alexios Payne bowed slightly, like a courteous host greeting a guest who arrived late to their own funeral.

"His majesty waited and waited and… waited for the one who never returned."

The pause that hung after that final word was heavier than all the chains on the gate combined.

Alexios Payne straightened slowly, crimson eyes lifting once more to meet mine. There was no malice in them. Not yet. Only the weight of centuries that had grown tired of staring at the same unmoving horizon.

"Time is a peculiar thing," he continued softly. "To mortals, it races. To beings such as my master… it stagnates. And to those who have lost someone they believed eternal… it rots."

His gaze drifted past my shoulder, momentarily unfocused, as if he were speaking not to me but to a memory carved into the stone walls behind him.

"He stood before this very gate more times than I can count. Waiting. Either for a message, a remnant, a whisper from the one who put him here... Helel."

"And here you are, a descendant of the one who never came back."

His eyes returned to me.

Slowly.

Carefully.

As if measuring the distance between past and present with each heartbeat.

"An echo walking on borrowed time."

The words were neither accusation nor reverence. Just observation.

I didn't respond. There was nothing to say that wouldn't reveal more than I was willing to give, and I had no intention of explaining my existence to a man who could probably kill me with a firm suggestion.

Alexios studied my silence, then gave a faint exhale that almost resembled a chuckle.

"Forgive me. Old habits. I am Alexios Payne, steward of this castle and right hand to His Majesty, the Vampire King — Alucard Dracul Tepes." He inclined his head once more. "I also serve as its gatekeeper. Which, regrettably, means you do not progress another step without my permission."

"I didn't ask for a guided tour," I replied.

A corner of his mouth lifted, amused. "Is it a new term? My apologies if I fail to recognise the etiquette of your era."

His eyes flicked briefly to my stance, the measured tension in my shoulders, the way my hand never strayed far from Muramasa's grip.

"But your posture," he continued, tone smooth as velvet dragged across steel, "How do today's era say, weak? No discipline, no aura honed by war or ritual. Yet you stand here, before my master's gate, daring to breathe the same air as him."

Alexios's gaze sharpened, not with hostility, but a quiet, professional interest — the kind a surgeon might have for a curious anomaly.

"And still," he added, eyes flicking briefly to the key concealed in my hand, "you possess the means of entry. Fate has an odd taste in humour."

I exhaled slowly. "Are you here to talk, or fight already?"

"Impatient too? I was just quite interested in talking, other than talking to his majesty. But it seems you're quite eager to lie dead?"

Alexios's expression did not change, but the air around him shifted — subtly, like a room growing colder when a window is opened just a fraction too much.

"But fight?" he echoed softly, then let out a small, almost indulgent sigh. "No, no… that would be terribly inefficient."

He tapped the base of his spear once against the stone floor. The sound resonated unnaturally far, rolling into the darkness like a bell tolling inside a crypt.

"If I wished for your death," Alexios continued, eyes half-lidded, voice drifting in lazy elegance, "you would already be bleeding across the threshold you so boldly approached."

A pause.

"You would not even understand how it happened."

The spear turned slightly, the curved fang-like edge catching faint red light scattering from the sky above. His posture remained casual, but the space he occupied felt… absolute. Like a law temporarily wearing the face of a man.

"You live because I have not yet decided you deserve to die."

The bluntness was delivered without cruelty. Just fact.

Behind him, the massive doors of the castle creaked faintly, chains tightening and loosening as if the structure itself were breathing.

"So," Alexios resumed, "let us speak. Since you are so eager to do so."

His gaze sharpened once more.

"You wield a key forged by ancient decree. You carry the tainted lineage of Helel's progeny. Yet your body is fragile, your aura thin, and your stance that of one who learned to survive, not conquer."

A faint, contemplative hum escaped his throat.

Just then, my Observation Grid flared as the spear embedded itself just where I had stood a millisecond ago, but the blast still caught me off guard as my body twisted on instinct, boots skidding across cold, ancient stone.

The spear's shaft hummed where it had struck, buried halfway into the ground as if the castle itself had yielded to Alexios's will. A faint vibration rippled through the surface, spiderweb cracks racing outward before sealing themselves again, like flesh knitting over a wound.

I had barely registered the movement.

One moment, he was simply standing there — composed, elegant, almost bored.

The next, the spear had already flown.

Alexios hadn't even changed his expression.

"So you can move," he observed mildly, eyes following the spot I now occupied. "Good. That would have been disappointingly brief."

My grip tightened around Muramasa.

The blade pulsed faintly, responding to the tension in my hand, the malice within it whispering like a coiled serpent. Venomfang's aura slithered along the edge, hungry for something that bled.

Alexios flicked his fingers.

The embedded spear slid out of the ground as if gravity itself bowed to him, returning to his palm without a sound. He twirled it once, casually, as if indulging muscle memory rather than preparing to kill.

"But from stance to body weight distribution, everything is pure garbage. Hard to believe you're even related to Helel."

His tone was politely disappointed. That, somehow, was worse than open mockery.

He adjusted his grip on the spear, crimson eyes narrowing just a fraction as he finally stepped forward properly. The single action caused the air to compress, as if the space itself made room for him out of deference.

"You fight like a man who learned survival in fragments," Alexios continued, circling me slowly, never once lowering his guard. "Not trained by a master. Not tempered by doctrine. Just… forced to adapt as he goes."

His gaze flicked to Muramasa.

"And that blade… ah. A fake, but an interesting one. Venom-tainted. Parasitic enchantments. A tool meant to feast on desperation."

A pause.

"It suits you."

I said nothing.

He didn't seem to expect an answer anyway.

"There is something pitifully admirable in this," Alexios mused. "A weak vessel daring to challenge a domain built for kings and monsters. Not driven by arrogance, either. More… obligation. Curiosity. Perhaps even resignation."

His spear angled just slightly, the tip no longer pointing at the ground but toward my centre mass.

"Tell me, echo," he said quietly. "Do you understand where you stand?"

I glanced to the side — at the black iron doors, the writhing chains, the grotesque reliefs carved into cold metal. Every image depicted worship, agony, and submission to a sovereign presence that did not tolerate mediation.

"A dungeon," I replied flatly.

Alexios let out a soft, humourless breath. "So nothing inside that skull of yours, too? Let me simplify for you. This—this is a prison. A kingdom disguised as one, yes, adorned in all the pomp and parasitic elegance you would... but a prison all the same."

Alexios's spear tip lifted slightly, tracing an invisible line between me and the gate behind him.

"Every stone you see, every chain you hear stir, every sigil carved into this accursed iron exists to ensure one thing."

His eyes flicked up toward the colossal structure looming above, as if acknowledging a presence even I could not fully perceive.

"That His Majesty never leaves."

A faint tension crept into the air, not aggressive, but heavy. Like a cathedral holding its breath during a funeral sermon.

"And those who enter," he added calmly, "either die entertaining him… or become part of the architecture."

His voice carried no malice. Only certainty.

"So yes," Alexios concluded, resting the spear's butt lightly against the ground, "dungeon is one word for it. But it is a crude—"

Clang!

Metal screamed.

Paimon's sudden strike shattered the heavy stillness, his blade colliding head-on with Alexios's spear in a flash of sparks and distorted sound. The impact rang through the dead air like a cathedral bell struck by violence itself.

Alexios's eyes widened — not in panic, not in fear — but in something approaching genuine surprise.

"Well now," he murmured.

[Name: King's Call]

[Type: Active]

—Required Mana to activate: None

— Creates a shadow soldier by extracting Mana from the recently deceased lifeform.

— The odds of extraction failure will rise higher depending on the target's original Stat values, as well as the length of time since its death.

— Number of shadows that can be extracted: 30/30.

"Come Forth."

My voice lanced with authority, fell as my shadow stretched beyond the limits of my body, spreading across the stone floor like an ink spill bleeding through reality itself. It climbed the cracked flagstones, seeped between ancient seams, and throbbed with a hunger that did not belong to this world.

The air grew cold.

Not Alexios's refined, sovereign chill — but something warped. Wrong.

The darkness beneath my feet rippled.

Soon enough, a black hand rose up from one of the shadows. It pressed down on the ground hard, and slowly, the arm attached to it rose up.

Figures clawed their way out, one by one, silhouettes folding into humanoid forms as dead mana was stripped and coerced into obedience. Their shapes were crude but recognisable —

Twenty-six soldiers kitted out head to toe in jet-black armour climbed out of the shadows one by one.

[Shadow Infantryman Lv. 1]

— Regular grade

But three somewhat different-coloured soldiers were right at the back of the infantrymen.

Unlike the regular infantrymen, these guys were wearing robes.

[Shadow Magic Soldier Lv. 1]

— Elite grade

They rose in silence, robes fluttering though no wind existed, faces nothing more than indistinct voids under deep cowls. Their presence warped the already-stagnant air, a low thrum of coerced mana vibrating like teeth made to chatter.

Alexios did not retreat.

He did not even look displeased.

He simply watched the shadows emerge with a degree of fascination usually reserved for rare art.

"How utterly distasteful," he murmured, though his tone carried curiosity rather than revulsion. "A necromantic echo bound by will… in a domain where even the dead are not meant to stir without leave."

His gaze slid back to me.

"And you summon them so casually," he added. "How intriguing."

Behind me, the shadow soldiers completed their ascent. Twenty-nine figures formed a loose semi-circle at my rear, weapons or a magic circle in eerie synchronisation.

[Paimon Lv. 7]

— Knight grade

The mane attached to the helm; the highly fashionable armour wrapped around its entire body; that noble, dignified cape.

There was no difference other than the shadowy-like texture of its already midnight black armour. Everything else was exactly the same.

The silence that followed the emergence of my shadow force was thick enough to choke on.

Alexios's crimson eyes moved across the assembled figures with meticulous interest, as though cataloguing antiques rather than facing a summoned host bound to my will. The faint glow of the castle's ambient crimson light reflected off their armour and robes, turning them into silhouettes of marching night.

Paimon stepped forward a single pace, sword angled down in a knight's resting guard, awaiting command.

Alexios tilted his head slightly.

"A knight among echoes," he remarked. "How nostalgic."

His spear shifted in his hand, no longer casual — not aggressive either — just… ready. Like a man stretching after a long sleep.

"You are aware," he continued, "that such theatrics mean nothing here, correct? This is not a battlefield where quantity impresses. This domain consumes armies and burps serenely afterwards."

He gestured gently with the spear toward the ranks behind me.

"Thirty puppets are still thirty corpses pretending to stand."

I did not answer.

Instead, I raised my hand.

Two fingers.

A simple motion.

The front line of shadow infantry stepped forward in unison.

Metal greaves scraped against ancient stone.

Alexios watched them advance, unhurried. Almost indulgent.

"So be it."

He exhaled softly.

Then moved.

There was no flash of light, no violent surge of mana, no dramatic rupture of space.

He simply stepped forward — and in the same breath, one of the infantrymen's heads twisted violently, armour imploding with a shriek of tortured metal. The headless form collapsed, dissolving into fragmented smoke.

Then another.

Then another.

Three fell before any of them had finished lifting their weapons.

My Observation Grid flared wildly, tracking movements my eyes barely registered.

Alexios flowed through them.

Efficient. Surgical. Calm.

His spear did not swing wildly. Every motion was precise. A hook, a thrust, a flick of the shaft — each one eliminated shadows that had once been men.

But what was unsettling was not his speed.

It was his restraint.

He could have pierced straight through to me.

He chose not to.

Instead, he dismantled my force piece by piece, like a master undoing a puzzle.

"Still… disappointing," he murmured, spear tip slicing through a shadow soldier's torso with liquid grace. "I had hoped for at least mild amusement—"

Alexios halted mid-step.

Not because the shadows reformed — but because they did so without my command.

The twenty-six shadow infantrymen rose again from their own collapsing remains, armour knitting back together from writhing darkness, joints clicking as they returned to identical posture. Their movements were stiff, marionette-clean. Obedient. Silent.

"Interesting."

***

Stone me, I can take it!

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