Damien woke refreshed, a profound current of vitality thrumming beneath his skin. The excruciating agony of the previous night had completely vanished, replaced by an intoxicating sense of raw power.
A polite knock rattled the carriage door just as the first morning rays breached the horizon. Crowley's voice filtered through. "Good morning, Young Master. Breakfast is ready... and congratulations on your breakthrough."
Damien's eyes narrowed slightly. He hadn't actively released his aura, yet the old butler had instantly detected his physical advancement. A sudden memory fragment resurfaced: rumors from his childhood whispered that Crowley was once an absolute powerhouse who, after a crippling injury, had quietly retired to serve his father as a loyal butler.
I need to be exceptionally careful around the old man, Damien made a mental note. If the situation allows it later, I'll have to subtly gauge his true level.
"Good morning, Crowley. Come in," Damien answered smoothly, adjusting his posture. "And thank you. From now on, ensure that every single meal served to me includes a fresh glass of blood."
The door swung open. "Yes, Young Master. It is already taken care of," Crowley replied with a deferential bow, deftly setting down a tray of breakfast.
"When will we arrive at our destination?" Damien asked, glancing at the food.
"According to the Commander, we should be eating our lunch inside the castle, Young Master."
Damien felt a wave of relief. Even a luxury carriage became a cramped prison after days of travel. "Very well. Wake me from my meditation when we reach the gates."
"Understood, Young Master," Crowley murmured, quietly sitting across from him as the carriage lurked back into motion.
For the next few hours, Damien immersed himself in his internal mana core, stabilizing the frantic energy of his newly awakened bloodline. Finally, the carriage slowed to a halt, and Crowley softly called his name. "Young Master Damien, we have reached the heart of the barony—its capital, Stonehenge Town."
As the butler stepped down and held the door open, Damien adjusted his noble attire and stepped out into his new reality.
Before him lay a medieval town by all standard definitions. Damien looked around with a critical, strategic eye. The castle walls were weathered and heavily neglected, clearly lacking proper maintenance for decades. The "capital" itself resembled an exaggerated, sprawling village rather than a proper town, likely housing a modest population of 6,000 to 8,000 people.
A textbook backwater fief, Damien thought, evaluating the muddy roads and thatched roofs. It made sense. This barony sat far from the prosperous center of the Grand-Duchy, positioned right at a volatile crossroads between warring states and the untamed frontier. He knew he shouldn't get his hopes up regarding the administrative talents here; any official delegated to a dangerous border territory like this was bound to be low-tier or politically exiled.
Crowley gestured for him to advance toward the main courtyard of the castle. Standing in neat rows was the local garrison—about fifty militia men. Judging by their mismatched leather armor and rusted spears, their combat readiness was abysmal.
As Damien approached, the men raised their weapons and shouted in unison, "Welcome, Baron Damien!"
Despite their synchronized greeting, Damien's heightened vampire senses picked up a distinct undercurrent of fear and unease vibrating through the ranks. He frowned slightly. His predecessor's reputation on the capital estate was that of a useless, arrogant young master, but he had never been known as a tyrannical monster. Why were they trembling? He resolved to have Crowley quietly look into the matter later.
Masking his thoughts, Damien faced the militia and raised a hand. "Thank you all for the welcome. It is my hope that we will work together for the collective betterment and prosperity of this territory."
The militia looked slightly surprised by his measured tone before shouting back, "Long live the Baron!"
Damien nodded and walked past them into the cool, stone interior of the castle. A young maid anxiously stepped forward and escorted him to the highest floor, showing him to the master suite.
"Prepare lunch," Damien instructed the girl, his voice calm but commanding. "And inform the butler, Knight Commander Frederick, and the castle Chamberlain that they are to join me in the dining hall."
The maid dipped into a hasty curtsy. "Y-yes, my Lord."
Damien caught the slight hesitation and fear in her voice, but he dismissed it for the moment. Right now, he needed to utilize these few quiet hours to refine the deer blood remaining in his system. If he wanted to build an immortal clan capable of enforcing his iron will, protecting his borders, and managing newly conquered lands, he needed to advance his own strength first.
His grand dream of an industrial empire was an illusion without absolute individual power to back it up. He needed to master his fractured realm and protect it from greedy neighbors. Furthermore, he had to carefully analyze the religious landscape of his domain. He needed to calculate which local sects to empower and which to systematically exclude. Above all, he had to identify the factions he couldn't afford to offend yet—chief among them being the Church of Nero, the God of Light. These self-righteous fanatics of the "White Faction" held a fundamental doctrine dedicated to purifying dark creatures.
A massive hurdle for later, Damien reasoned, once my grip on this barony is absolute.
His thoughts shifted to his biological limitations. Though the sun didn't turn him to ash, he could feel a distinct, heavy suppression under daylight. After a quick calculation, he estimated a 10% attribute debuff under direct sunlight. He needed to run controlled tests to see if this debuff intensified as he evolved, and whether it suppressed his entire body or just the specific racial powers derived from his vampire bloodline. He also needed to research how opposing attributes like thunder and holy magic interacted with his undead physiology.
Sitting cross-legged on his bed, Damien spent the next two hours refining the residual blood. Two major conclusions formed in his mind:
1. He was incredibly close to breaking through from a Low-Tier Vampire Knight to a Middle-Tier Vampire Knight. With concentrated effort, it would take less than a few days.
2. Moving forward, ordinary beast blood wouldn't cut it. He needed higher-quality blood. A deep, instinctual premonition told him that consuming the blood of a powerful, high-level lifeform would trigger a unique transformation or reward within his bloodline.
Knock. Knock.
"My Lord, lunch is served," a servant called through the heavy oak door.
"I will be down in a moment," Damien replied.
He stood up and meticulously tidied his noble outfit. As an absolute ruler, maintaining an impeccable, authoritative appearance was non-negotiable, even in a desolate frontier castle.
A few minutes later, Damien entered the grand dining hall. A long, dark wooden table dominated the room, flanked by twelve high-backed chairs. At the far end, a massive, taxidermied wolf head hung on the stone wall, casting a grim, medieval atmosphere over the room.
Crowley and Commander Frederick were already standing by the table, alongside a stressed, middle-aged man in formal robes—undoubtedly the Chamberlain and caretaker of the castle.
Damien walked with measured, authoritative strides to the head of the table. He took his seat and casually gestured with his hand. "Sit."
The three men bowed and took their seats as the servants immediately began to wheel in the carts. They placed bowls of rustic cabbage soup and platters of seasoned grilled chicken across the table.
Finally, a servant approached Damien's left side, nervously lifting a silver lid to reveal a heavy crystal goblet filled to the brim with thick, swirling, crimson blood.
The eyes of the Chamberlain widened in brief, absolute horror, while Frederick's brow furrowed tightly. Only Crowley remained perfectly unbothered, his face a mask of absolute serenity. Damien calmly picked up the goblet, swirling the dark fluid under the tense, suffocating silence of the dining hall.