Spring always came late in the northern reaches of the Glorious Empire.
Not until early April did the bitter snowstorms—raging for half a year—finally retreat, unwillingly giving way to warm sunlight and the budding promise of spring.
But not everyone welcomed the bright return of the sun.
Certainly not the young man emerging from the Gray Keep.
He wore a leather tricorne, its brim pulled low to shade his eyes—though even then, he squinted, as if the light pierced too sharply. With an impatient hand, he tugged the brim lower still.
He looked to be seventeen or eighteen—tall, strikingly handsome. A black shirt patterned with crimson threads clung to his frame, tucked into loose dark trousers that were puffed out by scarlet-crossed knight's boots rising to his knees. Over all of this, a deep red coat brushed his thighs, exuding the air of nobility.
Yet his face was pale—unnaturally so, like someone recovering from a grave illness.
"Master Collin!"
"Good day, Master Collin!"
Servants throughout the keep greeted him politely as he passed, bowing or nodding with deference.
Collin Angliel returned their greetings, but half-heartedly. His mind was clearly elsewhere.
He came to a halt outside a small cottage, hesitating at the door.
Meow~
A small cat lounging by the wall let out a disgruntled cry, annoyed at having its sunlight blocked.
Snapped from his thoughts, Collin looked down at the cat. His frown eased slightly, and a faint smile tugged at his lips.
He crouched and scooped the feline into his arms.
"Meow!" The cat hissed, struggling briefly, but couldn't escape his grasp. With resignation, it settled down, glaring indignantly at the foolish human.
Collin stroked the soft fur at its neck, seemingly lost in thought again.
Hiss— The cat bared its tiny fangs in mock menace, not to be outdone by the sharp glint of Collin's own teeth now faintly visible beneath his smile.
They stared each other down for a moment.
Then Collin chuckled and set the cat gently back on the ground.
Meow! Meow! Meow! The cat mewed triumphantly, convinced it had won the duel of wills.
It flopped onto its back and exposed its belly, clearly demanding tribute from the vanquished.
But the foolish human ignored the invitation and rose, stepping into the cottage.
Inside, the maids were hard at work. When they saw Collin, they stopped, startled.
"Master Collin! What brings you here? Dinner won't be ready for a while—if you're hungry, we can prepare some afternoon tea."
"No need," Collin replied, glancing around the kitchen. His eyes landed on a bound reindeer in the corner. "Venison for dinner?"
"Yes, sir. Stewed with carrots. There'll be vegetable soup, buttered bread, and wine as well."
Collin licked his cracked lips. "Skip the wine. Bring me a cup of deer blood instead."
The maids exchanged puzzled glances but nodded. They were used to odd requests from the old baron—but not from Collin, whose tastes had always been delicate.
He turned to leave, then paused at the doorway. "Add raw garlic. A whole clove."
"…Yes, Master Collin," they said, almost in unison, though in their hearts they muttered:
The young master's tastes are getting stranger by the day…
Night fell. The top-floor dining room of the Gray Keep glowed with candlelight and the fire crackling in the hearth.
The room was richly decorated but carried a rugged air. Above the fireplace hung a kite-shaped shield carved with a roaring bear's head. Paintings of various styles adorned the walls, alongside the preserved trophies of beasts the keep's owner had hunted.
"Master Collin," said the butler, Aemon, folding his hands behind his back. "The wine cellar recently acquired some barrels of white from the Winster estate. Would you like to try it?"
He leaned in, his voice low, as maids finished setting the table.
"Last year's short rainy season made for exceptional grapes—should pair perfectly with venison."
Aemon was worried.
He'd heard about the bizarre request Collin made in the kitchen earlier. The baron was a lost cause—boorish to the bone—but Aemon had placed all his hopes on young Collin refining the family name.
And now deer blood and raw garlic?
The Angliel family must become refined, Aemon told himself sternly.
"…Alright," Collin agreed after a moment.
Aemon beamed. He poured the wine himself, relieved.
"Will you need anything else?"
Collin waved him off. "That's all."
With the butler gone, the room fell silent.
Collin sat alone at the long, narrow table. His father was off at war. His mother had passed years ago. His sister was married and gone. Only he remained.
But he didn't seem to mind.
He ate quickly, washing the food down with sips of wine. His gaze lingered on the untouched cup of deer blood and the clove of garlic.
Finally, he picked up the blood, hesitated, then drank.
No foul stench. No nausea.
It tasted… sweet.
He licked the corner of his mouth, unsure whether to be pleased or alarmed.
"…Am I really a vampire now?" he muttered under his breath.
He set down the cup and pulled a roll of parchment from his coat. Unrolling it, he wrote in unfamiliar, alien script:
Ordinary food brings no satiety.
Deer blood restores strength and offers a sense of fullness.
Other blood types: pending testing.
Sighing, he set down the quill.
What he wouldn't give for a "Beginner's Guide to Isekai," or a "Vampire Survival Handbook."
Even a proper species name would help—something he could look up, or ask a master to teach him the ropes.
But no.
In this medieval-like world, there were elves, orcs, trolls, naga… even dragons—though extinct.
But not a single mention of vampires.
Collin had a sinking suspicion.
He might just be this world's first vampire.
Which was a problem.
Because in his original world, vampires were pure fantasy—an inconsistent mess of tropes and conflicting lore.
So if he wanted to know what he was now—what he could do, what he couldn't—he'd have to test it all himself.
So far, the signs were clear:
Light sensitivity. Bloodlust. Immortality.
Yes—immortality.
Because when he'd first awakened in this world that morning…
There'd been a dagger lodged in his chest.