Deep into the night, the Vampire Royal Capital lay silent.

Snowflakes drifted down, blanketing the ground in a layer of silver frost. Dark clouds gathered in the sky, obscuring the moon and hiding every trace of starlight. The night wind swept through the city, howling as it carried the snowflakes along. It pounded against the walls of the buildings, its muffled thuds shattering the city’s silence. On the dimly lit streets, several figures flashed by one after another.

Blurred shadows fell upon the walls, warping and distorting in the glow of the firelight. As light and shadow intertwined, they vanished suddenly into the snowy veil, as if they had been nothing but an illusion.

Patrolling soldiers marched through the streets, their armor clanging and grinding against one another as they moved. The tips of their spears scraped the ground, leaving streaks in their wake, and as the column receded, faint footprints appeared in the snow.

The trail led westward, passing several rows of tall houses, straight to the luxurious mansion in the western part of the city—the residence of Chancellor Bashir. This historic building was constructed at the same time as the royal palace and completed in the same year.

Bashir’s ancestors had followed successive kings in campaigns across the land, earning distinguished military honors, the title of count, and amassing great wealth. His family had been prominent for dozens of generations, holding immense influence within the kingdom.

A century ago, the royal house of the vampire clan was thrown into turmoil.

The ancient bloodline was stripped of its royal authority, and Gorod seized the opportunity to ascend the throne. Through underhanded means, he obtained the Ring of Power, crowned himself, and became the vampire clan’s new ruler.

During this transition of power, Bashir’s role was far from honorable.

Deceived by Gorod and blinded by greed, he eventually fell into the other’s trap. Forced to betray Queen Yin, he sided with the usurper.

After the coup succeeded, he was granted vast lands and wealth and promoted to a high-ranking official. However, in terms of status, his family saw no elevation; on the contrary, their standing plummeted.

Those he once looked down upon—such as the emperor’s in-laws—now stood on equal footing with him, or even rose above him. His family members resented this deeply, and their dissatisfaction with him grew day by day.

Bashir’s wife left him, and his children were frustrated and unfulfilled. His eldest son, in particular—who had been the object of high hopes in his youth—preferred to inherit his mother’s title rather than align himself with his father.

Bashir made no comment on the matter, neither trying to keep him nor reprimanding him.

Day after day, he carried out his duties as chancellor, as if content with the status quo and unwilling to offer further explanations. His conduct pleased Gorod greatly.

After all, having ascended to power through illegitimate means, he always lacked confidence. As for these deeply entrenched great nobles, he could not kill them all; instead, he had to appoint them to office and grant them sufficiently high ranks.

Bashir served as a target—a fitting representative.

Royal authority and ministerial power, intertwined with the influence of the imperial in-laws, formed a delicate balance, resulting in the kingdom’s current state. It was stagnant, with all ambition utterly extinguished.

Everyone was mired in the mire, content merely to avoid blame rather than seek merit.

There is no immediate danger, yet they cannot extricate themselves from the mire; they can only watch themselves sink with clear-eyed awareness.

In the night, the ancient mansion lay dark and silent, with only the third floor illuminated—the floor housing Bashir’s study.

The spacious room was lavishly decorated. A curved desk stood by the window, with a high-backed chair placed behind it. The mansion’s owner sat in the chair, his upper body leaning against the backrest, his right arm resting on the armrest, and his left hand holding a slender pen.

On the desk opposite him, several parchment scrolls lay spread out, clearly recording the proceedings of the royal council.

A sheet of paper lay tucked beneath the parchments. Judging by the exposed bottom edge, the handwriting had been carefully altered—completely different from that on the parchments, yet identical to the secret letter Cen Qing had received.

It was none other than this chancellor, Bashir—a high-ranking official of Gorod—who had tipped off Cen Qing. This was a colossal secret.

If it were to leak out, it would inevitably cause an upheaval among the kingdom’s elite.

The room was brightly lit, the candlelight flickering frequently, occasionally accompanied by a crackling sound.

Outside the window, the cold wind howled, and sleet pelted the windowpanes. Large, silvery flakes fell, forming a stark contrast to the warmth inside.

Bashir sat alone by the window, his handsome face devoid of any expression. He lowered his gaze, hiding the dark glint in his eyes, revealing not a shred of emotion.

Crackle!

The heart of the flame burst.

Red light flared from the fireplace within the wall; the flames danced like lively serpents, twisting and tearing at one another as if alive, sending sparks flying. Smoke mingled with sparks curled upward, vanishing up the chimney.

A dark shadow appeared outside the window—a raven.

It spread its wings, blending perfectly into the dark night. A blurry shadow slipped into the room, setting Bashir on high alert. Before he could react, a sudden, jarring thud echoed, and thick thorn vines began to grow wildly along the walls.

The thorny branches, as dangerous as venomous snakes, scrambled to climb up the window, their tips intertwining and extending to cover most of the pane. They pounded against the glass in the wind, emitting a shrill, scraping sound.

Bashir pushed back his chair and turned to the window.

He stood silently at the windowsill, looking up. The snow had grown deeper, making the thorn vines appear all the more terrifying. A raven flapped its wings and flew away, and the thorn vines twisted into a single mass, their tips cradling several figures.

They wore dark red gowns, their thick hair pulled back to reveal full foreheads. The ornaments in their hair were distinctive— serving both as adornments and as deadly weapons.

After locking eyes with the visitors for a moment, Bashir sighed silently.

He raised his hand to push open the window, letting the cold wind rush into the room, tangling with the flickering candlelight.

“Thorn Maids, why have you left your posts at the Black Tower to visit in the dead of night?” Bashir had a pair of gray eyes—a gentle hue that, combined with his features, was deeply alluring.

Handsome and refined in demeanor, he easily won people’s favor.

He had once taught the heir to the late king, moving in and out of the castle as a court tutor.

It was precisely this experience that allowed him to play a pivotal role in Gorod’s seizure of power—and that made his record all the more disgraceful.

Three maids stood atop the thorn vines, their bodies light as if weightless.

Bashir’s residence was sufficiently secluded, free from the king’s spies. They could speak freely without fear of their information being compromised. “By His Highness’s command, I have come to visit this evening.” A thorn branch lowered, and Moli descended until her gaze met Bashir’s. “His Highness?”

“Yes.” Moli’s gaze swept past Bashir’s shoulder to the slightly cluttered desk. Spotting what she sought, she tapped her finger lightly, and thorn vines reached into the room, retrieving the letter tucked beneath the parchment scroll.

Bashir did not stop her.

He stepped aside to make room for Moli to take what she wanted.

“Your Highness requires the list of envoys and the departure date of the expedition.” Moli folded the letter and carefully put it away. “Additionally, we need armor, weapons, and warhorses to equip thirty men.”

“This will attract the king’s attention,” Bashir frowned.

“That is a problem you must resolve.” Moli was not prepared to back down, her tone firm and unyielding. “You swore allegiance to Queen Yin, yet you have broken your oath. The blood curse will punish you; this is a debt you owe your master. His Highness is the master’s sole heir; you must fulfill his demands.”

The “master” Moli referred to was Cen Qing’s mother, the late Queen Yin. As for the blood curse, it was a punishment for betrayal.

Bashir clutched his chest, his face turning pale in an instant.

“I’ve been trying to make amends. I’ve been atoning all along,” he said in a low voice.

“Don’t try to paint yourself in a better light, and don’t delude yourself into thinking you can outwit fate. You’re bound by the blood curse; you know full well you can’t break free, so you’ve had to bow your head to stay alive.” Moli snorted derisively, ruthlessly exposing Bashir. “You know perfectly well that if anything were to happen to His Highness, the ancient bloodline would vanish completely, the blood curse would become utterly unbreakable, and you would die—and your family would be wiped out.”

“…I understand,” Bashir said with difficulty.

That was precisely why he had so strenuously advocated for sending troops to prevent Zax’s plot from succeeding. Unfortunately, he had failed.

It was Gorod, the King of the vampire clan, and his own father, who wanted to banish Cen Qing and see him vanish.

Bashir was powerless to turn the tide and could only watch helplessly as the situation slipped away. He was filled with bitter regret, yet dared not openly vent his resentment.

“You know what to do. Do not disappoint His Highness.” With those words, Moli retreated, blending into the thorn vines until she vanished into the night.

The other two cast a cold, warning glance at Bashir for a moment. Then they vanished, leaving with Moli.

Bashir stood at the window, watching the thorn vine maiden fade into the distance. He clenched his fists so tightly that the knuckles turned white. His fingertips dug into his palms, blood seeping through the cracks, yet he remained motionless, as if he felt no pain at all.

“A moment’s greed must be repaid with a lifetime. I should have known…”

He refused to be controlled by others, yet he could not break free from the blood curse.

The weight of Gorod’s kingship bore down upon him, while the curse of the Queen Yin tormented him day and night.

Bashir knew he was walking a tightrope; the slightest misstep would send him plummeting into the abyss, never to return. Yet he had no other choice.

“How tragic and ridiculous.”

The wind swept through the courtyard, drowning out Bashir’s murmur.

He turned and left the study, leaving the window wide open. The cold wind poured into the room, scattering the parchment scrolls on the desk. Large snowflakes drifted down, soaking the carpet and leaving mottled dark streaks along the windowsill.

Winter nights are always particularly long.

Patrolling soldiers were changing shifts one after another. Someone caught a fleeting glimpse of a figure, rubbed their eyes with one hand, but saw nothing.

“Strange. Was it just my imagination?”

Puzzled, the soldier considered investigating, but just as he took a step forward, he pulled his leg back. Glancing at the dim alleyway, he decisively turned and walked away.

It was likely just a hallucination; there was no need to get to the bottom of it, much less take any risks. That wasn’t part of his duty. The thorn vines crept underground, and the maids, possessing the thorn vines, moved silently along the way.

Upon reaching the Black Tower, a thicket of thorn vines burst from the ground, colliding with the swirling snow to create a fleeting spectacle.

Moli and her two companions touched down, brushed the dust and snow from their clothes, and, lifting their skirts one after another, stepped onto the stairs and entered the open tower door. Behind them, the Black Tower’s doors closed silently.

Inside, the goblin rubbed his hands together and stamped his feet, hurrying through the corridor back to the kitchen on the third floor before his fingers and toes froze solid. There was a warm hearth and the aroma of delicious food—a veritable paradise compared to the cold, snowy night.

Moli and the others parted ways at the spiral staircase.

Two of them returned to their rooms to rest while they could. Moli took the letter to see Cen Qing and report back to him without delay. In the glow of the firelight, the golden rose on the door shimmered.

Moli walked against the light and knocked on the tightly closed door. It was late at night, yet Cen Qing had not yet gone to rest.

He was leaning against the headboard, his long black hair loosely tied, hanging like silk over his right shoulder. In his hands, he held an open diary from his mother.

The white light fell upon his face, softening his delicate features even further, rendering them utterly non-threatening. Yet the depths of his dark eyes were the exact opposite—dark and icy, frozen in extreme cold, radiating boundless chill. “Your Highness.” Moli approached the foot of the bed and produced the letter she had brought back. With a soft click, the diary closed.

Cen Qing looked up. A raven on the golden stand flapped its wings, deftly snatching the letter, clamping it between its sharp beak, and delivering it to Cen Qing’s hand. The letter unfolded; the handwriting was somewhat sloppy, likely written in a state of agitation.

Cen Qing scanned the page at a glance, pressing the paper down with one hand as he fell briefly into deep thought.

“The envoys have been selected, though the departure date remains unclear—but it won’t be long.” He tilted his head to gaze at the pearlescent light, speaking as if to himself, needing no reply from anyone. “The situation in the borderlands must be quite dire.”

Moli stood at the foot of the bed. Seeing Cen Qing’s shoulders tremble slightly, she immediately sensed something was wrong.

She hurried forward and caught him before he could double over, her fingers touching his icy skin. The next moment, a cough echoed through the room.

“Cough, cough…”

The coughing came in waves, completely uncontrollable.

Moli tried to slit her wrist, but her hand was seized by pale fingers. Helpless, she could only watch as Cen Qing was consumed by agony.

“Your Highness, you need my blood!” she said anxiously.

“I told you, stop hurting yourself.” Cen Qing held Moli back with his left hand while clutching his throat with his right. He tried to steady his breathing, taking deep breaths one after another. Though his chest ached with each breath, he still refused to give in.

Moli couldn’t break free, and her anxiety grew.

Black thorn vines sprouted from the ground, wrapping around her waist. The sharp spines were about to slice through her skin when they were blocked by a white light and forced to retreat.

“Your Highness!” 

“Obey my orders, Moli.”

Cen Qing was adamant. Though usually easygoing, he occasionally displayed a stubborn streak. This was a major headache for Moli.

“I am your mother’s companion species; I exist for you. I cannot bear to watch you suffer—this is a punishment for me!”

“No, Moli, I insist.” Cen Qing softened his tone; his coughing was no longer as violent as before. He slowly raised his head, his face pale and fragile, looking exceptionally pitiable.

His pale fingers undid the collar, revealing runes crawling across his collarbone. This was a curse.

Designed specifically to suppress the poison within his body. His father had poisoned him; his mother had cast the curse.

The former viewed his wife and son as obstacles, eager to eliminate them. The latter, in order to protect him, drained her last drop of blood and passed away in sickness and agony.

“Let’s get out of here. I’ll find a way to counter the poison.” Cen Qing buttoned up his shirt; his coughing had subsided, and his rapid breathing had eased. “It’s a poison from the Western Continent. Perhaps the Wraiths have a solution.”

“That vile scoundrel, using such filthy tactics!” Moli helped Cen Qing lean against the headboard, trying to make him as comfortable as possible. “One day, I’ll flay him alive and make you a rug out of his skin, so you can trample him underfoot every moment.”

“That’s not a very good idea.” Cen Qing shook his head in distress, clearly not in favor of it. “Do you pity him?”

“No.” Cen Qing shook his head again, speaking earnestly. “Vampire clan skin isn’t suitable for rugs. We’d be better off capturing him and bleeding him dry.” 

“Are you serious?”

“Of course.” Cen Qing blew a strand of hair from his forehead and said with a smile, “Not only will we bleed him dry, but we’ll also turn his own tactics against him—let His Majesty the King taste the agony of being poisoned.”

“You will certainly achieve your wish.”

The thorn vine maiden smiled radiantly, yet her words were laced with murderous intent. She would certainly fulfill Her Highness’s wish.

Even if it cost her soul and life, even if it meant destroying everything, she would not hesitate.