The Red Chalice Cult had once worshipped the vampires.
Long ago, when the vampires first emerged, they had stood above humanity—faster, stronger, immortal. An apex species.
But time had changed the balance.
Humans had advanced, adapting their methods of mana usage across generations. Slowly, methodically, they closed the gap.
Now, the Vampire Monarch was dead, and the three remaining Vampire Venerables—the strongest of their kind, once powerful enough to hold Magnus Draykar himself at bay—stood at the pinnacle of their race.
They were mighty.
They were powerful.
And yet—they were prostrating.
Foreheads pressed against the cold marble floor, bodies bowed in absolute submission.
Even Caladros von Noctis, the Vampire Monarch, had never coaxed such reverence from them—not with his overwhelming mid Radiant-rank power.
This was something greater than fear.
This was worship.
Behind them, an entire quadrant of the hall was filled with the other Vampire Ancestors—fifteen in total, each kneeling in silent devotion.
In the next quadrant, the Immortal-rank ogres and orcs knelt, their massive frames bent in subjugation.
The third quadrant was occupied by the highest-ranking cultists of the Savage Communion who knelt in silence.
The final quadrant was occupied by the Immortal-rank cultists of the Red Chalice Cult.
Behind them, Ascendant and Integration-rank warriors, all knelt in formation, heads bowed, bodies still.
The sheer magnitude of power gathered in one place was enough to threaten a continent.
And yet, all of them—every single one—were bowing to a single being.
At the highest step, beside the three Vampire Venerables, a man kneeled with his head bowed.
His pink hair shimmered in the dim candlelight, and his blue-green eyes remained lowered.
Even he—Kaelith Velcroix, the younger brother of the woman they all awaited—was on his knees.
The hall was silent.
Then—
She entered.
The moment Alyssara Velcroix stepped into the chamber, every single person shivered.
It was instinct.
A primal, inescapable reaction—the body's way of screaming danger.
Not threat. Not power.
Death.
For those gathered, death was no longer a distant possibility.
It had become a choice.
She ascended the steps slowly.
One by one.
Each step a final judgment, each movement an unspoken decree.
When she reached the throne, she sat—crossing her legs, draping herself over it as if she had always belonged there.
She let out a soft yawn, resting her cheek against her hand.
Then, in a voice smooth as silk, she spoke.
"Raise your heads."
The room exhaled.
One by one, the gathered figures lifted their gazes.
Kaelith Velcroix, her brother, was the first to speak. His voice was filled with nothing but reverence.
"Sister," he murmured.
Alyssara's gaze settled on him, unreadable.
"You have transcended beyond the limits of a Cult Leader," Kaelith continued. "You are now our deity, our empress, our goddess."
Alyssara tilted her head slightly, as if considering his words. She did not respond.
Kaelith took a step forward, his body trembling—not with fear, but with fervor.
"As such," he continued, "the Red Chalice Cult is no longer as it was."
He turned slightly, addressing the room.
"The hierarchy has changed."
"The vampires are no longer to be worshipped, but integrated as part of us."
His voice grew softer.
"And you, sister—" he turned back to Alyssara, lowering himself onto one knee.
"You are no longer just our Cult Leader."
He pressed his forehead to the marble floor once more.
"You are now the Crimson Empress."
"You are our only hope."
He remained bowed, his breath steady, as the room held absolute silence.
"May I have the honor," Kaelith murmured, "of placing the crown upon your head?"
Alyssara finally smiled.
"You may," she said.
Kaelith rose slowly, his hands trembling ever so slightly as he retrieved a crimson crown from his spatial ring.
He stepped forward, his footsteps measured, and then—he placed the crown atop her head.
"Legendary-grade artifact: Crimson Crown," he whispered, as he let it settle upon her.
Alyssara closed her eyes.
A single pulse of energy surged through her body, igniting something deep within.
Her smile widened.
Kaelith stepped back once more, lowering himself to one knee.
His heart was thundering in his chest.
He had done his part.
Now—it was his sister's battle to fight.
There was an immutable law regarding Legendary-grade artifacts—a being could only wield one at a time.
And yet, Alyssara Velcroix was about to break that law.
She already possessed one such artifact, a weapon that had bound itself to her long ago.
Now, she was attempting to bond with a second.
Legendary-grade artifacts were often misunderstood. To the uninformed, they were merely weapons or tools of immense power. But in truth, they were alive—their forms and abilities shaped by their wielder.
Take Nyxthar, Arthur Nightingale's sword. In his hands, it was a blade without edge, a weapon of absolute offense. But if it had chosen another as its master, it could have taken an entirely different form.
Just like the Crimson Crown.
When Alyssara claimed Vorgath's Legendary axe, it shifted, reshaped itself—accepting her as its rightful wielder.
The axe became a crown.
Because she was worthy.
But being worthy was not enough.
Alyssara sat atop her throne, her body utterly still—but in her mind, a war raged.
The Crimson Crown fought against her.
The artifact resisted, struggling to bond to her while she still wielded her first Legendary-grade artifact.
'Even at my level… this isn't easy,' she thought, her jade eyes narrowing as she felt her mana and black mana twist and strain to contain the artifact's power.
She had broken through to High Radiant-rank six years ago. Since then, she had become stronger than every being on Earth.
But this wasn't her final form.
No, she was still far from complete.
The memories of the previous timeline told her that.
Using those memories, she had evolved herself even further—pushing beyond what should have been possible.
She had reached Peak Radiant-rank.
She had forged her True Domain into something that could even make Demon Archdukes shudder.
She had achieved Unity.
A level of control unmatched by anyone.
And yet—it wasn't enough.
Arthur Nightingale.
Alyssara would never admit it to him, not even in passing, but his Unity was beyond anything she had ever imagined.
It was unfinished, still in its infancy. But at its peak?
At his peak?
He would surpass her.
And that was unacceptable.
Because Arthur Nightingale was hers.
And if he was destined to become the greatest, then she would simply evolve beyond him once more.
Because the only person worthy of loving Arthur Nightingale was Alyssara Velcroix.
And so—she fought.
She fought against the Crimson Crown, against the will of the artifact itself, forcing it to bow before her.
Because she would not be bound by laws.
She would rewrite them.