Bram Stoker reclined leisurely on a chair at the inn, casually flipping through a heavy ancient tome resting on his thighs.
A full glass of red wine was placed beside him.
After a while, he closed the book and set it aside. He lifted himself up and raised the wine glass to the sunlight.
The wine in the glass was not clear but rather appeared somewhat viscous.
Under the sunlight shining through the window, black matter, like living things, flowed within the transparent red liquid. They looked like tiny parasitical worms made of black solid.
Bram swirled the wine glass contentedly and tapped it with his finger.
Stimulated by external forces, the black tendrils inside the glass danced rapidly together. The cloudier parts coalesced into a ball the size of a date, with several black tendrils pulsing like veins.
"——It's still not concentrated enough,"
Bram commented.
