In front of a massive and luxurious coffin, a raspy voice called out, "Step forward."
Of the nine people ahead, either they had completed the initial embrace or had been thrown into the dungeon, leaving only him.
Mike stepped forward, standing in front of the Count.
The Count's aged face bore a terrifying scar.
Starting from the upper right, the scar stretched to the left corner of his mouth, brutally dissecting his once handsome features.
It was clear who had done this.
"Stretch out your hand."
The Count spoke again, and only then did Mike notice—this guy had flat teeth!
Not like in the movies, with four sharp fangs for sucking blood. Instead, they looked like they had been ground down by an angle grinder, perfectly flat, without any sharp edges.
With teeth like that, he could only drink vegetable juice, even eating an apple would be tough.
Following the instructions, Mike extended his palm, which was pitch black.
