Even though Ryan had mentally prepared himself, he couldn't help but show a look of shock as he witnessed the scene before him. The overwhelming stench of blood only added to his discomfort.
The dimly lit, spacious bathing area featured a luxurious design, with a double-layered hollow structure. The materials used were opulent beyond imagination—every floor tile, wall brick, load-bearing pillar, and arched bridge was made of Carrara marble inlaid with gemstones and gold filigree.
The bath area was separated from the surrounding corridors by dark red silk curtains. Combined with the dazzling lights and the graceful dancing of the women, Ryan felt an overwhelming sense of decadence and corruption beneath the surface.
"Howl! Hahaha!"
"Don't stop! Keep going, or I'll crush your head!"
Around the tables and sofas on either side of the bath, several enormous werewolves had gathered. They were drinking cold wine, savoring fresh raw meat, and indulging in pleasures with scantily clad men and women.
The men and women serving the werewolves, however, were shackled with chains, their bodies covered in bruises, trembling uncontrollably, clearly forced into this "work."
Ryan frowned, feeling a strong urge to signal Mike to have the ARS team storm in and take out all these scumbags. But before he could identify the person in charge here, he could only apologize internally.
At that moment:
"Hehe~ Come on~ Join us~"
"Ah~ What delicious bodies~"
The "women" in the bath swam over, waving their slender, white arms, enticing Ryan to join them in the blood-filled pool for playful fun.
"It seems Mr. Westeros is quite popular," the receptionist said, covering her mouth with a smile before continuing, "I was supposed to provide you with comprehensive service, but you can choose any one of them, or even all of them, if you prefer."
"Service... Uh, what is this place? And are those guys werewolves?" Ryan deliberately lowered his voice, trying to sound scared.
"Yes," the receptionist replied, slowing her pace as she walked beside Ryan and leaned closer to his neck. "To be honest, Mr. Westeros, you're so tempting that I want to serve you right now."
As she finished speaking, the receptionist slightly opened her mouth, revealing two pairs of sharp fangs.
The fangs were located between her upper and lower incisors, with tiny holes at the tips, resembling the venomous fangs of a snake.
However, Ryan instinctively felt that these fangs were not meant for injecting venom but for draining the blood of their prey.
A vampire?
The surprise in Ryan's mind quickly subsided, and he continued with his act, exclaiming, "You! You're... you're a vampire!!!"
Ryan then pretended to be terrified, stumbling back and nearly falling into the blood pool.
"Hehe~ That's right, I am a Nightwalker, also known as a vampire by humans. Now, Mr. Westeros, please follow me."
The receptionist seemed delighted by Ryan's reaction and continued walking forward with satisfaction.
"Wait for me!" Ryan quickened his pace, as if afraid of being left behind.
In reality, he had suppressed his instinct to retaliate when the receptionist got close and instead put on a frightened demeanor.
After all, Ryan was one of the first investigators to receive the nanobot injections.
After completing the injections and enduring nearly three days of unconsciousness, the nanobots successfully "wrote" the genetic information carried by the 24th pair of chromosomes into his original genes, greatly enhancing his physical abilities while preventing him from turning into another species.
Now, both Ryan and Mike, who was stationed outside, were "superhumans" in the truest sense—not like the degenerates or mutated individuals created by Vault.
Meanwhile, back at the blood pool:
"Such a delicious one, just a sip would satisfy me."
"Ah, Vaneesha got lucky."
"Aren't humans supposed to be polluted by industrial waste? How can there still be someone so tasty?"
After Ryan walked away, the group of "women," or rather, female vampires, showed expressions of disappointment and regret. They lamented not being chosen to serve Ryan, missing the opportunity to be his guide.
Ryan, however, paid no attention to what the female vampires were thinking. He followed the receptionist out of the bathing area to a more spacious transfer zone.
There were many stone doors leading to closed rooms, and from the noises and sounds emanating from these rooms, Ryan realized this was an even more "extreme" place.
Ryan took a deep breath, struggling to resist the urge to snap the receptionist's neck, and asked in a confused tone, "What exactly is this place? And you said you're a vampire—how can you coexist peacefully with werewolves? Aren't your two species supposed to be mortal enemies?"
"That's just a fabricated story. Our two races share common ancestors, and while we can't interbreed to produce stronger offspring, there's no need to kill each other either."
The receptionist stopped and turned, gesturing with her left hand towards a stone-doored room. Smiling, she said to Ryan, "Nightfall Bar is a place of entertainment for us Nightwalkers and the werewolf tribe, as well as a site for inducting new members. So, Mr. Westeros, you can now choose to undergo the transformation and become a Nightwalker like me."
"Nightwalker, vampire… Come on, just hearing the name tells me I'll never see the sun again. What's in it for me?" Ryan decisively refused.
Hearing this, the receptionist lowered her hand and began listing, "Eternal youth, immortality, extraordinary strength, immunity to disease, rapid healing—these are just the basic changes. Moreover, as you age, you can even merge with the night, becoming invisible to ordinary humans, though those pesky surveillance cameras might still spot you. So, what do you think, Mr. Westeros? Tempted?"
"I'd rather lie on a beach and soak up the sun, thanks," Ryan insisted, taking the opportunity to ask, "What about the werewolves? They seem pretty cool too."
"Werewolves?" The receptionist's expression showed a hint of disdain. "They can walk in sunlight, but in every other aspect, they are far inferior to us Nightwalkers. Are you sure you want to become a werewolf, Mr. Westeros?"
"I didn't say I wanted to transform right now. By the way, is there anything else besides what you mentioned?" Ryan seemed dissatisfied.
Hearing this, the receptionist's disdainful look softened. It seemed that while the two races didn't kill each other and maintained relative etiquette and friendliness, they didn't particularly like each other either. After all, the werewolves' carelessness had nearly exposed both races to the public.
"There is, but it requires an interview with the manager and more cash. Are you sure?"
"Yes. I've already spent $800,000. I need to get my money's worth," Ryan said, spreading his hands.
"Very well, please follow me, Mr. Westeros."
Ryan followed the receptionist further down, taking an elevator to the deeper underground "palace."
The style here was entirely different from the area above. Although the lighting was brighter and the decor just as exquisite, as Ryan crossed the elevated walkway, he noticed that the pits on either side held hundreds of humans.
The people held in these underground cages had skin as pale as ghosts, a result of prolonged deprivation of natural sunlight, but their physiques remained healthy, indicating that the vampires and werewolves managing Nightfall Bar understood the importance of "sustainable utilization."
To prevent the captives from suffering bone loss or depression, they must have been provided with sufficient nutrition and vitamins, particularly vitamin D, which is primarily obtained from sunlight or specific foods.
As for depression…
Ryan walked to the edge of the walkway and looked down, only to find that everyone was in a half-awake, half-asleep state, some even smiling, completely unaware of their situation.
"We use propofol, Mr. Westeros," the receptionist explained, stopping beside him. "Werewolves have similar dietary habits to humans, except they have a peculiar preference for fresh raw meat. We Nightwalkers, however, must drink fresh blood—preferably human blood—to meet our energy and nutritional needs.
You may have heard that if pigs, cows, or sheep know they're about to be slaughtered, the stress response causes the meat's taste and texture to deteriorate rapidly. Therefore, slaughterhouses must use quick, painless methods to ensure meat quality.
This phenomenon applies to most species, humans included. If humans knew they were being farmed like livestock, their blood and meat would become foul. Ugh, just the thought makes me nauseous. I could never tolerate such a taste.
So we've developed a special hallucinogen using propofol to keep the humans here in a perpetual dream state, preserving the flavor of their blood."
The receptionist smiled, adding, "I've seen human movies and TV shows depicting us vampires as monsters that randomly drink human blood at night. How absurd! Sustainable food sources are the way to go."
Ryan's patience was wearing thin, especially at the mention of "sustainable development."
"Let's move on, Mr. Westeros. We're almost there," the receptionist said, oblivious to Ryan's growing anger, as she turned and continued walking.
Ryan didn't respond, his expression cold as he followed her. As they crossed the walkway, he made a subtle hand gesture, signaling the number "three" to Mike outside, instructing him to call in the ARS team.
It was no longer necessary to continue hiding. It was time to rescue his fellow humans.
Ryan and Mike had initially thought this was just a small
gathering point, a place to gather more useful intelligence, and at worst, they could storm in, capture a few werewolves alive, and interrogate them.
But they never expected to find nearly a thousand fellow humans imprisoned here, treated like livestock. This behavior was no different from that of the degenerates—perhaps even more despicable.
Ryan decided it was time to call in the ARS, as the team would need time to mobilize and deploy.
They left the walkway and entered another cell block.
The stench hit Ryan like a wall, causing him to frown.
As they passed the outermost cell, Ryan glanced inside and saw an emaciated "man," so skeletal he was almost indistinguishable from a corpse, curled up in the corner.
"Don't be surprised, Mr. Westeros," the receptionist said, noticing his reaction. "The ones locked up here are traitors to our kind and the werewolves."
"Traitors? How so?" Ryan asked, seizing the opportunity to stall for more time for the ARS team.
"Oh? You're interested?" The receptionist was momentarily surprised but didn't hide anything, sharing the information as if it were gossip, "They refused to eat human flesh or drink human blood, claiming that werewolves and Nightwalkers are actually subspecies or mutants of humans, not higher beings created by our lord.
Worst of all, they tried to collaborate with some humans to overthrow our lord. Imagine that! Forsaking delicious flesh and blood, they insisted that humans were their kin. Isn't that ridiculous? What do you think, Mr. Westeros?"
Ryan didn't immediately ask about the "lord," a key piece of information, instead replying, "I'm not sure. Don't forget, I'm human right now. But I am curious—how long have they been locked up to end up like this?"
"I don't remember exactly," the receptionist mused before replying, "But most of them were once members of the Roman Legio I Adiutrix, so at least five hundred years, I'd say. That was when our race first began to rise."
Five hundred years?
Ryan felt a slight twinge of surprise, coupled with a newfound respect for the imprisoned "vampires" and "werewolves," and he noted a critical piece of information—the history of vampires and werewolves should be no more than six hundred years old.
Leaving the cell block, Ryan and the receptionist arrived at an opulent office, where every decoration and piece of furniture exuded luxury.
"Greetings, Mr. Westeros."
Upon entering, a female vampire manager, dressed in a luxurious backless gown, sat elegantly behind a desk and asked, "What service would you like? Would you prefer to be assisted in your transformation by a Nightwalker of higher nobility, or perhaps..."
Ding!
The manager's words were cut off by the sound of a ringing bell.
"Apologies, I need to take this call," the manager said, turning to Ryan with a polite smile before picking up the receiver of an old-fashioned phone and putting it to her ear. She snapped, "What's the... Impossible! We bought this land; the Italian government and military have no right... What?! It's not them?"
As the manager's expression shifted from anger to shock and then to confusion, Ryan, knowing that reinforcements had arrived, suddenly sprang into action.
He swiftly wrapped his left arm around the receptionist's neck, grabbed her jaw with his right hand, and twisted.
Crack!
The sound of bones snapping echoed through the office, sending a chill down anyone's spine.
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