"Enough!" she snapped, her voice sharp with frustration. When her words failed, she grabbed him and tore him away with force, tossing him to the side like a discarded doll.
Fanmuir lay sprawled on the ground, his chest heaving and his stomach painfully full, yet he yearned for more.
The woman, pale and visibly drained, glared at him, muttering angrily, "Greedy little brat. No gratitude at all."
Fanmuir didn't register her words. The blood inside him was wreaking havoc, swirling through his veins like a storm before rapidly turning to ice. The chill was agonizing, piercing him like shards of glass.
He curled up, clutching himself as the freezing sensation spread. His limbs stiffened, his body writhing uncontrollably as frost seemed to crystallize on his very bones.
"Cold," he whimpered, tears streaming as he begged, "Please…help me."
But no help came. Only silence answered him.
Fanmuir was certain he was dying. The pain was sharper, deeper than when his blood had been drained, yet he couldn't slip into death. Instead, his senses sharpened unbearably.
With excruciating clarity, he felt his transformation. The liquid within him churned violently, as if alive, racing through his body. Wherever it went, it froze him, tearing him apart with icy shards.
"Aah…ugh…" His screams echoed in the still air, raw and unrelenting.
Time blurred. Minutes, hours, perhaps days passed as he was trapped in a torment of freezing agony. Finally, he found himself upright again, supported by the woman's steady hands. His body felt hollow, drained of energy, and he slumped into her care.
She eased him onto a soft, feminine bed and draped a crimson quilt over him, tucking him in as though he were a child.
"You're such a handsome little devil," she teased, brushing a cold hand over his cheek.
Fanmuir stared at her, his eyes filled with unshed tears, his lips trembling. He wanted to speak but couldn't.
"Are you cold?" she asked, her voice soft. "Hungry?"
Hungry? The gnawing pain in his gut suddenly made sense. He nodded urgently, desperate for relief.
The woman gave a sly smile. "Wait here. I'll get you something to eat."
With that, she vanished—flying, not walking. Her movements were swift and graceful, leaping high into the air and disappearing into the forest.
Left alone in the silence, Fanmuir gazed upward. The night sky stretched above him, full of stars and the pale light of the moon. Outside, faint firefly lights flickered, cold and distant. But Fanmuir felt no fear.
He felt as though he were made of stone—cold, lifeless, and rigid. Yet his hunger burned fiercely, gnawing at his insides like a swarm of invisible mouths. The torment became unbearable, and he let out another agonized cry, writhing in pain.
When the woman returned, she found Fanmuir writhing on the ground, his fingers clawing at the stones until they were nearly bent and broken. His face scraped against the rough surface, yet he seemed unaware of the pain.
In her grasp was a trembling young man, no older than seventeen or eighteen.
Seeing Fanmuir's desperate state, she set down her prey and knelt beside him. "What's wrong with you?" she asked calmly.
Fanmuir whimpered, his hands flailing, unable to form a coherent response.
"Don't panic," the woman said in a soothing tone. She reached behind her, dragged the frightened young man forward, and lifted him by the neck with ease, as though he were no more than a chicken. She tilted his head, exposing his neck, and presented him to Fanmuir.
"Here," she said, pointing to the young man's throbbing artery. "Bite here. Drink your fill, and you'll feel better."
Fanmuir whimpered, shaking his head and squeezing his eyes shut in defiance.
With a frustrated glare, the woman leaned in, baring her sharp fangs. Without hesitation, she sank them into the young man's neck. The boy screamed in agony as a torrent of blood erupted from the wound.
"Open your mouth," the woman ordered sharply.
Fanmuir clenched his teeth, but the warm, metallic scent of the blood filled his senses. He trembled uncontrollably, and his lips parted involuntarily.
"Ah," the woman scoffed coldly, tightening her grip on the young man. Blood sprayed across Fanmuir's face and body.
A few drops landed on Fanmuir's lips and trickled into his mouth. As soon as the blood touched his tongue, it slid down his throat effortlessly. The taste was intoxicating—warm, rich, and irresistible. Fanmuir's willpower crumbled, and he latched onto the young man's neck, drinking greedily.
"Take it slow," the woman said with a satisfied smile. "As a newborn noble vampire, you'll need a full human's worth of blood each day for the first three days. After that, three glasses of fresh blood will be enough to sustain you daily."
She ran her fingers through Fanmuir's hair as he fed, eventually loosening her grip and allowing him to hold the young man himself.
By the time Fanmuir was done, the young man's body was completely drained. His eyes rolled back, his limbs twitched briefly, then fell still. Not a single drop of blood was wasted.
Fanmuir collapsed onto the bed, his stomach swollen, his body too heavy to move.
"How do you feel?" the woman asked, her lips curling into a faint smile. "Your body needs blood to adapt to its new state. Without it, you'd wither and die. After three days, you'll only need a few glasses of blood each day."
Fanmuir didn't understand her words at first. Then, a sinking realization washed over him. He reached up to his lips and froze in horror. A scream tore from his throat as he felt two sharp, rigid fangs inside his mouth.
"Ah!" he cried, frantically grabbing at the fangs, trying to yank them out. But they were firmly rooted, as immovable as if they were part of his skull.
"What are you doing?" the woman said, frowning as she grabbed his hands and pulled them away. "Didn't you receive the inherited memories of the Bloodborn Apollo Clan? Accept what you are."
"I don't want to be a vampire," Fanmuir sobbed, thrashing weakly in her grasp. "I want to go home."
"You are already a seventh-generation descendant of the Bloodborn Apollo Clan," she said, holding him firmly. "We are the true rulers of this world. Blessed with extraordinary talents and powers, we fear neither sunlight nor time. You've inherited the greatest bloodline there is. Now, you possess eternal life and unparalleled strength—the very things humanity craves. And they are yours."
Realizing Fanmuir wouldn't listen, the woman grabbed him by the arm and dragged him to a nearby spring. Forcing his head down, she said, "Look. See what you've become."
Under the moon's bright glow, Fanmuir was compelled to gaze into the water. He saw a boy with disheveled hair, skin as pale and smooth as polished jade, golden eyes shining like stars, and lips devoid of color.
"Do you like what you see?" the woman whispered with a low chuckle, leaning close to his ear. "You'll never age or lose your beauty. From now on, every moment of your life, you'll be the most handsome man in the world."
"I just want to go home," Fanmuir begged, his voice trembling. "I don't care what you've done to me—please, let me go back."
The woman froze briefly, then burst into laughter, throwing her head back as her voice echoed in the night. "Home? Don't be ridiculous!" she mocked, pointing at him. "I used 188 years of my refined blood essence to turn you into my descendant—the seventh-generation heir of the Bloodborn Apollo Clan. You belong to me now. Together, we'll take everything I desire. Humans? They're nothing but our prey—our slaves. You can't return, and even if you did, humans would never accept you."
Two days passed, then three. Fanmuir lay on the bed in despair, his spirit utterly defeated.
Each day, when the hunger for blood overtook him, the woman would bring in another trembling youth, throwing them at the foot of his bed. Though Fanmuir tried to resist, the seductive scent of blood overwhelmed his senses, forcing him to pounce. His sharp fangs would pierce their throats, and he'd drain their blood entirely. The taste was intoxicating, yet with every feeding, his confusion and self-loathing deepened.
On the fourth day, the woman left at noon but didn't return until nightfall.
As he lay on the bed, Fanmuir found himself craving blood once more.
Restless and lonely, he ventured out of the castle and the surrounding estate. To his astonishment, his body felt weightless and swift. A mere push of his feet sent him soaring through the air, gliding effortlessly with the wind like a kite.
Fanmuir ran recklessly, the forest blurring around him. The moon above seemed to chase him, its light unwavering. After what felt like hours, he realized he'd reached a familiar mountain forest—one where his father used to take him hunting. It was usually a full day's journey from there to the Huxwell Estate. But now, Fanmuir had changed. It had taken him only two hours to cover the distance.
Seeing the Huxwell Estate, tears filled his eyes. He raced into the grounds, his heart pounding. Bursting into the family castle, he moved so quickly that the gatekeeper only saw a fleeting blur before Fanmuir was inside.
By midnight, the Duke's mansion was ablaze with light. In the grand hall, Fanmuir's parents sat alone, their faces etched with sorrow, quietly weeping. Outside the hall, only a handful of attendants remained, standing idly in the dim glow.
When Fanmuir burst into the hall, both his parents immediately rose to their feet.
"Fanmuir!" his father exclaimed, his voice trembling with joy as he rushed to embrace his son. "You've finally come back!"
Fanmuir collapsed into his father's arms, sobbing so hard he couldn't form any words.
After soothing him for a moment, his father gently asked, "Where is the vampire who took you?"
It took Fanmuir a long time to respond. "I escaped," he finally said. "Where are the guards and maids?"
"They're scouring the entire region searching for you. I even enlisted several bishops from the Western Church to join the hunt," his father explained.
Fanmuir's mind raced. That explained why the woman hadn't returned to the castle—she must have been intercepted by the bishops and the search parties combing the area.
His father's joy was palpable, and his mother soon joined, wrapping Fanmuir in a tearful embrace. "It's all over now, Fanmuir," she whispered. "Don't let it weigh on you too much."
They thought I had escaped unscathed. But the truth was crueler than they could imagine—I had become something entirely different.
"Father," Fanmuir choked out, his voice barely audible. "I…I've become…a monster." He hesitated, his throat tightening. "I've become a vampire."
His parents froze, their faces blanching in shock. Yet they looked at him with nothing but sorrow and love, pulling him into a fierce embrace.
They held him for what felt like an eternity, the silence broken only by the sound of their labored breathing.
Finally, his father sighed deeply. "No one must know about this," he said firmly. "Your mother and I will take you to our estate in the Alps. Once we're there, we'll decide on the next steps."
Without delay, his father instructed Fanmuir to climb into a large wooden box for concealment.
Calling in the attendants, he ordered them to prepare a carriage and load the box onto it. At the same time, he dispatched others to deliver a message to the bishops of the Western Church, demanding they find and kill the female vampire who had taken his son. He promised a generous reward for her death.
Once the servants had left, Fanmuir's parents took the reins themselves, driving the carriage away from the Huxwell estate at full speed. The night swallowed them as they raced toward the distant countryside.