The balcony stretched wide and open, adorned with more than a dozen elegantly arranged tables and chairs, yet it felt as spacious as ever.
Fanmuir sat alone on a chair at the far left of the balcony. The space was deserted—everyone else was inside the hall celebrating Thomas Orléans' birthday.
Cheers and rounds of applause echoed faintly from the hall. The old man was likely blowing out his candles and cutting the cake. With a wry smile, Fanmuir lightly rubbed his arm, still recalling the sting left by a delicate but relentless hand.
The night was serene and clear. The deep, star-filled sky seemed to stretch endlessly, while soft moonlight blanketed the balcony in an otherworldly glow. Fanmuir reclined in his chair, gazing at the vast heavens above, lost in thought.
For reasons he couldn't explain, the sight of the boundless stars made him miss his parents. An overwhelming longing to pour out his frustrations and pain to them gripped his heart.
I want to fly—to soar far and free from all this! Though outwardly composed, Fanmuir's soul yearned to scream into the infinite expanse of the sky, to break free and ascend to the celestial realms of legend.
With a sudden, sharp whistle, a radiant streak of light shot from the balcony into the night sky, like a comet tearing through the darkness. Fanmuir had leaped into the air, his energy bursting forth in a sound that resonated through the silence.
"Helena, I'm leaving. The two men beside you are tainted with demonic power—be careful!"
Even after all she had done, Fanmuir couldn't bring himself to abandon Helena to danger. Channeling his power into soundwaves, he sent her a warning before disappearing.
Helena was startled to hear Fanmuir's voice resonate in her ears. Shocked that he had mastered the long-lost secret of sound projection, she felt an inexplicable pang of loss as he departed. Not even the joy of reuniting with her childhood crush could fill the void left behind.
Though she scoffed at his warning, dismissing it as groundless suspicion, Fanmuir's words lingered in her mind.
Later, when Orlando Browne invited her to dance, she found herself hesitating. Against all reason, she declined with a polite excuse, claiming she was too tired and not much of a dancer. Even she couldn't explain why she had turned down the partner she had once dreamed of dancing with.
Fanmuir shot into the sky, climbing higher and higher—100 meters, 1,000 meters, 10,000 meters—propelled by his frenzied energy as he tore through the clouds, soaring toward the stars and the fabled palace of the gods.
Fifteen centuries of cultivation had left him with a heart as pure as untouched snow and emotions as guileless as a child's. But the sting of Helena's sudden betrayal—especially for someone as insignificant as Orlando Browne, a mere descendant of a traditional family, tainted by dark forces—cut deeper than any wound he'd ever felt.
"ROAR!"
A primal howl erupted from Fanmuir, shaking the heavens and echoing for miles. His mind teetered on the edge of collapse; he felt as though he might break. He needed release. He craved chaos, destruction, and blood—virgin blood to quench the millennia of loneliness and torment buried within him. (The Alessandro family had long adhered to the custom of delivering sealed boxes of virgin blood and rare herbs to Fanmuir at specific times to ease his pain.)
"Heaven and Earth, merciless!"
"Stars, fall from grace!"
"Rage, unending!"
Blinding lightning streaked across the night sky, as meteors of light hurtled through the darkness. Fanmuir unleashed his fury into the vast expanse, his wrath consuming even the celestial light of the stars and moon.
At some point, his mouth bore two sharp fangs, gleaming white and unnervingly long. Darkness, rage, and bloodlust flooded his heart, while the power he had carefully restrained for centuries now threatened to erupt uncontrollably.
"Kill! Kill!"
His ferocious roar filled the heavens, shaking the stars themselves. In his mind, he saw Helena's blush and coy smile, leaning against Orlando Browne, her eyes brimming with flirtation. The vision set his fury ablaze, and murderous intent rippled from him like a storm, saturating the air.
His fangs, once pure white, cycled through vivid hues—red, green, blue, purple—before finally gleaming gold. His hair grew wildly, lashing about like writhing serpents, while his body expanded to towering heights of over ten meters. His eyes burned with primal fury, and his very presence radiated the power of an ancient god or demon unleashed.
Fanmuir was no longer himself. He had lost all sense, trapped in a whirlwind of madness.
At that moment, a thunderous crack split the heavens, and a bolt of divine lightning descended, striking him squarely on the forehead.
In a miraculous turn, the divine lightning seemed almost alive, burrowing into his brow with purpose.
It was as if a hammer of the gods had struck him. Flames erupted from his body, engulfing him entirely, as though purging him of his fury and torment.
For what felt like an eternity, he remained still. Slowly, the fire subsided, and memories of the past surfaced in his mind. He saw the seductive faces of women, the kind smiles of his parents, the allure of Caroline, the innocent laughter of Chloe, and his friends in the University.
One by one, these memories softened the rage in his heart and soothed the wounds of betrayal.
When Fanmuir finally came to his senses, he found himself utterly scorched from the celestial lightning strike. His once flowing hair had been completely incinerated, leaving his head bare, not a single strand remaining. His enormous body had deflated, shrinking back to its normal size, and his vampire fangs had receded out of sight. His luxurious designer suit was now nothing more than a few charred strips clinging to his body. Even his undergarments had turned to ash, leaving him completely naked.
Exhausted to his core, with sweat soaking his entire body, Fanmuir let out a quiet sigh of relief. "That was close. If not for that strike of celestial lightning… if not for the memories of beauty and kindness I hold from the mortal world… I might have fallen into an endless abyss."
The heavens work in cycles, where karma ensures no deed goes unrewarded or unpunished. Over 1,500 years ago, Fanmuir, the eldest son of the Hershveil family, was turned into a vampire by a seductive temptress. In response, the Hershveil family turned its focus toward saving lives—founding schools, building hospitals, and advancing human civilization. For centuries, they accumulated immeasurable merit and blessings, becoming silent guardians of progress and compassion.
The strike of celestial lightning was the heavens' way of repaying the Hershveil family's virtuous legacy. It allowed Fanmuir, the Vampire Prince, to break through his bottleneck and ascend to the exalted realm of the Blood Angel—a mythical state of power and grace, unmatched in the mortal world.
As his mind calmed and the last of his rage subsided, Fanmuir realized he was now standing in an empty, serene mountain valley.
He scanned his body with his spiritual sense, and a wave of uncontrollable joy surged through him. "Incredible! The bottleneck of the Vampire Prince realm that has haunted me for centuries has finally shattered. I've ascended to the realm of the Blood Angel! This is the pinnacle of worldly power!"
Through the trial of heartbreak and emotional turmoil, Fanmuir had successfully broken through to the Blood Angel realm. This monumental leap forward had laid a solid and unshakable foundation for his future plans to establish an eternal empire in the mortal world.
Inside the presidential suite of a five-star Parisian hotel, two men sat cross-legged, shrouded in a thick, oppressive aura of malice that seemed almost tangible. Their faces, faintly illuminated by the dim light, belonged to none other than Orlando Browny and the grim man who was always by his side.
The sinister energy that encircled them dissipated slowly, drawn into their bodies with every breath. As it vanished completely, they opened their eyes, revealing glowing red pupils and menacing gazes that seemed to pierce the darkness. A sharp, chilling laugh escaped the grim man's lips. Turning to Orlando, he spoke with a sinister tone:
"Orlando, fate is truly smiling upon us. Master tasked us with building our power base in the mortal world and finding suitable virgin sacrifices. And what do we find the moment we descend? Helena Bopépang, the only daughter of the Bopépang patriarch. This is your chance, Orlando—wealth, beauty, and the family's influence, all within your reach. Master clearly chose his disciples well!"
"Haha! The stars align perfectly for me. With the Mason family firmly in my grasp, and soon the Bopépang family too, let's see how the Orleans family can stand against me! Once that's done, I'll finally accomplish what my ancestors couldn't—uniting Europe's four great martial legacy families!" Orlando declared, brimming with confidence as though his victory was already assured.
Then his expression turned serious. Pressing a buzzer, he summoned a tall, broad-shouldered man in a black suit, who entered and bowed deeply.
"Investigate Van Muir's background," Orlando commanded, his voice cold.
"Yes, Young Master," the man replied briskly before leaving.
The grim man sneered. "Orlando, why go to all this trouble over some nobody? Surely, he's no threat to you."
"Senior Gruber, caution is the key to survival," Orlando replied, masking his disdain with a deferential tone. His sharp instincts had not failed him. Despite Helena's admiration, Orlando had noticed the subtle guilt and hesitation when Van Muir had left. Such details were enough to elevate Orlando's vigilance.
Two mornings later, the red sun broke through the misty mountain air, its rays bathing Van Muir's bare, glowing body. His skin shimmered like polished glass, and his tranquil demeanor evoked the image of a meditating sage. Encased in a crystalline aura of pure energy, his power reflected dazzling rays of light into the dawn.
A gentle breeze stirred, and Van Muir opened his eyes, golden light flashing briefly like lightning in the depths of his gaze.
A faint smile crossed his face. What had initially seemed like a misfortune had turned into an unexpected blessing. His power was now fully stabilized at the Blood Angel realm—the pinnacle of strength and capability in the world.
Feeling an unmatched calm and quiet pride, he mused, Fifteen hundred years, and now I've reached the mythical Blood Angel realm. Who in this world can compare?
He thought of his parents and their final wish: Do not return to the mortal world until you've mastered the Vampire Prince realm. Having far surpassed that milestone, he felt a deep sense of fulfillment.
The Hershveil family will rise again.