"Far beyond the stars… the sky bled red."
In a remote cluster of galaxies where cosmic winds flowed like rivers of light, a blood-red sun pulsed with life — ancient, massive, and hungry.
Its name was Vermithra, the Crimson Star — a solar titan so vast it dwarfed entire planetary systems. Bathed in its radiant, nutrient-rich beams, a single planet thrived in eternal twilight.
Vladara.
A world of towering crimson mountains, rivers the color of garnets, and skies painted in maroon dusk. Trees grew black and tall, their leaves a deep wine red. The very soil shimmered with iron-rich dust that glittered under the star's blood-warmth.
Here, the wind didn't whisper — it howled in deep tones, as if singing hymns to an ancient god. Lightning arced from mountaintop to mountaintop like veins across the sky, but it did not strike — it danced, tame and predictable, part of the world's ecosystem.
This was no world of mortals.
This was the home of true vampires — an apex species not born of myths or curses, but shaped through natural evolution under a red sun. Their physiology was perfect for their world.
Unlike Earth's fictional, nocturnal wretches, these vampires bathed in crimson light as a source of life. The sun here fed them.
Yet, blood was still sacred.
The creatures of this world — towering beasts with crystalline hides, serpents with volcanic veins, wolves cloaked in shadows — bled rich, potent blood. These monsters, known as blood beasts, roamed the outer wilds, providing sustenance and challenge alike.
The vampires hunted them in ritual, not in sport.
Each drop of beast blood consumed not only healed — it enhanced, altered, evolved.
Over eons, the strongest clans had risen above the rest. And one ruled them all.
House Vlad.
At the highest peak of Vladara, carved into the very mountain heart, stood Castle Nocturnum — a fortress of obsidian stone and crimson glass, layered in gothic architecture that breathed both beauty and terror.
And upon its throne sat the Eternal King — Dracula Vlad.
Tall and imperious, he bore armor forged from the crystallized bones of an extinct dragon-wyrm. His eyes were glowing rubies, his voice deeper than thunder trapped in a coffin. His aura stretched across miles — enough to suffocate beasts with his presence alone.
Yet today, the ancient king stood not as a warlord… but as a father.
"Bring her forward."
His voice rumbled across the royal court — a chamber lit not by flame, but by floating red orbs of concentrated solar energy. They cast moving shadows on the vaulted ceiling, where murals of past kings and apocalyptic battles stretched.
From behind velvet curtains, Princess Riona Vlad emerged.
She walked with the grace of a moonlit blade — poised, silent, beautiful. Her hair shimmered like liquid midnight, and her eyes held the storm of galaxies — the gift of the Blood Spirit, the mark of the next sovereign.
She bowed deeply before her father, crimson robes trailing behind her like wings.
Today, she would be named heir.
Around them stood high nobles — Lords of the Crescent Houses, Commanders of the Blood Guard, Scribes of the Deep Lore. Vampires so old their bodies barely held together, wrapped in veils of blood silk to hide their withered skin. All had come to witness the coronation.
But before the ancient oath could be spoken…
The world screamed.
A sound not heard in ten thousand years — the Cry of the Sky, a planetary defense wail that echoed across the atmosphere like the final breath of a dying god.
The crimson sky of Vladara boiled with seething clouds, rippling like a sea of blood above the towering black citadel where Riona stood, watching.
Below, the vast plains trembled under the weight of thousands of boots—armored vampire legions, clad in obsidian and crimson, marched in perfect synchrony. The war horns of Vladara had long been silent, but tonight they screamed.
Dracula Vlad stood at the helm of the highest battlement, the weight of centuries pressing on his broad shoulders. His eyes—ancient, deep crimson like molten rubies—pierced the heavens.
A king not merely of blood, but of history, legacy, and fate. His breath was calm and his aura rising with each moment.
Then it happened.
Two enormous, abyssal hands tore through the sky like claws ripping paper. The dimensional fabric of the world split open—space bled. A yawning chasm, wide enough to swallow a continent, tore open above the capital.
And from that unholy wound, darkness poured.
Monsters, demons—aberrations of nightmare—cascaded from the rift like a waterfall of malice. Fanged beasts, skinless giants, floating parasites with a thousand blinking eyes. The air turned acidic, and the sunlight dimmed as if the red sun itself recoiled in fear.
Yet the Vamparion Army did not falter.
"Formations, NOW!" boomed General Nivar, his voice like thunder crashing through bone.
The vampires moved with terrifying discipline.
Warlocks raised blood glyphs into the air, and crimson barriers shimmered into being. Archers with bone-carved bows loosed arrows that screamed mid-flight, each tip a stake laced with fire and rune.
Every vampire was a warrior by birth, their bodies blessed by the crimson sun, their fangs tempered in wars of old.
They moved like liquid death, vanishing and reappearing, fangs biting, blades slashing, mist swirling in ethereal winds.
As the monsters poured in, they were met with elegant brutality.
Vampires bathed in gore, laughing with thrill as their wounds stitched mid-battle, as they feasted and grew stronger.
The ground drank rivers of dark blood. For a moment, it looked as though Vladara might hold.
But then... he came.
From the rift, a presence stepped out that turned the world silent.
A hunched figure emerged, floating thousands of feet above ground. He wore a torn, black-colored robe, stitched in places with what looked like human hair. His parrot-green skin looked aged yet pulsing with dark power, and his eyes—black wells—devoured the light. That demon only had some tooths remaining but each was pure black and sharp, the space around him was twisting. The very world rejected his presence.
Dracula's crimson gaze narrowed. This… was the true threat.
The king's cape billowed as he stepped from the tower's edge and soared into the sky. His wings, wide as cathedrals, ripped through the clouds as he hovered before the demon mage.
"State your name, invader," Dracula's voice rumbled.
The demon didn't answer.
Instead, he smiled—an impossible, ragged grin—and whispered an incantation.
A blast of black wind exploded from him, corrupting the battlefield in a single pulse. Vampires who inhaled it choked, their veins bulging, blood turning thick and toxic.
The monsters began bleeding black, cursed blood that sizzled on contact. Vampires who fed on it screamed as their bodies twisted grotesquely.
Dracula responded instantly.
"Blood Battlefield!"
A sphere of mist surged from his palm, expanding rapidly. Within it, all curses were suppressed.
Vampire soldiers gasped as clarity returned to them—but only barely. The demon floated untouched, his grin wider.
He raised a bony hand and split into dozens of clones, each chanting in ancient tongues. Their words burned the ears of those nearby, carrying the weight of eldritch truths.
"Vampire Eyes," Dracula intoned.
His irises turned pure white, then veins of crimson and gold seeped into the blank canvas like a divine watercolor. Through those eyes, he saw truth—spiritual resonance, life force. The clones were illusions, but one pulsed with wicked vitality.
Dracula dove.
He streaked through the air like a meteor, tearing past the howling winds and crackling spells. Just as his clawed hand closed around the true demon's heart, the clones which he ignored were exploded and turned into vortexes of space.
Wormholes—countless of them.
Each one tore through the fabric of reality, sucking in matter, light, and souls indiscriminately.
Soldiers screamed as they were dragged into oblivion. War generals—immortals who had lived for millennia—vanished into rips in space like dry leaves in a storm.
Dracula's wings strained as he hovered, his arm buried in the demon's chest.
The demon laughed, even as black blood spilled from his mouth.
Then—boom.
An explosion of corrupted energy surged from his body, shattering Dracula's arm into bone splinters.
The vampire king reeled back, blood pouring from his mouth, the regeneration failing for the first time in his life.
The regeneration which was supposed to be best out of all vampires was cursed.
Dracula uttered one final spell.
"Blood Carnage."
His body erupted into crystallized blood armor. Jagged, divine crimson shards encased his form, and his wings regrew as massive, blade-like extensions. A crown of blood flame sat atop his head. This was Dracula Vlad in his truest form: the Apex Vampire.
He reengaged.
Swords of blood formed mid-air and launched like missiles. Dracula moved between dimensions, phasing through reality in blinking afterimages.
His hands summoned spears that impaled the demon again and again.
Dracula used all of his knowledge and his spells but he couldn't land a single effective blow.
With the curse his aging was multiplied by millions of times. He was a immortal beings who had infinity lifespan as long as he drinks some blood from time to time.
Dracula is no new to curse. He faced many dark mages, many who cursed him. Even to this day he is carrying over thousands of curses.
But this once curse was more effective than those thousands of curses.
This demon was a ancient being who was far older than dracula himself.
Dracula knew it. He knew it from a memory older than civilization.
A Dark Mage — ancient beyond age. The kind who devoured planetary spirits and sealed them like toys. This one had no name. Only black runes etched into his bones.
That demon had no heart, no soul.
Only spells.
Only entropy.
Just them something happened.
Seeing the condition of Dracula and planet.
The planetary spirit of Vladara, which had long slumbered beneath its crimson crust, finally awakened. It wasn't just a spirit—it was the very soul of the planet, forged from ancient bloodlines and bound by cosmic oaths older than time itself. A thunderous tremor rocked the land as its presence surged forth like a divine wave, shaking the heavens and flattening everything in its path.
The mountains cracked. The rivers reversed. The very air became thick with a primal force—a crushing pressure so vast it could have erased the armies of Earth's monsters in a heartbeat.
But then… the dark mage raised his hand.
His motion was slow, unbothered—almost theatrical. As his fingers lifted, countless writhing dark letters spiraled from his palm like cursed fireflies, coiling through the air with malicious glee. They weren't just spells—they were written blasphemies from a forbidden tongue, words that reality itself flinched to hear.
And then, with a single snap of his fingers, those letters fused together into a vortex of black sorcery.
In an instant, the overwhelming pressure from the awakened spirit was neutralized—as if it had never existed. The sky cleared. The wind silenced. Time seemed to pause in horror.
Not only that… but the mage's spells began twisting, reforming into dark chains of glyphs. They spiraled downward like sentient snakes, coiling around the heart of the planet itself. Screams echoed—not from mouths, but from the land, the clouds, the soul of Vladara.
Then—snap—he bound the planetary spirit into a single object:
A smooth, obsidian marble, no larger than a child's eye.
It pulsed once—then dimmed, silent.
It had happened in one hour.
In sixty minutes, Dracula's world was undone.
All vampires… defected. Their instincts screamed at them to flee. Their pride was shattered, their resistance meaningless.
Dracula was not able to resist a curse from this mage… when he had resisted the curses of hundreds of other mages in past millennia.
Was Dracula weak… or was the demon mage simply a god in disguise?
The formation of the last bastion collapsed. Crimson barriers shattered like stained glass. The vampire generals fell one by one, vaporized, dismembered, or simply unwritten from existence.
And then—his queen arrived.
Her long red cape trailed smoke behind her as she soared toward the battlefield, fury in her fangs, eyes blazing with lunar wrath. She screamed Dracula's name and raised her twin scythes—
But before she could even land, the demon mage casually chanted a single word.
A spiral of abyssal fire bloomed mid-air, and she was instantly vaporized, turned into nothing but a fading ember.
It shows how strong his curses are…
Dracula's entire world… destroyed in one hour.
He was also dying.
His left wing had been torn off, his fangs shattered. Ancient veins pumped thick black blood onto the cracked soil. But Dracula did not kneel. He stood with what remained of his pride, watching the skies darken, his cape tattered like a war flag in defeat.
He knew he had no chance even before their fight.
But he had accepted it.
All he wanted… was to protect his daughter.
If he couldn't save his planet, then at least… he would save his blood.
That's why, even before the battle began, he had secretly summoned the two highest-ranked arcane blood mages in his kingdom. He had whispered his orders in the language of kings.
Hide Riona.
No matter what happened.
Far in the distance, hidden beneath ten thousand layers of cloaking spells, Dracula could feel her emotions—linked to him by the blood oath that bound them. Her tears were his tears.
Sadness. Grief. Loss.
But what could he do?
Before the first strike had fallen, he had already trapped her in a blood oath. It wasn't a binding to keep her obedient. It was a royal curse of survival. His powers as Dracula, as King of the Crimson Sun, had been poured into it—enough force to tear open a path through space and push her away from this doomed reality.
She didn't run. She was forced to survive.
And soon enough… Dracula died to the curses.
His body collapsed in a storm of ashes and bloodflames, burned away by forbidden incantations that screamed through the soul.
The demon mage laughed.
A slow, rolling, thunderous laugh.
He stood over the last trace of Dracula's ashes and raised the black marble into the air. It pulsed once, then dimmed.
"Another soul… for the vault."
And with that, he opened a pocket of distorted space and hurled the marble inside—into a mountain of similar black marbles, each holding the spirit of a conquered world.