Alistair picked up the [Crown of the Last Regent], turning it slowly in his hands.

  Silver. Slightly tarnished. Elegant without being gaudy. Ash flickered from the crown’s curved spikes, vanishing before it ever touched him.

  He tilted his head.

  "It’s always the quiet ones,” he muttered, then placed it atop his head.

  A faint hum crawled across his scalp, like cool magic threading into place. The crown adjusted as if it had been made for him. Weightless. Secure. Regal without screaming overcompensation.

  He caught a glimpse of himself in the dusty mirror near the wardrobe.

  Black hair. Pale skin. Dark eyes catching the ember symbols orbiting faintly like a cracked halo.

  He looked... devastating.

  Well, mostly.

  His armor, a mishmash of styles and scars, wasn’t exactly doing him any favors. His tabard was half-singed, his boots had seen better centuries, and his belt had been gnawed on by something at some point. Probably Kael's fault.

  “I need an outfit that screams ‘unstoppable vampire overlord,’ not ‘oops, fell into a cursed thrift store,’” he muttered.

  Still, the crown sat perfectly. Not too large, not too tight.

  He frowned.

  This thing was powerful, sure. But was it practical in a real fight?

  No time like the present.

  He started shaking his head like a lunatic.

  Nothing.

  He did a quick spin.

  Still nothing.

  Then, just to be sure, he bent all the way over, head between his knees, gravity tugging at everything...

  Except the crown.

  It stayed perfectly in place, like it had stapled itself to reality.

  “Oh. Well, that’s horrifyingly convenient,” he said. “Sticky crown of doom. Add it to the list.”

  He stood up straight again, took one last glance in the mirror, and smirked.

  “Yeah. I’d kneel to me.”

  Then, with a flick of his cloak, half torn but still trying, he turned back to the rest of the bedroom. The Maw still loomed in the distance. The palace creaked beneath him. And his trait was still whispering that more treasure waited.

  He had to move.

  The palace groaned again, a deep, angry sound that echoed through the cracked bones of the ruined city. The Maw was getting closer. And Buddy, currently too massive and hellish to fit through the delicate archway, waited outside the bedroom, huffing like a furnace and pawing at the ground.

  Alistair gave him a quick wave. “I know, I know, don’t combust the door. One second.”

  The room was elegant, sure. But light on actual loot. Still, Alistair wasn’t about to leave empty-handed.

  He stalked over to the wardrobe, yanked it open, and gave the contents a quick once-over. A deep blue coat with silver lining? Yes. A sleek high-collared tunic with reinforced stitching? Absolutely. A pair of dark breeches that didn't look like they'd disintegrate when he blinked too hard? In the pouch they went.

  “What? A vampire lord needs options,” he muttered.

  He grabbed a pair of gold candlesticks from the sideboard, ornate, slightly bent, but gold was gold, and stripped a faded tapestry from the wall. Dragons. Or worms. Hard to tell. Either way, it would make a great dramatic curtain or impromptu cape.

  Two painted portraits hung above the bed. He took those too. One featured a woman with strange eyes, the other a man with a cruel smirk. Probably important. Or cursed. Either way, art was expensive.

  He rifled through the nightstand drawers next. Quills. Broken crystal vials. A half-eaten strip of preserved meat that turned to dust when he touched it.

  Charming.

  He sighed, then made his way to the desk.

  At first, he smiled. A treasure trove of scrolls and notebooks. Ancient knowledge, surely.

  Then the smile soured.

  Half the parchments were useless. Equations that spiraled into gibberish. Diagrams of strange machines drawn in frantic, sleepless hand. Scribbles crossing out entire pages, layer upon layer of ink. Anger, frustration, maybe even madness bled from the parchment itself. One parchment had nothing but the word “Failure” scrawled fifty times, each line more erratic than the last.

  He sighed. “Wonderful. The crowned prince was a nerd having a meltdown.”

  Alistair flipped through them anyway, hoping for something salvageable.

  “Come on, give me something I can use. Secret spell. Soulbound weapon. Cheesecake recipe.”

  He turned another page and the system binged.

  [Blueprint Acquired: Ossuary Forge – 81% Complete]

  Rarity: Epic Structure

  Type: Golem Production Facility

  Function: Constructs 1–3 experimental golems per week.

  Golems gain unique traits depending on the fusion materials used.

  Maintenance Cost: Continuous feed of ore, magical reagents, and organic matter

  Risk Factor: 10% chance any newly-forged golem emerges unstable, hostile to all unless forcibly subdued.

  Lore: “He sought perfection. He achieved monstrosity. The Forge still hums with his ambition, birthing guardians too strange to obey anyone but the strongest will.”

  Alistair stared at the scroll.

  “Okay. That’s terrifying.”

  He rolled it up with exaggerated care and slid it into his dimensional pouch.

  “This place gets better and worse by the second.”

  The first drawer groaned open. More parchment. More indecipherable tools, sharp, coiled, or so precise he wasn’t sure if they were for surgery or spellcraft. None pinged as magical. Disappointment simmered until the last drawer gave him something worthwhile.

  Jewelry.

  A collection of rings, chains, and brooches in gold, tarnished silver, and stranger metals he couldn’t name. Some gleamed with gems, others bore symbols long lost to time.

  He dumped everything into his pouch without hesitation.

  Nestled among the ornaments, however, lay two heavier shapes. He pulled them free, keys.

  This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there.

  The first was unmistakable: ornate, regal, etched with the rays of a crown.

  [Item Acquired: The Crownkey]

  Epic Relic – Royal Access

  Effect: Unlocks sealed or warded doors, bypassing mundane locks and most magical barriers.

  Charges: 3 / 3

  Restriction: Cannot bypass divine seals or god-tier wards.

  Lore: “It does not twist tumblers or force hinges. It whispers to wards, reminding them they were never meant to exist.”

  The second hummed faintly with a subtle, contained weight.

  [Item Acquired: Key of Concordance II]

  A key bound to ancient storage enchantments. Required to open a sealed container. One of three needed.

  “That’s more like it,” he muttered, slamming the drawer shut.

  He turned, Buddy already at the door, hackles raised.

  “Yeah, yeah, I know he’s here,” Alistair said, voice low as he moved. “Any moment now…”

  They descended through the ruin, boots scraping over cracked tiles, down stairs that moaned beneath their weight. The air was thick with pressure, as if the whole palace was caught in a breathless pause before a scream.

  They reached the ground floor. The inner courtyard yawned before them, open to the sky, open to the Maw. Wind howled. Dust skittered. The very walls seemed to tremble.

  Then...

  Clap.

  Slow. Deliberate. The sound bounced around the ruined stone.

  Clap.

  Buddy froze, tail stiff, growl building deep in his chest.

  Clap.

  A voice followed. Drawled and theatrical, laced with venom and glee.

  “I thought you couldn’t get more obnoxious,” the voice drawled, slithering in like oil across stone. “Clearly, I was wrong.”

  Alistair exhaled sharply through his nose. “You sure took your time…”

  Vardis stepped into view.

  No longer half-naked and strung together with armor scraps, the vampire now wore a mismatched ensemble of high-tier loot, clearly scavenged from the Arena’s ruins. A polished chestplate too large for his torso. Gold-threaded gloves stained at the fingers. A gleaming mantle, cut from royal cloth, fastened around his neck with a brooch depicting a cracked fang. Every piece powerful. Every piece clashing like a masquerade worn in madness.

  But it was his face that chilled the air.

  Same glassy eyes.

  Same too-long fangs.

  Same hunger curling his lips.

  Except now, there was intent behind it.

  Not just madness. Ambition.

  Alistair’s spine stiffened. Beside him, Buddy growled low.

  A crown of twisted bone jutted from his scalp, not worn, but grown. As if his madness had blossomed into antlers.

  [Champion Identified: Vardis, the Hollow-Bitten]

  Race: Turned Vampire

  Level: 33

  Class: Blood Revenant (Tier I)

  Traits: Aberrant Hunger, Tainted Evolution, Trophy Feast

  Status: Arena Protection – Inactive

  “Miss me?”

  Alistair didn’t answer. Not yet.

  “I see you’ve been busy,” Vardis purred, tilting his head. “Got yourself some nice new toys. A crown... I mean I shouldn’t be surprised...” His voice dropped to a whisper. “I’ve watched you. Shadowed you. Every step, every kill, every glorious misstep.”

  Alistair’s lips thinned. “Stalking me now? How flattering.”

  “Oh, it’s not stalking if I’m the better version of you.” Vardis took a languid step forward. “You were born into power. I had to earn mine. Claw for it. Bite for it. Feed for it.”

  “I don’t remember asking for your autobiography.”

  “You should. It’s a cautionary tale.” His voice cracked into something shriller. “I was nothing. A gutter spawn. A mistake. A turned thing. And yet... Look at me now.”

  He flared his arms wide, letting the light glint off his armor, his amulets, the wicked blade hanging at his hip. It looked forged from obsidian and hunger itself.

  “Every piece,” Vardis sneered. “Every rune, every drop of power, I earned it. While you were gallivanting with your little forest boyfriend and your decrepit gnome nanny, I was growing. Feeding. Bleeding.”

  Buddy growled louder. A flame licked out from his maw.

  He walked a slow circle, boots crunching on broken stone. The folds of his stolen mantle trailing behind like a noble’s parody.

  “I must admit, I’m impressed. Most Purebloods crack by now. But not you. Still playing prince with your mutts and pets.”

  His gaze flicked toward the stairwell.

  “Where are your little friends?” he said casually. “The elf with the sharp eyes. The half dead gnome. The thorny one. Oh! How I long to taste her...” His purr turned into a hiss.

  Alistair’s eyes went black.

  “I’m going to break that elf’s legs first,” Vardis whispered, stepping closer, his voice a serpent’s hiss curling through the air. “Both knees, shattered like glass. See how fast he runs then. I’ll pin him to the wall with his own arrows, one at a time, until he sobs like a child. And then… I’ll gut that precious quiver. Make him watch as I burn it.”

  He tilted his head, eyes gleaming.

  “The gnome... I’ll crack her like a nut, yes, but not before I carve out her tongue and see if her totems scream when she bleeds. I’ve always wanted to test if a shapeshifter screams the same in every form. Badger? Spider? Rat?” He shivered in pleasure. “Oh, the sounds she’ll make.”

  Then his gaze turned colder, hungrier.

  “And the dryad. That little weed. I’ll flay her bark inch by inch. Pry her thorns loose with silver tweezers and make her beg me to burn her. I’ll plant her in salt, watch her wither, then feed her ashes to the wind.”

  Alistair’s eyes darkened, the flicker of a snarl twitching in his cheek.

  Alistair didn’t move.

  Didn’t blink.

  Didn’t breathe.

  But the shadows near him thickened.

  Vardis inhaled slowly, like the scent of coming blood pleased him.

  “You see, I had to work for this. Every scrap. Every skill. While you... you were handed the keys to a kingdom you never earned. Born with power. Born with grace. And still you crawl, scraping by, trailing behind your filthy mortals like a dog in need of a leash.”

  Alistair’s voice came soft.

  Deadly.

  “Say one more word.”

  Vardis leaned forward, his breath reeking of old blood and rot.

  “You don’t scare me, crown-boy. Because I am you. Just better.”

  There was a silence that tasted like ash.

  Alistair tilted his head, eyes gleaming. “You’re not me. You’re the worst parts of what I refuse to be.”

  He took a single step forward.

  “And I’m going to erase you.”

  The courtyard trembled with silence.

  Then Alistair moved.

  One heartbeat he was still.

  The next, he blurred forward, redcrystal blade drawn in a reverse grip, shimmering with built-up fire energy from [Firebite]. Heat bled from the edges like embers licking steel. The ground cracked beneath his sprint.

  Vardis barely raised his longsword in time.

  Steel met crimson.

  A violent clang rang through the crumbling palace grounds, loud enough to scatter dust from the archways. Vardis’s arm buckled, but he didn’t fall.

  Instead, he grinned.

  “You are fast,” he hissed, sliding his blade aside to parry the follow-up.

  “But not fast enough.”

  His counter came low and wide, sweeping. A wide arc of his purple-tinged sword that forced Alistair back with a flash of instinct.

  The edge of Vardis’s weapon hummed. Not just enchanted. Corrupted. The purple energy left a trail in the air, a misty smear that made Alistair’s skin crawl.

  [Blood Revenant Ability: Soulrend Arc] Activated.

  A deep gash opened across the stone where the blade struck, despite no contact. That wasn’t normal magic. That was some abyssal-class bullshit.

  Alistair’s boots skidded back several feet before he caught himself.

  “Okay. That’s new,” he muttered, eyes narrowing.

  Vardis tilted his head.

  “You like it?” he crooned. “Looted it off some poor bastard who thought he could run. Bled like a pig before he died. Beautiful sound.”

  They clashed again.

  Steel-on-steel. Heat-on-hate.

  Alistair ducked low, using [Ethereal Phase] to blink through Vardis’s side and come out spinning, blade aimed for the bastard’s spine. The redcrystal sword howled as it cut air.

  But Vardis didn’t move like a corpse. He twisted at the last second, arm snapping back with inhuman flexibility to deflect the blow, his purple blade carving a streak across Alistair’s chestplate.

  -17 HP

  Pain bloomed, but Alistair rolled with it.

  [Bloodcall] flared to life, his tether anchoring to Vardis’s shadowed form, draining slivers of vitality. The healing kicked in immediately.

  “Trying to leech off me, Soulbinder?” Vardis sneered. “How quaint.”

  “I was hoping you’d scream,” Alistair replied. “Maybe next time I won’t warn you.”

  Vardis stepped in.

  Fast.

  Too fast for something that shouldn’t weigh less than a corpse.

  His strength wasn’t right, brutal, wild, and laced with something rotten. Alistair barely raised his blade to deflect the next strike, but the impact slammed into his bones like a boulder.

  -22 HP

  He staggered. Caught himself.

  “That’s… not normal vampire strength,” he muttered.

  “Blood Revenant,” Vardis said, his tone almost smug. “Unlike you, I earned my evolution.”

  Alistair bared his fangs.

  “Cool. I still smell rat piss every time you open your mouth.”

  Their blades met again, the red of Alistair’s fire-soaked edge clashing with the haunting violet of Vardis’s soul-tainted longsword. Sparks erupted. Steel screamed. Power pulsed.

  And behind both of them, the Maw loomed closer, eating the world with every second.

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