- [Dorime, the Hero] -
The grand holy cathedral of Schwarzmond city emanates an aura of serene majesty, its towering spires piercing the pale morning sky. A gentle breeze carries the faint scent of incense, mingling with the crispness of dew-kissed stone. Sunlight filters through stained glass windows, painting the worn pews with a kaleidoscope of hues — sapphire, emerald, and ruby. The air hums with a quiet reverence, as if the very walls whisper lingering confessions of ages past as the echoes of a chanting choir down in a distant hall reverberate throughout the space.
Dorime stands at the center of this sacred ground, her cloak billowing slightly in the draft. She attempts to appear as a stoic warrior, but her fingers fidget with the already worn pages of ‘Swordserer’ tucked under her arm. Her heart pounds like a drum, each beat a reminder of her uncertain footing in this new world. She glances around, mimicking the aloof, strong, but unbothered gaze she thinks a hero ought to have.
— Cool, collected — interested, but not afraid. At least she hopes it seems that way. She feels like she might look like a fish instead at the moment.
“Your presence is most welcome, summoned one,” intones a priest standing next to her with a voice as smooth as the polished marble floor. He gestures towards the altar, where golden relics gleam in the morning light. “It’s quite the honor for me to meet a real hero,” he says, pleased. “Not every generation is allowed one. Heaven has shown us a great mercy.”
Dorime nods, trying to channel the confidence of the novel’s protagonist. “Yes, I — uh — am here to… fulfill my destiny,” she manages to bullshit out, her voice wavering slightly before she catches herself. She straightens, tightening her grip on the book, pretending it’s a tome of legendary secrets instead of a fantasy novel from home.
The priest smiles, looking at her. “I wish I had your certainty about such matters,” he says, laughing. “But I suppose that is why you are a hero and I am simply a man of the cloth,” says the young man. “Are you ready? Soon, the people will be here,” he asks, and she nods.
They want to present her to the world. To people. People with eyes.
Oh God.
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It is not that much later.
The cathedral is alive with the murmurs of the congregation — citizens of Schwarzmond City, gathered to witness the hero's first steps. Their whispers echo against the vaulted ceiling. Dorime feels their eyes upon her. She clears her throat, feigning a regal demeanor she's yet to fully own.
She’s pretty sure she can’t sweat. Because her heart is actually thundering inside of her chest, and if this was her old body, her knees would have collapsed in on themselves by now and she would have vomited, and, also, she’d be pouring sweat like water from a broken fountain. But none of that is happening to her, despite it feeling like it should.
— One of the perks of being ‘the hero’, whatever that means. This new body of hers is different than her old one. While her mind-imprinted ticks and nervosities remain in her head, her body is as cool as a cucumber.
Trying to distract herself, she looks around at the crowd as the high bishop gives a speech on the pulpit to the side that she is completely zoning out from hearing. This is some kind of fantasy world, from what she can tell. She’s seen some elves and a fairy already. That’s pretty awesome!
She’d think that this really is her big chance to live a new life.
But in truth, Dorime is here because of a summons she barely comprehends, tasked with vanquishing a fearsome ‘Vampire Lord’ whose very title sends shivers through the city that is starting to become apprehensive about the creature’s growing dark power. She knows she must appear brave, though bravery feels like a distant dream, honestly. The bravest thing she ever did in her life was try to get that guy’s number at the bookstore, and even that was a total flop. So this world, with its strange rules and expectations, is as foreign to her as the moonlit landscapes of her favorite stories. She feels like a goldfish someone threw into a hamster cage, and she was trying to pretend to be one of them now.
There’s no way this is going to work. But she’s in too deep now to escape.
…Maybe when they send her to the Vampire Lord’s castle, she’ll just… book it? She’ll lose the fancy armor and hightail it to somewhere far away where nobody knows who she is.
“I love you!” shouts a voice from the eager crowd as the bishop finishes his speech, gesturing to her. It’s just someone she’s never seen before in her life. Dorime waves, doing the best to fight down the awkwardness that fills her bones like a slippery, goopy, gooey jelly.
An adventuring knight in gleaming armor shifts his stance, the metal joints of his gauntlets clinking softly as he stands by the crowd and calls out. “Let us see what the hero is capable of!” he challenges, his voice a rumble that fills the nave. His eyes are sharp, scrutinizing every detail of Dorime’s stance. The crowd cheers, very clearly liking that idea.
Dorime turns her head, looking at a nearby priest, who nods to her in some kind of approval.
The hell? What is she supposed to do, exactly? She doesn’t know shit about fuck. She has magic, right? Being the hero has to have some kind of perk.
God, she wishes she had five minutes to herself to just figure this all out in quiet, but life doesn’t seem to stop in this world. There’s nowhere for her to retreat to because she’s under so much observation.
Dorime swallows, her mind racing as a few hundred people watch her, the hundreds more behind them growing eager as well. She has no idea what to do.
…But she doesn’t need to. Someone else does.
The protagonist in ‘Swordserer’ would handle such a challenge with ease. He’s straight forward and simple, brash and brutish, but with a strong, good heart that helps people — even if he doesn’t think that much before doing things. But somehow it all conveniently works out in the end, so much so that a leading fan theory of the novels is that there is a secret power in the background guiding it all from the shadows.
She takes a deep breath and unsheathes her sword with what she hopes looks like practiced grace. The blade catches the light, a gleaming arc that draws gasps from the assembly. Her hands tremble slightly.
Don’t think. Don’t think. Don’t think.
Without warning, she turns around away from the crowd and swings the sword — a motion meant to display prowess but executed with too much fervor.
She had no idea what else to do, honestly.
The blade strikes the air with a resounding crack like the strike of thunder, the vibration sending a rain of dust and debris cascading to the floor from above.
A visible, sharp wave of power blasts out, people flying off of their feet behind her from a backblast of sorts as a single percevable slash travels off of her sword like a wave of razor-edged air cuts through the three-man-thick exterior stone wall of the cathedral she swung her sword towards — acting as an extension of her blade. People cry out in surprise, ducking and covering their heads and ears.
Everything goes quiet as the last rocks fall.
Sunlight streaks in through the glassy, molten streak in the cathedral wall.
Shit.
Nervously, looking at the very likely priceless wonder that is the ancient, ornate cathedral wall she just utterly destroyed, Dorime freezes. The congregation gasps, a collective intake of breath that echoes in the sudden silence. Dorime’s heart plummets as she stares at the gaping hole her sword has carved into the cathedral’s sanctified stone.
Oh God. She fucked up.
But then the crowd explodes into a wave of cheers and cries, the reverence traveling back through the onlookers out into the streets where people don’t even have any idea what they’re being happy about.
The knight’s expression shifts from skepticism to something bordering on awe. “By the gods, she’s got strength,” he mutters, eyes wide as he regards the unintended destruction.
Dorime bites her lip, her cheeks flushing with a mix of embarrassment and unexpected pride. She hadn’t meant to wield such force, but perhaps it’s a sign — an indication of the power she holds, even if it’s still unfamiliar to her. She offers a sheepish smile, hoping it reads as confident.
She strikes a pose, sheathing the sword in a clean, expert movement, her eyes stoic and motionless. “You need to be strong to protect people,” explains the hero in a firm, resolute voice that shows not a single hint of her emotions, the daylight streaking in through the gash in the building, painting her face with strong shadows that accentuate her perfect jawline.
A murmur of approval ripples through the gathered crowd, tinged with admiration and a hint of adoration.
Nailed it.
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It is later that day, after her big introductory event.
Sunlight slants through stained glass, casting pools of color on the cold stone floor. The incense is thick, with a heady aroma that clings to the senses and creates an almost tangible haze. Silence reigns, broken only by the soft rustle of robes as the bishop approaches. Her eyes remain thoughtful beneath furrowed brows.
— She’s just pretending to look deep and complex. In reality, her mind is filled with nothing but an internal scream that never stops.
“You know,” he begins, adjusting the heavy tome in his hands, “— every great hero has companions. A party of adventurers to aid them in their quest against the darkness.”
Oh God.
He wants her to have a hero party, just like in her stories. She’s going to get glued together with a ragtag band of misfits who aren’t good enough for the job but are destined to complete it together with her as they all learn a valuable lesson about the power of believing in yourself and your ability to succeed, rather than bloodlines, destinies, and prophecies.
She’ll never be alone again.
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The figure shifts, feigning nonchalance. Under her cloak, a heart races — a frantic drumbeat beneath a facade of calm. “I don’t need anyone,” comes her reply, voice steady. “I’m more than capable of handling this Vampire Lord alone.”
The bishop raises an eyebrow. “Even the strongest benefit from allies, Hero. This Vampire Lord is no ordinary foe. His power is -”
She slowly lifts a hand. “I’ve got this,” interrupts the figure, cutting through the bishop's words with a confidence that rings hollow even to their own ears. Her strong, golden-azure eyes look up toward him. “I would never bring anyone else into harm’s way to complete my mission,” she declares. “It’s my job to protect others, not take them to danger.”
It’s total bullshit, but it sounds good.
A pause. The bishop studies the figure. “There are many who would be honored to face this threat with you,” he concedes, a gentle smile playing at his lips. “Throughout history, the companionship of many great heroes has been what turned the tide,” he explains. “It is why we have the tradition of the hero party.” He holds his hands out toward her pleadingly. “At least consider taking a priestess with you to heal your wounds. Every great hero has had a dedicated -”
She lifts a hand, stopping him. Dorime turns away slightly, pretending to study the intricate carvings on a nearby pillar — angelic forms frozen in eternal devotion. It’s easier to focus on these details than the anxiety brewing within. Being around others means conversation, expectations, and exposure. Alone, the new world is barely manageable, but she’s making it work.
“I’ll defeat the Vampire Lord on my own,” the figure insists, though the words feel thin in the vastness of the cathedral. It’s not just a statement; it’s a shield against the world’s gaze.
She’s so going to die. But it’s preferable to having to… to… adventure with people. Other people. People who aren’t her. And also, maybe she’ll still just book it out of town; that’s still an option on the table. But not if there is some sparkle-eyed adoring fangirl chasing after her.
Another figure, a scribe with ink-stained fingers, nods slightly from their place by the altar. “The hero seems determined,” they murmur, more to themselves than anyone else. They scribble notes, capturing the moment in meticulous script as they record the events of tonight for historical archives.
The bishop sighs, a sound of resignation and understanding. “Very well. Your will is one and the same as Heaven’s own,” he says, though the concern in his eyes remains. “But remember, strength is not diminished by sharing a burden.”
Dorime nods, though the words linger, echoing in the cathedral’s hallowed air. They know the truth of it deep down, but the thought of letting others in is more daunting than facing any Vampire Lord.
This is probably fine. What’s the worst that could happen? He’s a vampire. If she goes, she’ll just go when it’s daytime. The hell is he gonna do? Throw bats at her? She’ll just wear a thick scarf around her neck.
She has this handled.
A new possible plan forms in her mind. She’s going to march in there, stake his ratty ass, and then retire forever like a queen in her own regal palace. She’ll have a giant library built in her honor inside of it. She’ll even have servants, but none of them will ever be allowed to see her, having strict orders to only be inside the premises while she is asleep.
It’ll be perfect. She’s going to retire early, and that’ll be life. She’ll never have to see anyone except her books ever again.
What a dream.
The air shifts, carrying the subtle chill of the coming dusk. Outside, the clouds hang heavy with the promise of rain, a sky painted in muted grays. Dorime takes a breath, pulling the cloak tighter — armor against the chill and the conversation that feels too close to home.
Being alone is safer.
It’s more predictable. There are no surprises.
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- [Vampire Lord Inkume] -
“What an unpredictable surprise!” snarls Snatch eagerly, listening to the news with excitement.
An oppressive darkness clings to the air in the throne room — a cavernous expanse shrouded in shadows cast by flickering torchlight. The air is thin and suffused with the faint metallic tang of old stone and an underlying musk. Heavy drapes hang from the vaulted ceiling, their crimson folds absorbing the scant light and deepening the gloom. A chill seeps through the walls, kissing the skin with a cold that feels almost alive.
The Vampire Lord Inkume lounges on his ornate throne, a monument of carved obsidian and twisted metal. His gaze is fixed on the witch before him, eyes like pools of liquid blood. Silence stretches between them, disrupted only by the soft rustle of Hwa-Young’s robes as she shifts, a book clutched in her hands — a tome of arcane lore, its pages yellowed with age.
“You’re telling me this is coming now?” Inkume’s voice is a low rumble, cutting through the stillness. His patience sounds thin, like a thread stretched taut by Hwa-Young’s erratic memory.
She blinks, her expression one of mild surprise, as if the Vampire Lord’s displeasure is an unexpected guest. “What’s coming?” she asks, blinking and lost for a moment as she forgets what she just said.
“Blood moon,” recites Snatch.
“Ah! The blood moon,” repeats Hwa-Young through her translating skull, as if recalling an old acquaintance. “It’s coming, you know. Soon. A perfect time for your ritual, Master,” explains the witch again.
Inkume’s fingers drum against the arm of his throne, a steady, deliberate beat. “And you just forgot to mention this?”
Hwa-Young shrugs, the gesture nonchalant. Her eyes wander to the cobwebbed corners of the room, perhaps searching for the misplaced thought.
The Vampire Lord’s gaze sharpens, cutting through the witch’s half-hearted excuses. “This isn’t a trivial matter, Hwa-Young.”
Her attention snaps back, and she offers a lopsided smile, as if the gravity of the situation is a distant concern. “Fear not. You’ll have plenty of time to prepare.”
“No. You don’t understand,” says Inkume firmly. Snatch climbs up next to him, her face next to his, as she parrots his words at the same time, seeing them coming. “We’re not doing that,” say both of them at the same time. He side-eyes Snatch, who wheezes a cackle to herself and slinks down against him. “I have no intention of ever performing that ritual, Hwa-Young.” Inkume shakes his head. “This is terrible news!”
A skeleton butler moves quietly along the stone floor, their presence barely more than a shadow among shadows. They refill the blood goblet at Inkume’s side, careful not to disturb the charged atmosphere. Inkume takes the goblet, its contents a dark, swirling liquid, and contemplates the witch with a gaze that could wither lesser beings.
“…The Night that Never Ends,” he muses, a whisper of nervousness curling through his words.
Fate is conspiring against him again.
He’s been determined to make sure this ritual never happens because it would be a total buzzkill, ending the world, and all that. He quite likes this world. It’s a place he’s found himself to belong to. But if a blood moon is coming, that means there are machinations at play that will attempt to force his hands, as life has often done to him in the past.
It’s going to make him be the evil Vampire Lord, but not like he wants to be the evil Vampire Lord. It's different.
“Sorry. I’m not mad at you,” says Inkume to the witch, looking up after a moment as he recollects himself. “I just wish I had heard of this sooner. I was rattled,” he notes. “Thank you for letting me know now. But you’re really sure, though?”
Hwa-Young nods, though her mind is a flurry of half-remembered details — stars and omens and the subtle dance of celestial bodies. “Yes, yes. The stars will align soon, and the moon will turn red, Master. It is promised.”
Well, dang.
The torchlight flickers, casting grotesque shadows that dance across the walls. Inkume’s gaze remains fixed on the witch. The room seems to breathe, an entity unto itself, holding its secrets close as the Vampire Lord plots his next move.
He takes a long swig of his chalice of blood and empties it in one go.
He needs to be stronger if he’s going to stop destiny itself from yanking his chain. Much stronger. He has people to protect and a home to safekeep.
[Experience Points Gained] You have drank a good amount of blood of a noble, spellsword knight! It’s magical properties are powerful and rare, and there is a subtle aftertaste of lavender.
*★✧+- [LEVEL UP!] -+✧★* You are now level 411!
NEW ABILITY [The Perfect Flake] Passive Ability In order to magnify your very own special importance, whenever snow falls around you, each and every snowflake will have the same ugly, lopsided shape, rather than being full of uniquely symmetrical individual shapes who would stand in contrast to your perfection.
“...Why am I here again?” mutters Hwa-Young, confused.
The butler fills up Inkume’s chalice again. He smiles at her, their business being done. There is no need to trouble her anymore than he already has. “You’ve come to spend some time with us to just hang out and have fun,” replies Inkume, wanting to get her mind off business.
The witch’s face lights up. “Oh! How delightful!” she says eagerly, clasping her hands together, the butler scooting a chair and small table with a cup of tea toward her. He’s not sure of the logistics of it. He assumes the butler just has a little bit of everything ready on the side and constantly makes new kettles on the off-chance it will be needed.
It does seem rather wasteful.
“Master,” starts Snatch quietly. “What should we do about it?” she asks, as Hwa-Young sits down on a chair, scooted her way, and hums, taking a tender sip of her tea. “— The blood moon.”
“…I don’t know yet, Snatch,” admits Inkume honestly, looking at the ghost on his lap. “But I’m counting on your help,” explains the Vampire Lord, looking down at her. “I won’t be able to do this alone without you,” he brazenly admits without shame, his hand on her back as he looks down at her.
Snatch almost glows, clenching her goopy fists together. “I’ll always do my best for you, Master,” promises the spirit.
He plants a finger on her nose. “For us,” corrects Inkume, smiling.
She beams. “For us… but mostly just for you,” she tacks on, his hand petting her hair as she wheezes and kicks her goopy legs out in delight.
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- [Dorime, The Hero] -
Thank Heaven. She’s finally alone with nobody who wants to help her. God, she just is not good with people. She’s really better off alone. Forever. Always.
Dorime slips into her private, grand chamber, the door closing with a soft click that cuts off the distant murmur of voices.
Her back presses against the heavy door, and she deeply exhales, her head drooping.
The light is low, filtered through a narrow window that casts a pale glow across the room’s sparse furnishings. Her breathing slows, each inhale and exhale measured to steady the racing of her heart.
She lied to the others and said something about meditation and prayer as a reason to get away from the big event out there, a convenient excuse to escape the press of too many people, too many expectations.
This shit is hard. She just got here, and she’s already ready to leave. She’s interacted with more people today than in half of her old life, she’s sure.
In the quiet, Dorime reaches for her copy of ‘Swordserer,’ the familiar weight of the book grounding her in this strange world. She opens it. God, she loves Swordserer. Volumes one and two were really great, so she’s excited to get a chance to really read number three.
The air is cool against her skin, the silence a welcome blanket. She traces the words with her fingertips, finding solace in their rhythm. Each line is a thread pulling her away from the chaos just beyond the door.
Dorime leans back and slides down the door onto the floor, letting the world of the novel envelop her, its imagined dangers a comfort compared to the very real ones she faces — social expectations.
Soon, she’ll — probably — leave to face the Vampire Lord and this will all be over.
Until then, she has this book, at least. It’s a good thing, now that she thinks about it, that she died with this book in her hands and not Enfangled. That was a real close call.
What a shitshow that would have been.