True to his words and peculiar form of hospitality, the old man whisked up a beverage for Burn.

Rejecting the hot chocolate—partly out of suspicion and partly because he wasn't keen on being coddled like a toddler—Burn found himself staring down a cup of tea instead.

But this wasn't just any tea; it was an overly sweet concoction, milky to the point of being infantile. Clearly, the old man hadn't received the memo that Burn was no longer in short trousers.

As Burn took a reluctant sip, his face contorted in a grimace worthy of a Shakespearean tragedy, all thanks to the saccharine overload.

Observing this, the old man clucked sympathetically, "Why? Did I forget to add sugar again? Poor boy, it’s bitter, right? I’m so sorry."

His tone was dripping with such earnestness that it bordered on comedic.

Burn, already on edge from being treated like a misbehaving child relegated to the kids' table at Thanksgiving, found his irritation bubbling like a poorly brewed potion.

The sincerity in the old man's voice only served to grate further, as if he genuinely believed he'd brewed a batch of unsweetened sorrow instead of a dental nightmare.

"Now, dear child, please share your concerns with Father. It was quite tumultuous outside for a time, wasn't it? Did you seek shelter and assistance here? Tell me what troubles you, and I will do all I can to help."

If Burn hadn’t been aware of how dangerous the old man in front of him was, he might have actually gagged. The overly sweet tea had nearly made him gag as well, but this was even more nauseating.

"What is this place?" Burn asked, maintaining his cold and vigilant demeanor.

The old man hummed thoughtfully. "This... is a church. A place where you worship God?" he replied, tilting his fully covered head to the side as if truly puzzled by Burn's question.

"I saw you draining a creature's blood in one of your chambers. You still claim this is a holy place?" Burn asked sharply, his tone low and accusing.

"I understand... you've witnessed our less favorable side. It's unfortunate, as we are not in a position to defend ourselves under these circumstances."

"But child," the man said as he slowly lifted the mesh fabric covering the upper half of his face, revealing a pair of glowing red eyes—"Could you perhaps be more understanding about our only means of sustenance?"

As Emperor Burn felt a chill slither down his spine, his golden eyes widened at the sight of the two glowing red orbs surrounded by an abyss of darkness.

Being on the receiving end of that crimson gaze was an experience unto itself. It was suffocating, like wearing a turtleneck knit by an overly affectionate grandmother, or in this case, a grandfather—tight, itchy, and unrelenting.

The air seemed to thicken, each breath a laborious effort, as if he were trying to inhale through a straw at a high-altitude training camp.

The cold that accompanied those eyes was not the refreshing chill of a brisk fall evening but more akin to the unexpected shock of sitting on a frozen toilet seat in the dead of winter—a jolt that sends unwelcome shivers across your entire body.

Yuck.

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Moreover, the sheer heaviness of that stare pressed down on him felt a lead blanket. So oppressive.

Burn's senses were overwhelmed, each one dialed up to eleven as if his body was trying to perceive danger through every possible channel.

“Alright, please stop that or I’ll vomit right on your expensive rug,” Burn said with narrowed eyes.

A flicker of surprise passed through the old man's exposed red eyes, quickly followed by a glint of curiosity.

Though subtle, these changes were discernible—a brief interruption in his otherwise composed demeanor, like a ripple on a still pond, revealing a depth of emotion momentarily before returning to calm.

Silence.

“Are you sick? Nauseous? Here… drink your warm milk tea, dear,” the old man pushed the tea closer to him.

“I’m not a kid,” Burn growled.

Maybe this old man was actually just senile.

“But aren’t you baby Burn, the young Soulnaught king’s son? You were just born… a couple of months ago, right?” yep, the old man was actually senile.

“I’m not going to continue playing your game. Don’t randomly try to surprise me that you know who I am, old vampire,” Burn countered after controlling his popping angry veins.

The pair of red eyes were smiling.

“But I do know who you are,” the old man chuckled softly. “I’m sorry for teasing you. This old man can’t help it.”

After a brief cozy silence, the man sat reclined on the chair and sighed. “You might not remember me, but I met you when you’re still so small. My name is Gran Gran Vlad.”

“That’s not your name.”

“Oh… right. It’s how the children call me.”

“I’m sure no children would call you that.”

“Huh? What do they call me, then?”

"Stop stalling. Just tell me what this place really is. Have I come to the wrong church?" Burn asked, his frustration mounting.

“Oh, you’re searching for something? Is it your Gran Gran Vlad?”

Burn’s face twisted in anger as he grasped the armrest of his chair. “I’m going to start speaking casually to you, old man.”

“Hohoho… you sound a lot like your mommy…” Vlad smiled.

Burn’s tongue tied. His mouth shut.

“How’s my sweet Viviane? Is she healthy?” The old man’s voice was deep and warm.

A heavy silence fell over them, thick and dark, stretching endlessly before Burn finally broke it.

"She passed away."

***

It was like a roller coaster ride.

Surely it wasn't Burn's favorite pastime, but here he was, strapped in and climbing the next big incline.

Burn speculated from the man’s abilities that he was a vampire. The hypnotizing red eyes, the attire, the blood draining and how old he actually sounded.

Not just any vampire, but the kind who wielded his supernatural abilities with the finesse of a seasoned maestro.

Instead of unleashing hellish fury on the torch-bearing mob, he opted for a gentler mischief—mind control at its mildest, as if swatting flies with a silk handkerchief instead of a sledgehammer.

He was an odd one, this Vlad—quirky yet not malevolent. His tactics in dispersing the mob were more about cheeky interference than any dark, annihilative force.

It was the supernatural equivalent of a grandpa pulling coins from behind ears, albeit the coins were people’s wills and the ears were their minds.

Like prank-loving-old-man-vampire-grandpa.

And—he even knew Burn's mother's other name, Viviane. Only her closest was privy to that alias, which painted Vlad not just as a mischievous old bloodsucker, but as someone significantly closer to the family than Burn might have guessed.

Vlad had dubbed himself 'Father,' too, a fitting title in this bizarre sanctuary that masqueraded as a church. It seemed this congregation of fully-covered vampires might actually believe in something divine, despite the obvious irony of their situation.

A vampire church was about as conventional as a shark vegetarian support group.

Burn’s curiosity spiked—why would a band of vampires need a church? (Everyone was wearing full body coverage garments, remember?)

Seeing the situation, they might know about Morgan Le Fay too, right?

“Huh? Morgan Le Fay?” Old Man Vlad asked, “Whose child is she? Do I know her parents?”

He is senile.