The walk back up the winding mountain pass was significantly quieter than the descent.

  Below them, the city of Londinium continued to wake, its vast network of industrial smokestacks belching yellow clouds into the morning sky. The eight human servants they had resurrected were safely tucked away in their miraculously restored mansions, entirely convinced that they had been saved from a natural disaster by the benevolent Count Mikhail.

  The first pawn had been moved and the infiltration had officially begun.

  Michael, however, wasn’t feeling particularly victorious. He was still fighting an invisible war against the rising sun. It was a terrifying reminder that for all his reality-breaking power, he was still bound by the rigid mechanics of the system.

  "The transition was seamless, Father," Morpheus said. "You planted the seeds of loyalty perfectly. Within the week, those servants will be singing the praises of House Sabwat to anyone who will listen."

  "Indeed," Dralis sniffed. "Though I still maintain that wiping their memories and enslaving them would have been far more efficient. Pandering to the emotional fragility of mortal insects is... beneath you, My Lord."

  "We are building a foundation, Dralis," Michael replied.

  If I enslave people, I become a literal comic book supervillain. I just want to survive without the local military dropping artillery on my roof! "

  A fortress built on fear requires constant maintenance while a fortress built on devotion defends itself."

  Morpheus nodded slowly, profound respect gleaming in his eyes. "Exquisite reasoning. I am too accustomed to the blunt instruments of our past wars. This new world requires a surgeon's touch."

  Dralis bowed his head, suitably chastised. "Forgive my lack of vision, Master."

  "Think nothing of it," Michael said magnanimously.

  They crested the final ridge of the mountain pass and before them stood the gates of Castle Nightfall, its dark spires casting shadows across the courtyard. Michael’s gaze, along with the gazes of his three commanders, however, turned to the left.

  Behind the colossal fortress, stretching out for miles, was a dense forest. The trees were massive, their canopies weaving together so tightly that they formed an impenetrable roof of pine.

  And from deep within that darkness came a sound.

  To a normal human, standing this far away, it would have been absolute silence. But to a Level 100 Vampire Lord and his elite guard, the noise was as clear as a bell ringing in a quiet room.

  It was the distinct ringing of steel striking something hard, followed immediately by a roar that shook the pine needles miles away.

  Lavius’s violet eyes widened, and a predatory grin split her face. "Conflict," the Succubus purred. "I smell fear… And blood."

  Michael held up a hand, instantly halting his retinue. His janitor’s instincts told him to go inside, lock the doors, and pretend he didn't hear anything. But Count Mikhail couldn't do that. A ruler of the night didn't hide from noises in the woods.

  "Dralis. Morpheus," Michael commanded. "Remain here. Secure the perimeter of the castle grounds and ensure our magical wards have fully integrated with this new topography."

  "As you command, Father," Morpheus said, bowing deeply. Dralis mirrored the gesture.

  Michael turned to his Spymaster. "Lavius. You are with me. We are going to assess our new neighbors."

  "Oh, joyous day," Lavius whispered, practically vibrating with excitement.

  Michael didn't waste another second and bent his knees slightly, pushing off the path.

  The world blurred into a smear and the dense canopy of the forest instantly swallowed them, plunging the environment into a shadowed twilight. The moment the direct sunlight was blocked by the trees, Michael felt the 50% stat debuff shatter.

  His mana pathways expanded and his muscles flooded with explosive strength. The weight on his chest vanished, replaced by the intoxicating power of a walking apocalypse.

  He and Lavius moved like phantoms, weaving through the massive trunks at highway speeds, their boots making absolutely zero sound against the forest floor. In less than a minute, they covered a distance that would have taken a human on foot an hour to navigate.

  Michael threw out an arm, catching Lavius by the shoulder and dragging her to a stop on the branch of a tree and they crouched in the shadows, perfectly concealed, looking down into a clearing.

  "Look," Michael breathed.

  Down below, a desperate battle was reaching its climax.

  Michael’s vision flickered and projected familiar blue text over the heads of the combatants.

  [Human] - Level 7

  [Human] - Level 7

  [Human] - Level 7

  Two of them were men, wielding broadswords and shields. They were currently being thrown backward, their boots digging trenches into the dirt as they desperately tried to hold the line. Behind them, a woman in robes was chanting, her hands glowing with a light as she channeled healing magic into the men's battered bodies.

  Their opponent was a nightmare.

  [Lesser Werewolf] - Level 10

  Passive Buff Active: Forest Domain (+50% to all All Stats)

  It was an eight-foot-tall creature of grey fur, bulging muscles, and razor sharp claws. It moved with a rabid ferocity, completely ignoring the shallow cuts the hunters managed to inflict on its hide. The environmental buff icon hovering next to its health bar was glowing bright red.

  "Pathetic," Lavius hissed from the branch beside him. Her perfectly manicured fingers dug into the bark, completely pulverizing the wood. "Mortal filth, daring to raise their iron against a creature of the moon. Master, give me the word and I will descend and peel the skin from their bones. I will string their entrails from these very branches—"

  "No," Michael snapped, keeping his voice to a whisper.

  Lavius blinked, her bloodlust stalling into confusion. "Master?"

  "Remember the grand strategy, Lavius," Michael said, frantically trying to string together a coherent philosophical reason to not murder people. "We are humans now. Count Mikhail and his Countess. Humans do not slaughter other humans to protect monsters. If we butcher them, we reveal our true nature and if they don't return to the city, the authorities will come looking for them."

  "But... the lupine?" she asked, her lip curling in disgust at the hunters.

  Michael looked down. The werewolf was an incredibly valuable asset. If the level cap of this world was truly 50, a Level 10 monster was nothing to scoff at. Let alone one that could be manipulated. He couldn't let the hunters kill it, but he couldn't kill the hunters.

  God, I wish Morpheus was here, Michael thought, panic rising in his chest.

  Morpheus would have a twelve step Machiavellian plan to solve this. I clean toilets! I don't know how to do this!

  He opened his Spell Repository and frantically scrolled through the thousands of options. Fireballs would burn the forest. Mind control was too high tier and might leave permanent neurological damage, raising suspicion. He needed something subtle.

  His eyes locked onto a Tier 2 utility spell.

  Magical Slumber.

  Description: Induces a profound and magical comatose state. Drastically lowers core body temperature and masks the pulse. Subjects are virtually indistinguishable from a corpse to the untrained eye.

  It was a massive gamble. The keyword was untrained eye. In Romanov, if a player had a Perception stat higher than the spell, they could see right through the illusion and spot the faint magical aura keeping the target alive. He had no idea what the Perception stats of these Level 7 humans were.

  "I have a plan," Michael whispered, praying his voice sounded confident. "I will cast an illusion of death upon the lupine so the humans believe I have slain it. We then take the beast and the humans return to the city, none the wiser, singing the praises of the mysterious noble who aided them."

  Lavius gasped softly, her eyes shining with adoration. "Oh... flawless. It is a stroke of dark intellect so brilliant it blinds me. To rob them of their prize and make them thank you for it? You are a cruel and majestic god, Master."

  Michael swallowed hard.

  Thank god she’s too stupid to realize how many holes are in this plan.

  Down in the clearing, the werewolf let out a deafening roar and lunged, its claws tearing straight through the lead human’s shield and the man screamed, falling backward onto the dirt. The beast raised its jaws, preparing to rip the man's throat out.

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  Michael dropped from the branch.

  Because he weighed over two hundred and fifty pounds of muscle, his landing was anything but quiet. He hit the forest floor, cracking the earth and kicking up a cloud of dust directly behind the werewolf.

  The three humans froze and the werewolf whirled around, snarling at the new threat.

  Michael raised his right hand, and snapped his fingers.

  "Magical Slumber," he commanded.

  A wave of green mist exploded from Michael’s hand, washing over the werewolf. The effect was instantaneous. The beast’s snarl abruptly cut off and its eyes rolled into the back of its head, all tension left its massive frame, and it collapsed onto the dirt like a puppet with its strings cut.

  They stared at the eight-foot-tall monster that had been actively trying to butcher them now lying completely motionless. Then, slowly, they raised their eyes to the handsome aristocrat in midnight silk who had just ended their nightmare with a flick of his wrist.

  The lead human—the one whose shield had been shattered—slowly scrambled to his feet. He was a broad shouldered man in his forties, sporting an incredibly elaborate, perfectly waxed handlebar mustache that looked absurdly out of place in a life-or-death battle.

  He gripped his broadsword tightly, eyeing Michael with suspicion.

  "Name's Blackworth," the mustachioed man grunted. He didn't sheathe his weapon. "And who might you be, stranger?"

  Michael stepped forward, slipping his hands behind his back, channeling every ounce of regal authority he could muster. "You may call me Count Mikhail. Of House Sabwat."

  Blackworth narrowed his eyes, squinting so hard his bushy eyebrows nearly touched and leaned forward slightly, looking Michael up and down. The expensive silk, spotless boots and complete lack of armor.

  "A noble?" Blackworth said, drawing the word out. He looked around at the forest, then back at Michael. "Out this far in the woods? At this time of day?"

  He twirled the right side of his mustache thoughtfully. "Interesting."

  Damn it! Michael’s internal monologue shrieked.

  Was that the wrong thing to say? Why is he looking at me like that? Did I fuck up already?!

  "I am not from the city," Michael said. He raised a hand and pointed lazily back the way he had come. "My family and I have recently taken up residence in an estate near the cliffs. I was merely taking a morning stroll to survey the new lands when I heard the commotion. I came to investigate."

  Blackworth followed his finger, staring toward the mountain pass. He hummed a low note in his chest. "A morning stroll in a dense and dark forest. Bold. But... makes more sense."

  Before Michael could even begin to relax, Blackworth stepped past him, walking directly up to the downed werewolf and Michael’s anxiety spiked in his throat as the hunter knelt down.

  Blackworth pressed two fingers firmly against the werewolf’s neck.

  Michael held his breath.

  Please have a low Perception stat. Please have a low Perception stat.

  Ten agonizing seconds passed.

  Blackworth pulled his hand back and stood up, kicking the werewolf’s limp arm. "Dead," he stated bluntly. He turned back to Michael, squinting again. "No blood or wound. Just dropped out of thin air. Interesting."

  HOW IS THAT INTERESTING?! Michael yelled internally.

  Just say thank you and leave! Is this guy a detective?!

  "A specialized incantation," Michael said, offering a dismissive wave of his hand. "An ancestral technique of my House. It severs the soul from the vessel instantaneously."

  Blackworth stared at him for a long moment, then slowly sheathed his broadsword. The other two hunters, following his lead, finally lowered their weapons, the healer letting out a massive sigh of relief.

  "Well," Blackworth grunted, adjusting his leather belt. "Can't say I understand the magic of foreign nobility, but a save is a save. I owe you my life, Count Mikhail. We’ve been whittling this bastard down for an hour. Weren't going to make it."

  "You are welcome, Blackworth," Michael said graciously. "I am simply glad I arrived in time."

  "Right, right," Blackworth nodded briskly. He pointed to the furry corpse on the ground. "Course, since I landed the tracking blow and initiated the contract, the loot is mine. Standard Lodge rules. Hope there's no hard feelings."

  Michael blinked, genuinely thrown off. "What do you mean by 'loot'?"

  Blackworth stopped mid reach for his skinning knife and slowly stood back up, his hands resting on his hips. He squinted again, his mustache twitching.

  "What do you mean, 'what do I mean by loot'?" Blackworth asked. "You don't have Hunter Lodges where you're from?"

  SHIT! Michael cursed himself.

  He’s back onto me! Play it cool. Play it cool.

  "Of course I do," Michael countered. "However, the terminology likely differs across borders. In my homeland, 'loot' refers strictly to the unnatural possessions or magical artifacts a beast might hoard. Not... whatever this is."

  It wasn't technically a lie. In the game Romanov, 'loot' meant the glowing bags that dropped when a monster despawned. You didn't harvest their actual organs.

  "Ah," Blackworth said, twirling his mustache again. "Fancy. Well, in Londinium, 'loot' refers to everything on site. That means the body, the fangs, the pelt, the marrow, and any resources the beast was guarding. Anything on the scene of completion belongs to the contracted hunter."

  "I see," Michael nodded thoughtfully. "A highly pragmatic system." He looked down at the werewolf. He needed that body. "However, given that my 'ancestral magic' dealt the final blow, I would request a compromise. I have an academic interest in the anatomy of local fauna. You may keep the monetary reward and any possessions found in the beast's den and I will take the corpse."

  Blackworth frowned, but quickly remembered that Michael was a noble who could apparently kill Level 10 monsters by snapping his fingers. Pragmatism won out.

  "Deal," Blackworth grunted. "Better alive and poor than dead and rich. Though why a noble wants to drag a bloody carcass back to his manor is... interesting."

  Michael ignored the jab.

  Blackworth stepped closer, lowering his voice conspiratorially. "Listen, Count. If you've got power like that, you should apply to the Londinium Hunter’s Lodge in the city. God knows we need the manpower. The city is infested right now."

  "Infested?" Michael asked, feigning mild curiosity.

  "Mucks," Blackworth spit, the word laced with venom. "Monsters. But not the bold ones like this brute out here in the woods. The cowards. The ones that hide among us in the city. They take up occupations. They pretend to be doctors, travelers, merchants..." Blackworth leaned in, locking eyes with Michael. "...even nobles. Then they feast from the inside, killing humans left and right. You've got to be careful who you trust."

  Michael felt a drop of sweat slide down the back of his neck.

  He was standing face-to-face with a human hunter, being warned about monsters disguising themselves as nobles, while he, a Vampire Lord disguising himself as a noble, stood five feet away from his Succubus Spymaster who was currently disguised as a human noblewoman.

  The irony of it all.

  "I will... keep my guard up," Michael managed to say, his poker face holding by a thread.

  "Do that," Blackworth said, stepping back. "I'll put in a good word with the Lodge Master for you. Complete enough contracts, and you'll build up enough goodwill to be granted official citizenship and trust me, Count, no matter how much gold you have, if you don't have citizenship papers, you're a target for the local government. They don't like undocumented anomalies running around."

  Great. Now I have to worry about the fantasy IRS, Michael thought miserably.

  "The main Lodge is on Grim Oak Street, downtown," Blackworth instructed, pointing toward the distant skyline. "Big white building. Massive black shield logo above the doors. You literally can't miss it."

  "I appreciate the guidance, Blackworth," Michael said.

  "Safe travels, Count," Blackworth tipped his head, signaling to his battered companions. The three hunters turned and began the long trek back through the forest toward the city.

  Michael stood perfectly still, watching them until their auras completely faded.

  Once he was absolutely certain they were gone, Michael’s shoulders slumped, and he let out a shuddering exhale of breath. He rubbed his temples, feeling a migraine building.

  "Lavius," Michael groaned. "Did you hear a word of that?"

  Lavius looked lost. "No, Master. Was I supposed to pay attention to the bleating of the livestock?"

  Michael stared at her blankly. "Forget it."

  He bent down, grabbed the werewolf by the scruff of its neck, and effortlessly hoisted it over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes. "Let's go home."

  Twenty minutes later, Michael dumped the beast onto a rug in the living room of Castle Nightfall.

  The room was a masterpiece—dark mahogany walls, fireplaces, and plush seating. Right in the middle of it all lay a comatose werewolf, tracking dirt and pine needles everywhere.

  "Wake him," Michael ordered.

  Lavius stepped forward. Because Magical Slumber was a status effect, it couldn't simply be shaken off. It required the forceful psychological intrusion of a Succubus to shatter the illusion from the inside out.

  Lavius knelt by the beast's ear, her eyes glowing with a sinister light, and whispered a word of demonic origin.

  The werewolf’s eyes opened.

  It gasped, a massive intake of air filling its lungs, and it vaulted off the floor in a panic. It scrambled backward, its claws tearing deep gouges into the hardwood, snarling wildly as it tried to locate the hunters.

  "I'll kill you all!" the beast roared. "I'll tear your flesh from—!"

  The beast stopped. It wasn't in the forest. It was in a lavish room. And standing in front of it wasn't a human with a mustache, but a man in silk.

  Michael let his [Aura Suppression] slip.

  The temperature in the room plummeted and the shadows in the corners of the room seemed to elongate, crawling toward Michael like worshipers. A suffocating pressure filled the air.

  The werewolf’s primal instincts violently overrode its anger and it dropped to its knees, whimpering, the fur on its spine standing straight up.

  "A... a Vampire?" the beast choked out, trembling.

  "Do you want power?" Michael asked. "Power so absolute you will never have to run from a human with a sword again?"

  The werewolf stared up at him, its eyes wide with terror. Slowly, it nodded. "Yes."

  Michael rolled up the silk sleeve of his right arm and raised his opposite hand, casually dragging a sharp fingernail across his own forearm, opening a shallow cut. Blood welled up, carrying an intoxicating scent that made both the werewolf and Lavius visibly shudder.

  "Then drink," Michael commanded.

  The werewolf didn't hesitate. Driven by an innate, supernatural compulsion, it crawled forward and pressed its jaws to Michael’s arm, eagerly lapping up the Progenitor's blood.

  The moment the blood entered the beast’s system, the reaction was explosive.

  Michael watched his HUD light up like a slot machine.

  Target has consumed Progenitor Essence.

  Level up!

  Level up!

  Level up! X7

  The werewolf screamed in agony as its bones snapped and reformed. The grey fur rapidly receded, sinking into its skin. Its hunched spine straightened, and its elongated snout crushed inward, reshaping into a strong, human jawline.

  Within ten seconds, the beast had leveled up ten times and breached Level 20.

  Where the monstrous wolf had been, a man now knelt. He was massive, built like a brick wall, entirely naked, with shaggy grey hair and piercing eyes. He looked down at his new, human hands, flexing the fingers in absolute disbelief.

  "From now on, your name is Drummond," Michael said, the cut on his arm already knitting itself back together flawlessly. "And you belong to House Sabwat."

  Drummond placed a heavy fist over his heart and bowed his head until his forehead touched the floor. "My life is yours, My Lord."

  Michael turned his back on his new servant, his mind already racing toward the next massive hurdle and looked at his Spymaster.

  "Lavius. Gather all the information you can on the Londinium Hunter’s Lodge," Michael ordered. "We have work to do."