CHAPTER 311: REVENGE

The room was pitch black—oppressively so—almost as if someone had gone to great lengths to ensure that not even the smallest flicker of light could breach its suffocating stillness. H

eavy drapes smothered the windows, thick enough to drown the sun itself, and not a single candle dared flicker in defiance. The air inside was cold, stale, and still—thick with silence that felt alive, pressing against the skin like a second, unwelcome presence.

At the center of this suffocating darkness, the ground had been disturbed. The floor, once smooth and cold, had been torn open and dug deep into a gaping crater.

And resting solemnly in the heart of that cavernous wound was a coffin—massive, heavy, and old. It sat nestled within the earth as if it belonged there, like the ground itself had parted willingly to cradle it.

The coffin was made of wood—common, ordinary wood. It looked so basic and plain it could’ve passed for the first attempt of a novice carpenter. Its joints were uneven in places, and the nails driven into its corners were slightly rusted, barely holding its ancient frame together. Yet something about it was unmistakably wrong.

The grain of the wood seemed too deep, too dark—aged beyond its years. Its surface held a dampness, as though it had been buried far too long and had drawn the cold and rot of the earth into itself.

And still, it commanded reverence.

Standing beside the hole, motionless like a statue carved from shadow, was a man. His crimson eyes glowed faintly in the dark, like embers buried beneath ash. Lord Vazer. His entire being radiated a cold, simmering intensity as he stared down at the coffin. His gaze was locked onto it, unwavering, like his very existence was tethered to the thing buried in the earth.

There was a desperate, almost fanatical tension in his stillness—like every fiber of him longed to move closer, to tear the lid open, to see.

But he didn’t move.

His posture was deceptively calm, hands hanging loosely by his sides, shoulders relaxed, expression carved into a mask of neutrality. But his eyes betrayed him. In their depths swirled a storm—rage barely contained, anguish struggling to stay hidden beneath layers of discipline and command.

Time crawled.

Seconds melted into minutes, and those minutes dragged on until nearly an hour had passed in silence. And then, finally, the only other figure in the room stirred.

A servant, pale-faced and trembling, stood behind Vazer with his head bowed so low his forehead nearly brushed the floor. His fists clenched tightly at his chest as he found the courage to speak, voice trembling but determined.

"For Lady Tinari to recover," he said, "she needs absolute darkness and silence. The insides... have been drenched in blood, as required. That should be more than enough."

His face was ashen, his lips pale. The image of what he had witnessed hours ago refused to leave his mind. He had seen the construction of the coffin. Had watched Lord Vazer slaughter a young man with his bare hands for pouring the blood at the wrong moment in the wrong place. The scream of that poor soul still echoed in his ears, and he knew—knew—that Lord Vazer had never been like that before. Something in him had shifted. Broken, perhaps.

Now, there was a coldness to their lord—a terrifying, bottomless coldness. No longer the calculated, level-headed figure they had known. He was quieter now, deadlier. As if any mistake—no matter how small—could summon a swift and brutal end.

The servant instantly regretted speaking. He had dared interrupt the silence. He lowered his head further, bracing for punishment.

But instead of lashing out, Lord Vazer responded, his voice low and barely audible—a whisper only another vampire could catch.

"Cover it up completely," he murmured. "And find more blood slaves. I want the blood to soak the ground... and the room itself, if that’s what it takes."

The servant’s breath caught in his throat. He bowed even deeper, nearly dropping to his knees in submission.

"Yes, my lord," he whispered, trembling with urgency, intent on showing his devotion and understanding. Yet despite the words of obedience, terror flooded his chest. He knew what Vazer’s departure meant. If anything—anything at all—went wrong, the consequences would fall squarely on his shoulders.

Vazer turned without another word, his cloak whispering behind him as he walked away. The servant didn’t dare lift his head until the sound of the closing door echoed through the space.

Only then did he move. Wordlessly, he turned back to the hole and began to meticulously cover the coffin, inch by inch. Every motion was exact. Every handful of dirt he dropped was placed with care. The only thoughts that pulsed in his mind were of blood, of how many more slaves would need to be drained, of how nothing could go wrong. Not while she was healing.

Meanwhile, Lord Vazer made his way down the cold, empty corridor of his mansion. The shadows welcomed him like old friends, and he walked with the slow grace of a predator deep in thought. Tinari was all that mattered now. Until she opened her eyes, until she could stand and speak, the world could burn.

He had already lost everything else. His family had been butchered one by one, torn away from him by enemies cloaked in treachery and flame. And now, only one soul remained—his sister. And if saving her meant carving a path through the world’s throat, he would.

He was halfway to his room when another guard rushed up, keeping a careful foot of distance between them. He bowed low, speaking with clear hesitation.

"Lord Cain sent a letter," he said, presenting the sealed parchment forward with both hands. He dared not raise his eyes.

Vazer didn’t respond immediately. There was a time when he would have snatched it without pause, would have ripped it open and hung on every word his old friend sent. But not anymore.

Now, his eyes narrowed. Cold and sharp.

He came to an abrupt stop, his boots echoing ominously on the marble floor. Slowly, he turned his head to look at the messenger. The guard, whom Vazer didn’t recognize, instantly dropped to his knees under the weight of that gaze.

Vazer said nothing for several seconds. Then, his voice rang out—quiet and deadly.

"Tear it. Toss it into the dustbin."

The order was ice—simple and final. No stutter. No hesitation.

The guard flinched, but moved swiftly. "Yes, my lord!" he said, ripping the letter apart in trembling hands. He forced himself not to look at the words, even as fragments danced through his mind like a warning. He scrambled off to find the nearest trash bin, never daring to look back.

Vazer didn’t spare him a glance. He resumed walking, eyes dark and distant. Whatever Cain wanted—he didn’t care. His loyalty had a singular direction now. He would not leave. Not until Tinari was whole again.

He reached his room, stripped off his blood-streaked clothes, and showered. The crimson rinsed from his skin slowly, stubbornly—as if it, too, had claimed him. Fresh garments clung to his frame as he stood in front of his mirror, staring at the hollowness in his own eyes.

He didn’t need sleep. Reds rarely did.

Instead, he sat at his study table, picked up his pen, and laid a long piece of parchment before him. His hand hovered for a moment—then began to write with slow, deliberate strokes.

"Revenge: A thousand ways to destroy Javi until he prays for death."

Each word bled from his pen like venom.

He didn’t stop writing for a long, long time.