Velra held his gaze for a long, unnerving moment, the weight of centuries flickering in her crimson eyes.

She had watched parasites rise and fall, dynasties of demons claw their way to power only to crumble into dust.

But this creature—this Faceless Imposter—was something altogether different.

A ripple of unease stirred in the pit of her stomach, an instinct older than reason.

"By the way," he said at last, his tone casual, as if discussing the weather. "How's it going on your end?"

Velra blinked. "…What do you mean?"

"Don't play dumb," he replied smoothly, a sly smile curling his lips. "I'm talking about the recovery of your power."

Her fingers twitched before she could stop them.

To a vampire, blood was more than nourishment.

It was life itself—mana, strength, and sovereignty condensed into a single, intoxicating essence.

Thanks to him—and to Amelia, who had risked much to bring back monster blood—they had managed to refill her depleted blood pouch.

It was far from enough, but the progress was undeniable.

And when she recovered fully?

The answer burned like iron in her chest.

Naturally, she would return to the Drazroth Empire.

Naturally, she would reclaim her throne and drown her enemies in the vengeance they so richly deserved.

"Dreck…" Velra bit her lower lip hard enough to draw a bead of dark red.

Just picturing her homeland—her domain—ravaged and stolen sent a cold fury rippling through her veins.

"Don't worry," she said finally, forcing the words past clenched teeth. "The recovery is proceeding smoothly."

It was true.

She was still leagues away from the terrifying might of her prime, but the speed of her restoration now far surpassed those lonely years of scrounging scraps of blood from wild beasts in hidden caves.

But still… to fully recover…

Her thoughts faltered as the Faceless Imposter tilted his head, his sharp, foxlike eyes curving into a lazy arc.

The faint amusement there was more dangerous than any blade.

"Speaking of which," he drawled, "didn't you say you wanted to taste human blood again?"

Velra froze.

Her breath caught, betraying her despite herself.

"…You're terrifying," she whispered, voice low and sharp.

He grinned, the faintest flash of teeth.

"Of course. From mana conversion to sheer satisfaction, nothing compares. And…"

He flicked a wrist, as if plucking temptation straight from the air.

"I've prepared a little something. Difficult to obtain, but—well, quality over quantity."

Her pupils narrowed to slits as her gaze snapped to the object in his hand.

A small glass vial.

Inside, crimson liquid swayed gently with each subtle movement, catching the light like a living flame.

Human blood.

Once, it had been as common to her as breath itself—an everyday indulgence, overflowing and unremarkable.

Now, after years of deprivation, it shone like a priceless jewel, its demonic allure seeping through the very glass.

"Quickly," she hissed, the veneer of elegance cracking. "Bring that here… now."

The Faceless Imposter's smile deepened, lazy and cruel.

"You're quite impatient. It's not as though the bottle has legs and can run away."

With a flick of his fingers—

Whoosh.

The vial cut through the air in a careless arc.

Velra's heart lurched.

For a heartbeat, it seemed destined to shatter against the stone floor.

She darted forward, catching it a split second before disaster.

"Are you mad?!" she snapped, clutching the vial to her chest as if it were a newborn.

"If this precious thing had broken—!"

Her fury, sharp and unrestrained, only made him chuckle—a low, velvety sound that slithered beneath her skin.

"You're adorable when you forget to act noble," he said, eyes glinting with dark amusement.

"Careful, Velra. Your hunger is showing."

Velra shot him a glare hot enough to sear, but the vial in her trembling hands betrayed the truth.

The scent of that forbidden blood coiled into her senses, and her fangs ached with the effort of restraint.

Velra's fingers tightened around the glass, her nails faintly scraping against the smooth surface. The faint thrum of life within the blood pulsed against her palm, calling to the predator in her marrow.

She could hear it—feel it—the rush of mana, the whisper of vitality, the promise of power. Her fangs pressed against her lower lip until a thin bead of her own dark blood welled up. It tasted bitter. Inadequate.

Velra's nails tapped lightly against the side of the crystal glass, a soft clink that echoed in the hush between them.

The blood's scent still lingered—rich and warm, clinging to the air like a decadent perfume.

"Drink," the Faceless Imposter murmured again, velvet and dangerous. "You've waited long enough."

His words slid into her mind like smoke through a cracked door, teasing the control she worked so hard to keep.

Velra raised her crimson eyes to meet his. For a fleeting second, she wondered—did he enjoy watching her restraint falter?

Of course he did.

"You act like you're doing me a favor," she said, forcing her voice into a low growl. "But we both know this isn't charity. And you know that too."

"Of course I know, Lady Velra." His grin was quicksilver—smooth, impossible to pin down. "No need to sound so defensive."

"Tsk…"

Her glare lingered on him for a heartbeat longer before sliding toward the glass.

The dark liquid glimmered like a ruby caught in moonlight.

"…Is this, by any chance, a mage's blood?"

"Oh, you recognized it." His tone was light, but pride sharpened the edges.

"The donor thought they were contributing to a harmless experiment. They'll never realize their blood ended up feeding a demon's appetite."

Typical of him. Deception was his art.

"Think of it as a service fee," he added, the corner of his mouth curling. "Drink up."

Velra's lips twitched—not quite a smile, not quite disdain.

"Then there is merit in mortal magic after all. I'll gladly accept your offering."

She lifted the glass with deliberate grace, studying the man who wore a servant's attire like a second skin.

Last time, it had been spirit blood.

This time, human.

Always something rare, something potent.

A strange courtesy among demons, perhaps. Or just his way of keeping her hooked.

-Gulp-

'Ah…'

The sweetness bloomed across her tongue—rich and velvety, with an undercurrent of mana that sang through her veins.

The chill of it traveled down her throat, sparking a warmth that filled the hollowness in her chest.

Her blood core stirred, greedily awakening, and for the first time in decades, the gnawing hunger quieted.

She exhaled, a low, satisfied sigh escaping before she could stop it.

"With this strength," she murmured, crimson eyes narrowing with purpose, "I'll be ready to take my revenge sooner than I thought."

The Faceless Imposter tilted his head, amusement dancing in his mismatched eyes.

"That's a shame," he said lightly. "There's hardly a sharper blade than you."

His choice of words—blade—pulled a faint frown from her.

"You speak as if I were a tool."

"A joke!" He raised his hands in mock surrender, a half-step back.

"Only a joke. How could I ever dare disrespect a noble vampire?"

Velra's eyes narrowed, the faintest flicker of fang showing in her restrained smile.

"It seems you've crossed that line more than once already."

Looking back, she could count the times he had manipulated her with infuriating ease—

the secrets he coaxed from her,

the errands disguised as "opportunities,"

the schemes where she danced to his rhythm while believing she led.

A vile creature, she thought, lips curving despite herself. A mere doppelganger-born mutant…

And yet—

for all the dents to her pride,

for all the games he played—

he remained undeniably useful.

"Enough," she said at last, setting the empty glass down with a soft click.

"I'll overlook your trivial insolence. For now. But I have a question."

His eyes brightened, predatory and curious all at once.

"Oh? An exchange of information—finally. It's been far too long since our last."

Velra leaned forward slightly, her crimson gaze glinting like fresh blood under moonlight.

"Tell me," she said, voice as smooth as the drink she'd just savored.

"Who exactly are you?"

"What's that supposed to mean? I already told you long ago that I am an parasite demon."

"That's not what I'm asking. I mean more in the essential realm."

Even just considering his differentiated intelligence from other Parasite, it was clear he was a special entity.

Velra let the silence stretch, her sharpened gaze never leaving his face. A faint pulse of mana stirred the air, subtle as a heartbeat.

The Faceless Imposter only smiled, lounging against the cold stone wall as though this conversation was a game played to amuse himself.

"You speak in riddles," he said lightly, though his eyes—those sharp, foxlike eyes—narrowed with something more dangerous than amusement.

"'Essential realm'? You make me sound like some forgotten myth."

Velra's fingers trailed over the rim of the empty glass, nails tracing a soft, deliberate scrape against the crystal.

"Perhaps you are," she murmured. "A parasite demon should be little more than a scavenger. A shadow that feeds on the weak. But you…"

Her crimson eyes glowed faintly in the dim light.

"You manipulate nobles as if they were chess pieces. You steal mana signatures from mageblood and leave no trace. You even slip out of the Drazroth Empire and leave the imperial wards untouched. No parasite should be capable of that."

The Faceless Imposter tilted his head, the shadow of his hood cutting a sharp line across his grin.

"And what conclusion does the mighty Lady Velra draw from all this?"

"That you're a parasite king," she said simply.

The words landed between them like a blade driven into stone.

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