Night Lily Manor.

The core domain of Vampire Duke Elinor, ringed by three cities, seventeen towns, and countless villages—like stars encircling the moon.

Her lands bordered Duke Sigismund’s to the north, but did not lie on the Empire’s frontier.

No great dungeons, no rare mines, not even fertile soil. Yet it remained indispensable to the Hidden Empire.

For seventy percent of the Empire’s blood supply came from here.

Between the hundred ceaselessly operating blood farms stretched fields of mourning lilies, fertilized by corpses.

“Master, the twenty prime blood-servants and four wagons of blood requested by the capital departed this evening.

Counts Duke and Barnabas are both pressing for this month’s deliveries, but only thirty-two hundred flasks remain in stock.

Yesterday, Farm 45 was raided—two lower servants slain, over sixty blood-stock escaped.

We suspect two roaming elf thieves. Viscount Arno is already handling it.

The two thousand slaves purchased from the Isles have reached Yonglang Port—one thousand six hundred fifty-six survived the voyage.

Also…”

Petals floated pale in the thick red bath. The manor steward stood at the pool’s edge, head bowed, hands clasped, reporting without flaw.

Elinor, unclothed, leaned against the rim. Steam curled from the blood, dark droplets trailing down the hollow of her collarbone.

One favored consort knelt waist-deep in the bath, gently massaging her ankle.

“How many of the survivors are suitable as blood-servant candidates?” she asked softly, eyes still closed.

“By your new selection standards, thirty-seven passed the initial screen. Five are orcs…”

Gray nails gripped the pool’s rim. Blood trickled between her fingers as she rose halfway, displeasure flashing in her gaze.

“Orcs? A mouthful of fur with every bite. What use are they? Send them to the farms.”

The steward hesitated, bowing lower. “Master, Count Duke specifically requested orc blood-servants.”

“Ah… that barbarian…”

Elinor brushed wet hair from her chest. She recalled vaguely.

“Then keep them. No need to trouble me with it again.

If blood runs short, prioritize Barnabas. Duke can wait a week.

And tell Arno—if he can’t catch those thieves, he’ll wear iron chains instead of the marshal’s badge.”

She rose from the bath, blood and petals sliding from pale skin as she walked out.

The consort hurried with scarlet velvet to drape across her shoulders.

The steward followed quickly. “Dinner is already prepared for you.”

In the side hall, behind crimson curtains, stood a sixteen-year-old girl in a spotless dress. Her cheeks flushed, her skin fresh and smooth.

This was “dinner.”

Unlike the livestock on farms—huddled by rusty troughs, fed mash laced with tonics, drained until they died within three years—

This girl had been raised since ten, with balanced meals, measured exercise, nurtured into a high-grade blood-servant.

There were sixty such in the manor.

They served daily as maids—but once a month, they offered their blood to their mistress.

As always, the girl undid her collar and stepped forward.

Elinor embraced her, fangs sinking precisely beside the last scar.

But unlike before, she did not release her at the proper time.

The girl endured, trembled, begged—until nothing remained.

Only then did Elinor lick her lips and push away the withered husk.

The steward kept his head low, unmoved by the loss of such an asset.

“Haa…”

Elinor exhaled. Her skin flushed with vitality, her height, build, and features shifting—

Until she mirrored the dead girl exactly.

“The summoning will begin soon. This guise will suffice.”

【Substitute LV10】

Unlike simple 【Mimicry】, 【Substitute】 was a rare vampiric gift—stealing not only appearance, but fragments of memory.

Even 【Detection】 could not pierce it.

Once in the United Kingdom, all she needed was to seize a lone ritualist, and she could walk into the ceremony unnoticed.

This was why the Emperor had chosen her for the hero’s assassination.

“Any word of Noxfell?”

“Lord Noxfell left his manor three days ago. He has not been seen since.”

Elinor nodded.

Though the Hidden Empire was ruled by vampires, nearly half its dukes were of other races.

Noxfell, her partner in this mission, was a Shadowfiend—an elemental born of chaos, bodiless, bound to the world only by chains.

Their task was shared in name only. Each would infiltrate as they could, and strike when the chance arose.

Coordination? Cooperation?

Nonsense.

At best, they would avoid tripping each other in their scramble for the hero’s head.

“Master, shall we send agents to create distractions, draw away human forces?” the steward ventured.

Elinor considered, then agreed.

“For the task… send Rakus. He lost the Holy Tome last time and shamed me.

Tell him—do it well, and he’ll be promoted. Fail, and die there.”

“And… will they be hindered passing through Duke Sigismund’s land?” the steward asked cautiously.

“He wouldn’t dare!” Elinor snapped.

That warmonger had poisoned and slaughtered so recklessly on the border that her own blood-stock supply had dwindled.

Why else would she be forced into delays?

That fool only knew how to butcher humans, never thinking—when they’re gone, would he drink monster blood?

They had crossed and clashed countless times, their feud bitter.

“This is the Emperor’s mission. If he dares meddle—so much the better.”

Her robe flared as she transformed into a bat and flew out the window.

Only after she vanished did the steward straighten, glancing at the husk on the floor.

“Another one to raise anew…”