The Prideful Fall

The coffin lid was pushed open, black steel grinding against ice with ear-piercing scrapes.

Cold air carrying the metallic scent of dried blood rushed out. My broken corpse lay inside, like a specimen.

I didn't need to look to know how gruesome I appeared.

Left arm taken, right leg missing, bones hammered to fragments and collected as trophies.

My blood drained to the last drop, flesh withered and sunken like dried animal hide.

Brief silence fell outside the coffin.

Those purebloods who had been laughing in the hall moments before now swallowed with caution.

They finally realized—this wasn't theater.

But Serena's shock lasted only half a second.

Her arrogance snapped back into place like armor.

She stared at my corpse, her voice even colder and sharper, as if trying to crush that instant of unease with contempt.

"Ninth-tier werewolf, with near-immortal regeneration," she said deliberately. "Caleb, you're overacting."

Viktor immediately chimed in: "He'd even mutilate himself just to make Your Majesty appear. Truly despicable and laughable."

I listened without a ripple of emotion.

I used to tear myself apart over her slightest misunderstanding, desperately proving my loyalty.

Now, I was done with that.

Serena pointed at the coffin: "Drag him out. Make him kneel and answer immediately."

The guards hesitated but dared not disobey.

Two hands grabbed my corpse's shoulders and yanked roughly.

Bones scraped against frozen steel with teeth-grinding cracks.

My remains tumbled over, stiff wounds tearing open, the penetrating chest wound fully exposed—piercing straight through from sternum to spine.

The wound showed no signs of healing, only a ring of gray-black death energy like "never to heal" carved into flesh.

I "saw" Serena's pupils contract.

She still wouldn't retreat. Instead, she stepped closer, as if trying to stomp reality back into the coffin.

"Kneel," she commanded the corpse, her voice still carrying habitual authority. "Caleb, I permit you to explain."

Naturally, no one responded.

Wind howled through the palace corridors, stirring the edges of her cloak.

In that instant, she seemed to stand at the edge of a desolate cliff, still believing she stood upon a throne.

Viktor chuckled softly: "Your Majesty, werewolves excel at playing dead. You need only expose him publicly, and the wolf packs will understand who their true master is."

A flicker of irritation passed through Serena's eyes. She reached out, personally grasping the broken armor clasps on my chest.

"Then let me see just how far you'll take this act."

She yanked hard.

Armor fragments tore away, metal edges scraping across desiccated flesh.

Her fingers probed into my hollow chest cavity, seeking what she assumed was my "core."

The next second, her fingertips touched something solid.

Cold, sharp, tinged with silver's sting.

—A cursed silver spike.

The spike was driven deep into where my heart should be, its surface carved with curse runes. It should have pierced Serena's heart, nailing her soul into eternal damnation.

Now it was nailed into me.

Wrapped around the outside of the spike was a roll of parchment.

The Primordial Blood Contract.

That parchment was soaked with my heart's blood, crimson seeping into ancient patterns until they turned dark and black, yet still stubbornly maintained the contract's final form.

Serena froze.

She tried to speak, her lips moving but failing to form complete mockery.

Her arrogance stuttered for the first time.

I knew exactly why she faltered.

Because she recognized that parchment.

The "foundation" personally handed to her by the previous count, only to be touched by the destined guardian.

She had once said condescendingly in my presence that it was merely a chain for taming beasts.

Now that chain burned with blood-light in my chest cavity.

Viktor's smile also stiffened momentarily, but he quickly resumed his gentle tone: "Your Majesty, be careful. He might have tampered with the silver spike, specifically to lure you close."

Serena seemed not to hear.

Her fingertip gently traced the spike's carved marks.

Hum—

The curse's residual echo instantly resonated with her blood energy.

This wasn't hallucination—it was the death curse replaying from within bloodlines.

I felt her body shudder.

She "saw" that moment: the nighttime battlefield, a silver spike shooting from the shadows, meant to pierce her heart; and me lunging forward, not just to block it once but using my chest cavity, my heart chamber, to forcibly swallow the death curse whole, along with the parchment blood contract—sealing it, killing it.

The price of sealing the death curse that way was singular—I lost my regeneration from that moment.

That's why I was torn apart so thoroughly in the subsequent siege.

Not from weakness.

But because I was already nailed to death.

Serena's breathing grew rapid, her gaze beginning to fracture like fine porcelain showing its first crack.

She still tried to maintain her stubbornness: "...Impossible. Werewolves wouldn't—"

Her words cut short.

Her gaze fell upon the layers of old wounds across my chest and abdomen.

Penetrating bullet holes, torn scars, burned chain brands... not one was fresh from today.

Every single one belonged to the past of "clearing obstacles for her."

I remembered her once leaning against my chest, fingertips tracing these wounds, whispering softly: "You're my only shield."

I also remembered her coldly declaring in court: "Werewolves are nothing but tools."

Now these two statements collided in her eyes, shattering even louder.

Seeing her waver, Viktor's voice grew softer, more poisonous: "Your Majesty, don't let him manipulate you. Wolf clans excel at using martyrdom to extort royal mercy. If you show weakness now, you'll be demonstrating vulnerability to the wolf packs."

"Mercy?"

Serena reacted as if stung, snapping her head up.

She wanted to use rage to push herself back to the high ground, but her hand remained inside my hollow chest, fingertips touching the silver spike, touching the blood contract—touching irrefutable evidence.

Her voice trembled for the first time: "This silver spike... who was it originally meant to nail?"

Viktor smiled gently: "Naturally meant for a traitor's heart. Caleb brought this on himself."

Serena stared at him, blood-color slowly rising in her eyes—not the excitement of bloodlust, but fear and self-doubt.

She didn't argue further.

She moved her fingers to the edge of the Primordial Blood Contract, like grasping the last straw that could prove "this is still a lie."

She would pull out the parchment.

She would confirm with her own eyes.

She pinched the parchment and slowly drew it out. The motion was extremely slow, like pulling a noose from around her own neck.

The instant the parchment left my chest cavity—

Blood runes blazed to life, silver-white light surging from the dark royal blood.

Hiss.

No flames.

Only a bone-deep cold of "completion."

The parchment scroll ignited without fire in her fingers, instantly turning to cold silver ash that scattered from between her fingers like a verdict.

The blood contract burned out.

Contract subject—absolutely dead.

Serena stood frozen in place, maintaining her grasping posture while holding only ash.

Her pride was utterly ground away by that handful of silver dust, leaving her speechless.

Across the plaza, the nobles' breathing grew heavy, and some began retreating.

I "heard" the barrier overhead emit an extremely faint crack.

Like glass struck with its first fissure.

That was the sound of the barrier beginning to loosen.

And clearer still was something deep within my body—no, within that broken corpse—something that had been sleeping finally lifted a claw at the moment of "contract completion."

The silver spike trembled slightly.

The death curse's seal began loosening, like a new heartbeat preparing to pound from the ashes.

Serena spun around sharply, looking toward the palace dome.

The blood-rune barrier dimmed by a shade, spider-web cracks spreading silently.

The barrier protecting the entire vampire castle was about to shatter.