Chapter 1: The Misunderstood Vampire
Rigel Veyne had one simple goal in life—wake up, go to work, eat instant ramen, and go back to sleep. Not exactly the grandest of ambitions, but hey, he was happy. Unfortunately, fate (or some cosmic intern pressing the wrong button) had other plans.
One moment, he was in his tiny apartment, sneezing from the dust on his old anime figures, and the next—
BAM!
He was standing in the middle of a dark forest, wearing medieval-style clothing, with absolutely no clue how he got there.
"…Did I just get isekai’d?" he muttered to himself, staring at his gloved hands. "Oh no. Ohhh no. I don’t have the social skills to be a protagonist."
Before he could process his newfound predicament, the sound of rustling bushes made him freeze. His body tensed, instincts kicking in as he turned toward the noise.
A group of villagers emerged, dressed in simple tunics and carrying torches and pitchforks. They looked at him—tall, dressed in dark clothes, with deathly pale skin and long black hair—and their faces twisted in horror.
"VAMPIRE!" one of them screamed.
“Wait, what?” Rigel blinked, taking a step back. “No, no, I’m just—”
"LOOK AT HIS SUNKEN EYES! HIS DARK CLOTHING! HIS… UH, HANDSOME FACE! HE MUST BE A HIGH-RANKING VAMPIRE LORD!"
Rigel frowned. “Okay, first of all, thank you for the compliment. Second of all, I’m not a vampire! I just have a skin cond—AAAHHHH, SUNLIGHT!"
A ray of morning sunlight broke through the trees and hit his skin—immediately his body hurting and burning. His knees wobbled, and he let out a pathetic wheeze as he rased his arm to cover his face.
The villagers gasped.
"HE'S WILTING IN THE SUN! QUICK, GET THE GARLIC!"
"WHAT?! That’s NOT how it works!" Rigel protested, struggling to stand. "I’m just—ugh, I have a medical condition! It's called solar urticaria!"
The villagers did not listen.
"HE’S ADMITTING TO HIS CURSE!"
"GET THE PRIEST!"
"BRING THE SILVER STAKES!"
"WHY DO YOU EVEN HAVE THOSE?!" Rigel shouted, scrambling to his feet.
His head was pounding, his body aching, but something instinctual kicked in—the feeling that his body still knew how to move even when his brain didn’t.
A pitchfork came flying straight at his face.
In one smooth motion, he tilted his head to the side, dodging it with supernatural speed. Another villager lunged, swinging a wooden club—Rigel sidestepped, grabbed the man's wrist, and flipped him over in a single fluid motion.
The crowd froze.
“…Did you see that?”
“He’s so fast…”
“HE MUST BE A VAMPIRE LORD WITH IMMORTAL COMBAT ARTS!”
Rigel groaned, rubbing his temples. “Oh my god, you people are so dumb.”
Unfortunately, their misunderstanding only grew worse.
The Great Escape
Rigel booked it out of the village, running as fast as his aching could carry him. His body felt strange—even though the sun was bothering him, he was still faster and more agile than he had ever been before. His footsteps were light, his movements precise, like a trained assassin.
(Okay, this is kind of cool, but I’d rather not be hunted by medieval peasants with pitchforks.)
Behind him, the villagers screamed:
"THE VAMPIRE LORD IS FLEEING INTO THE SHADOWS!"
"WE MUST WARN THE KINGDOMS!"
"HE'LL COME BACK FOR OUR BLOOD!"
Rigel groaned, running a hand through his long hair. “I hate my life.”
And thus, the legend of the Vampire Lord of Strommwell began—despite Rigel’s very loud protests.
