For the first time all night, genuine irritation flares in Harold’s eyes. His composure cracks, just a fraction, revealing the arrogance beneath. He takes a slow, deliberate step forward, his gaze sweeping over her as if assessing something that ought not to exist.
“You have always been troublesome,” Harold says, his voice sharp with disapproval. “You have defied order. You have resisted authority. You have never done anything worthy of respect.”
Rose tightens her grip upon the hilt of her sword until her knuckles pale beneath her skin. She meets his gaze unflinchingly, refusing to step back an inch. “And you have always believed you could do whatever you wished,” she replies steadily, her voice ringing clear through the silent hall. “You speak of order and greatness… yet look at what you have built. You claim to bring progress. But everything you have done… is the opposite. Worse than any of us dared imagine.”
She lifts her chin, her voice growing stronger, carrying to every corner of the room.
“How many students have suffered because of Majestic Academy?”
Silence answers her.
“How many humans have been treated as nothing more than livestock—farmed, used, consumed as if they have no souls?”
Still no one speaks. Only the weight of the question hangs in the air, pressing down upon everyone present.
“How many chances did Dream University offer you? How many times did we extend a hand in peace before you chose to burn it all down?”
Several of the powerful guests standing near the VIP platform exchange uneasy glances. Some had always suspected there was truth behind the whispers. Now they hear it spoken openly. For the first time.
Harold laughs—a cold, arrogant sound that holds no warmth, no humour, only dismissal.
“You speak as though humans matter,” he sneers, the words falling from his lips as if they are too beneath him to be spoken.
A collective gasp ripples through the room. Andrei stands frozen, his heart hammering against his ribs. Zyber grips the balcony railing, his face pale with shock. Neither of them truly understood until this moment how deep Harold’s contempt runs.
Harold spreads his arms wide, unashamed, unapologetic.
“Humans exist only because stronger beings allow them to exist. They are resources. Nothing more. To place them on equal footing with us… is absurd.”
Andrei clenches his fists until his nails cut into his palms. Hearing his father speak such things aloud… it is worse than anything he feared. It is the philosophy of a tyrant.
Rose’s expression darkens. Her eyes burn with quiet fire, and for a heartbeat, she looks far older than her years.
“That,” she says, her voice dropping to a tone that carries absolute certainty, “is exactly why we stand here tonight.”
Harold narrows his eyes, studying her. He sees the resolve in her stance, the way she holds herself—no fear, no hesitation. “And what exactly do you intend to do about it?” he demands. “Do you imagine one girl with a sword can change the way the world works?”
Without warning, Rose lifts her sword high. The movement is so sudden, so unexpected, that several vampires immediately step forward, ready to strike, as if waiting for Harold’s command.
But Rose does not charge. She does not throw herself into battle. Instead, she turns the blade in her hand, exposing the gleaming silver edge, and slides her open palm slowly across it.
A thin, clean line appears across her skin. Bright, warm blood wells up instantly. It glows vivid and alive against the steel—rich, aromatic, unmistakable. The scent bursts outward, filling the hall like a physical presence.
Andrei’s eyes widen in horror. He leans over the balcony railing, his voice torn from him.
“Rose—stop!”
Far outside, the Zhao family instantly recognizes what she’s doing. They smell it. They smell it before they see it—the scent hits them like a wave, sharp and bright and impossible to mistake. Suddenly, every vampire fighting in the courtyard halts mid‑blow. They freeze, heads lifting, nostrils flaring. They vanish from the courtyard, drawn irresistibly toward the source, surging back inside the hall. The fighting stops. All attention converges upon Rose.
Inside the hall, no one moves. Not the VIP guests. Not Andrei. Not Harold. The room falls utterly still. They stare at the blood upon her hand—bright, warm, and pulsing. It does not flow dark and slow like vampire blood. It glows crimson and gold, alive and powerful. Human blood. Mixed with something far older.
Harold stares. Shock ripples across his face. This girl… she is no ordinary vampire.
Inside the hall, Dan takes an instinctive step forward.Elsie’s face tightens with worry, her gaze locked upon her daughter, fear warring with pride. Jared leans forward from where he stands near the entrance, every muscle coiled tight, ready to move in an instant. They all know what comes next. They all understand the risk. And they all stand ready to protect her.
A single drop detaches from Rose’s palm. It hangs suspended in the air for a heartbeat—glowing, beautiful, and terrifying. It catches the light, refracting colours, and the scent grows stronger still.
The crowd watches in confusion. Most have no idea what they are witnessing. They see only a girl, a sword, and a drop of blood that shines too bright.
But Harold knows. Recognition crashes over him, and his face pales. There is only one kind of being whose blood shines like that, whose scent burns with such overwhelming power. A vampire does not bleed like this. A human does not possess such strength. Only one being bridges the gap between both worlds. Only one.
A dhampir.
“Seize her!” Harold roars.
Too late.
“Seize her!” he roars, his voice cracking with genuine alarm. “Stop her now!”
Too late.
Rose flicks her fingers. The droplet shoots across the room, faster than eyes can follow, faster than any vampire could hope to intercept. It strikes the injured vampire who still lies groaning by the entrance—the one she threw inside moments earlier.
For a heartbeat, nothing happens. The drop touches his chest and vanishes. Silence stretches, thick and terrible.
Then the vampire screams.
A terrible, agonising sound that tears through the hall, raw and endless. His body arches backward as if struck by lightning. He claws at his throat, gasping, choking, his mouth opening and closing without air. His skin shrivels. His frame twists unnaturally, shrinking, collapsing in upon itself. The strength drains from him in seconds—supernatural, ancient, powerful strength—consumed by the very thing meant to sustain him. Within moments, he falls still.
Silence returns. Heavy, suffocating silence.
What lies upon the floor no longer resembles anything living. It is a withered, desiccated husk—all power, all life, all supernatural essence burned away in an instant. Gasps echo throughout the hall.
“The bodies…” someone whispers, their voice trembling. “The victims found around the city… the ones drained of all power…”
“It was real…” another breathes. “The rumours were true…”
Fear spreads like wildfire through the room. Harold stares at the remains in utter disbelief. For the first time since the Zhao family arrived, genuine shock—and something close to fear—appears upon his face.
Rose lowers her hand slowly. She does not wipe the blood away. She lets them see it. Lets them understand exactly what stands before them. Her voice remains calm, steady, and terrible in its clarity as it fills every corner of the hall.
“This,” she says, “is what happens to a vampire who refuses to control their nature. This is what happens when greed becomes more important than life itself. This is what awaits anyone who believes they may treat others as nothing more than resources to be used and consumed.”
She looks directly at Harold, her crimson eyes meeting his, and he recoils as if struck.
“Your time of taking… is finished.”
No one dares speak. No one dares move. The hall holds its breath, silenced by the proof lying dead upon the floor—and by the girl standing calmly amidst them, revealing exactly what she is, and exactly what she is capable of.