Blood Awakening: The Strongest Hybrid and His Vampire Bride

The portal hissed open behind him.

Faint blue light shimmered along the ring’s surface, pulsing like a heartbeat—slow and quiet, as if afraid of what had just happened on the floor below.

Nikolai stood at the edge, chest still heaving, the taste of copper thick on his tongue.

His arm trembled. The obsidian plating along his forearm had begun to crack. Not from damage, but from pressure—the way a container strains when it holds more than it was built for. Steam coiled from his back, his sweat now tinged with the strange scent of old linen and surgical steel.

He didn’t walk forward right away.

He turned, facing the arena’s remains.

Where the Flesh Architect had stood

There was nothing now. Not even bone. Just a blackened circle scorched into the floor, the steel melted and warped like plastic as if the dungeon itself had tried to erase the evidence of what it let loose.

Nikolai exhaled.

The breath was long. Steady.

Then, without a word, he stripped off the shredded remains of his upper robe and let them fall beside the portal. His torso was a map of bruises and claw marks, deep furrows still smoking with residual aura. His muscles spasmed, not from pain, but from adaptation.

It was like his body didn’t know how to hold all the power now surging through his veins.

He looked down at his hand. The veins had gone darker. Thicker. The black was rising—slowly climbing up past his wrists.

’It’s starting to linger, even after dropping my transformation...’

He clenched his fist. Stepped forward.

The moment his foot passed through the gate, the world changed.

Light.

Soft. Blinding.

It felt… wrong.

The stone beneath him was replaced by white marble. The walls around him faded into columns of impossible height, holding up a sky that wasn’t sky at all — just a dome painted with clouds, the sun a luminous glass circle suspended above like a chandelier.

Nikolai covered his eyes from the shine—the whole thing seemed fake, hollow... like a false heaven.

Even before the system confirmed it, Nikolai already knew the name.

He adjusted his posture, standing straighter, as the weight of the next floor pressed in from all sides.

Behind his eyes, something darker stirred.

——

Back at the Volkov estate, the dining hall was warm and smelled of eggs, fried dumplings, and warm milk. A calm morning. It was one of the few they had in days.

No violence, fighting or dangerous clan trying to kill them.

Risa chewed on crispy bacon with her eyes narrowed in delight, half eating and half distracted by the glowing red thread connecting to her chest.

She tilted her head as it danced through the air.

”Hey... is it only me that’s noticed this thing getting bigger?”

Nikita grunted, mouth full of steaming buns. ”It’s thicker. You noticed too?”

Selene didn’t answer.

She stood silently at the far end of the table, one hand resting on the edge, eyes closed. The red string that flowed from her finger wasn’t just thicker.

It was glowing.

Beside her, Kumiko knelt in perfect posture, her chopsticks paused mid-air. She didn’t look at anyone—her gaze was locked on her thread, golden eyes narrowed.

”…It’s not just an increase in power,” Kumiko murmured. ”It’s a reaction. Like beating… along with Nikolai’s heart.”

”Well, it does feel quite similar,” Selene added quietly.

The room quieted.

Even Amphitrite stopped humming, her spoon clinking against the edge of her tea bowl.

Then, from somewhere beneath the skin, the black thread linking to Lunaria and Amphitrite began to coil, growing, stretching, thickening like smoke-wrapped silk.

Risa squinted. ”Is that… normal?”

”No,” Kumiko said.

Selene’s eyes opened. ”He’s probably pushing himself again. That fool, but at least he’s growing stronger.”

Kumiko nodded. ”He’s climbing alone. But we can help from here.”

She turned, rising with quiet grace. ”He still has responsibilities. As Patriarch. If he falls behind…”

”We’ll handle it,” Selene said simply.

The two women looked at each other.

Nothing more needed to be said.

Within the hour, they had summoned Leona to the study, and by midday, the sealed records of alliance management, political summons, and the Moonlight Council’s daily reports were already spread across the war table.

Ivan didn’t stop them.

He stood in the doorway once, watched them quietly, and gave a small nod.

Then he left without a word.

Letting them work.

Letting them act as his wives.

The work wasn’t easy, with Nikita and Risa becoming annoyed by the complicated language used on the documents for no reason.

”Why are they writing in such a strange fashion!?”

”I don’t know!” Risa hissed back. ”It’s annoying.”

Meanwhile, Selene and Kumiko sat together, scribbling along the documents they split between themselves without complaints. Silent. Focused.

Amphitrite and Lunaria were helping with documents related to events and the clan’s budget, with Selene taking care of the important documents. They were helping her check for mistakes and errors and proofreading her documents.

In the office, it became quiet, despite the six women all working together.

——

Meanwhile, the path beyond the portal didn’t open into a corridor or battlefield.

It opened into sunlight.

Warm, soft, golden light poured across cobblestone streets, the kind you’d expect in an old-world city untouched by industry. Trees lined the sides of the wide path, their blossoms a pale lilac hue. Marble walls shimmered around distant gardens, and gentle bells chimed faintly in the windless air.

Nikolai stepped through without drawing his claws.

The change in atmosphere was immediate — not threatening, but... off. The air smelled clean. Too clean. Like it had been filtered. Sterilised. The kind of air no real world ever held.

He walked forward, slow and alert, his eyes scanning every inch of the open boulevard. The city stretched outward like a painter’s fantasy — beautiful but too symmetrical, every window gleaming, every corner soft.

A voice called out.

”Welcome back, Lord Nikolai.”

The voice floated out like a breeze—light, affectionate, unearned.

Nikolai turned.

The woman standing before him was graceful in every way: tall, her posture perfect, her smile poised between warmth and reverence. She wore a ceremonial robe trimmed in silver thread, her hands folded in front of her like she’d been rehearsing this moment for hours.

Her face looked… familiar.

Not exact.

But the shape of her cheeks, the curve of her mouth, the slight cant of her eyes — it all echoed people he’d known. As if someone had pulled traits from old memories and pressed them into wax, then given that wax a heartbeat.

He didn’t answer.

The woman didn’t mind.

She bowed gently at the waist, then turned to lead him forward, her steps as quiet as snow.

As Nikolai followed, others began to appear. People emerged from shop doors, flower-lined alleys, and behind polished garden gates, all smiling, calm, watching him.

No one spoke. No one moved too quickly.

But they all looked at him like he mattered.

Like he was theirs.

A man by a cart of apples nodded.

A child waved.

A row of young women knelt in unison by a white rose fountain.

Their faces weren’t exact matches to anyone he knew, but they were close.

Too close.

He couldn’t help but feel they resembled the people at the mansion, his wives and past friends from college and high school. It made Nikolai feel unsettled as she entered further.

He kept walking.

The path curved into a central plaza lined with more marble benches, glowing trees, and slow-moving fountains where the water shimmered too perfectly to be real. Everything was clean. Untouched. Static. As though the city had been made and then frozen in this moment, waiting for his arrival like a stage set before the play.

Nikolai’s steps echoed, but not quite right.

No delay. No natural reverb. The sound of his boots striking the stone was flattened, processed, too uniform — the kind of echo you’d hear in a simulation.

And still the people watched him.

Smiling.

A woman passed by holding a parasol that didn’t cast a shadow.

Two boys chased each other down the road, but their feet never disturbed the dust.

The further he moved, the clearer it became — they weren’t people.

They were dolls.

Not porcelain or wood, but something far worse. Synthetic flesh stretched over artificial bone, moving in practiced grace, mimicking life so perfectly that it took time for your gut to notice something was off. Their eyes were too still. Their breath too shallow. And none of them—none—had aura.

He reached the plaza’s heart.

A white circular platform rose slightly above the cobbles, surrounded by arches shaped like blooming flowers, every petal etched in gold. In the centre stood a single chair, wide and low, more like a waiting seat than a throne.

And around it, they gathered.

Men and women. Old and young. A crowd forming with casual choreography.

Some of their faces resembled Ivan.

Some had Kumiko’s stillness. Risa’s smile. Nikita’s lazy sprawl. Even Lunaria’s soft eyes peered out from behind a stranger’s lashes.

None of them spoke.

They just watched.

Waiting.

Nikolai took a step toward the chair—and stopped.

The moment his boot touched the edge of the dais, the light above flickered. A low tone rippled across the plaza, like a pulse.

And the city exhaled.

Every eye blinked in unison.

Then they said, perfectly together:

”Sit.”

Nikolai didn’t move.

He looked down at the chair, at the fine cloth stretched across it. Black velvet. Gold trim. His family’s crest—faintly sewn into the centre.

It was shaped for him.

Sized for him.

Waiting.

But he didn’t move.

His jaw tensed as his gaze slowly rose again to scan the city.

He could see it now.

The careful cracks beneath the beauty.

The trembling symmetry.

The subtle decay in the corners of windowpanes.

The imperfection hides beneath flawless intention.

A trap wrapped in comfort.

A throne built to cage him in velvet.

And then, from behind him, he heard a second voice.

Small. Familiar.

”…Please don’t leave us again.”

He turned.

And saw a figure standing alone.

One that looked almost exactly like Kumiko.