Chapter One: When the Magician Meets the Vampire

Roland Continent, the winter in the Golantis Mountains is long and unyielding; the snow stretches endlessly, and the surrounding hills, towns, and fields seem to slumber beneath a thick quilt of white.

At the base of the mountains, in a makeshift camp, Zohan withdrew the magical and mental energies he’d used to survey his surroundings. Only after confirming there were no foes lying in wait to ambush him did he settle down, sipping his own stew while leafing through a classic tome of magic.

As on Earth, anything labeled a “classic” proved obscure and challenging. Reading such works required a significant threshold of understanding; only a rare few could lose themselves within and derive a pleasure elusive to most.

“No wonder most mages only achieve mastery after forty. Some, desperate for more years to study their art, even go so far as to transform themselves into undead beings,” Zohan mused, closing his book with satisfaction. “Someday, I’ll become just a skeleton like Ainz Ooal Gown.”

He took another sip of soup and wondered idly whether a skeleton could drink stew, and whether Ainz Ooal Gown could use psychic spells and mind control to satisfy his succubi and similar concerns.

Ah, who wouldn’t want a succubus to solve one’s daily needs?

“Master Mage—”

A young girl’s voice, clear and childish, pierced the roaring blizzard, drifting faintly to his ear. The wards he’d placed along the mountain trail didn’t react; Zohan’s ears twitched, confirming this wasn’t a monster mimicking a human girl’s voice.

“Master Mage!”

A slender girl approached him, without a thick cloak to fend off the storm, her thin jacket and dull, straw-colored hair laden with snow. Her legs shivered in worn boots, breath coming in rapid, icy bursts, her voice trembling with cold.

Such a human girl posed no threat; if she wished to harm Zohan, there were only a few rare ways she could inflict even minor injury—perhaps biting her tongue or lips, but death was nearly impossible.

He knew her, too, and relaxed, a gentle smile spreading across his face.

“Have some hearty stew,” Zohan offered, ladling a bowl for her. He noted her pale lips, eyes made large by deep-set sockets, and the scars on her face—marks from a beating. When masters are cruel, their servants suffer all the more.

She was Gwyn, granddaughter of Old Dingdang the blacksmith from Red Hazelnut Town, working for the wealthy merchant’s family.

“Thank you, kind sir,” Gwyn said, awkward and shy, cupping the warm bowl. She’d met the young mage when she came to the mountains with her grandfather some time ago.

“Drink three bowls before you speak,” Zohan smiled, patting her head. He couldn’t bear to see gentle and pitiable girls suffer.

Gwyn obediently drank three bowls. The fatty meat melted tender and hot in her throat; warmth spread through her, lips flushed with new color, her eyes brightened.

They sat together by the fire, and Gwyn explained her purpose.

The merchant’s daughter had contracted a strange illness: she’d lost all appetite for regular food and craved only human blood.

The merchant paid for townsfolk to provide blood.

Despite their fear, temptation proved too great for the poor, gamblers, and vagrants, who sold their blood.

Gradually, the merchant’s daughter needed more and more, and the pool of willing sellers dwindled, unable to meet her demand.

Gwyn noticed several servants had quietly vanished from the household—the merchant claimed they’d been sent to the city on errands.

Gwyn told her grandfather, and Old Dingdang suspected the disappearances were linked to the worsening illness.

Fearing his granddaughter might be next, Old Dingdang sent Gwyn to find Zohan, hoping the helpful mage might lend his aid.

To the old folk, mages remained the epitome of wisdom and knowledge—books stacked higher than the leaves of Golantis Mountains.

Zohan fell into thought. He couldn’t yet judge whether this was a trap laid by the merchant, Old Dingdang, and Gwyn, luring him to his doom.

On the surface, none had reason to target him, but humans, after all, could kill for the most bizarre motivations.

Especially on this continent...

In his teacher’s travel journals, nearly every few entries told of assassination attempts, betrayals, traps, kidnappings, or poisonings.

One tale etched in Zohan’s memory involved a man called Prince Wanda, who tried to kill his teacher by smearing poison on his own reproductive organ—so that intimacy would be fatal.

His motive? To prove his nickname “Ladykiller” was well-earned.

After reading such tales, Zohan resolved to tread carefully on Roland Continent, always keeping more than one eye open.

Gwyn watched him quietly, not daring to interrupt. The mage’s snow-white hair, like a spirit of the Golantis Mountains, made the young girl’s heart race.

Only when snowflakes settled on his hair and slowly melted did Gwyn whisper, “Master Mage?”

“Ahem… There are many causes for blood cravings in ordinary people; your description isn’t enough to diagnose. What did the town doctor say?” Zohan returned to himself.

As a newly fledged mage, most of his knowledge came from books; now, he searched his mind for relevant information but found no clear answers.

“Uncle Phoebe said, you could dig a hole in the wall, have her upper body inside and lower half outside, and wait till midnight when moonlight shines on her rear, round and bright as the moon, to lure a howling werewolf to mate with her. That would cure her.”

A faint blush tinged Gwyn’s thin cheeks; girls working for the merchant grew up fast. “If there’s no werewolf, then all the men in town must take turns.”

“What’s the principle behind that cure? As expected of Doctor Phoebe.” Zohan was baffled, and a little impressed.

Local doctors, lacking experience, money for expensive medical texts, or training in city academies, often relied on wild imagination to tackle difficult cases.

“In the end, Uncle Phoebe got beaten up and will have to rest for half a month,” Gwyn said sympathetically. Being Red Hazelnut Town’s only doctor saved him from death.

“Well, I’ll go take a look,” Zohan said, still suspicious. If there’s a plot, will it end with him getting beaten too? Phoebe was the town doctor; the merchant might show restraint, but Zohan might not be so lucky.

Still, curiosity outweighed caution—what’s the point of traveling if you never investigate such mysteries?

Most importantly, Zohan was adept at escaping: he knew ropes, knots, and how to slip bindings.

He had dungeon escape skills, magic to resist hunger and pain.

Gwyn bounced with delight. Though Miss Selyade was often violent, beating servants within an inch of their lives, lately she seemed more terrifying. Gwyn hoped she could recover.

Zohan opened his chest—shaped much like a treasure box—dressed in robe, cloak, and high boots, buckled his belt, and transformed into the archetypal mage. With staff and luggage in hand, he followed Gwyn toward Red Hazelnut Town.

Hazelnut groves surrounded the town; a small river cut through it, and at the southwestern corner, a spring never froze.

Backed by the mineral riches of the Golantis Mountains, such a town ought to be prosperous. In reality, all land and mining rights belonged to the Aldos merchant family.

Residents, whether farming, logging, fishing, or mining, first paid the Aldos family.

Any gains had to be sold to the Aldos family, incurring yet another tax.

The people of Red Hazelnut Town could never escape two things: birth, death, and the Aldos family.

“Sir, this is the mage who recently arrived in the Golantis Mountains.”

At the merchant’s manor, confronted by the massive Aldos patriarch, whose arm seemed thicker than Gwyn’s whole frame, she shrank back in fear and introduced Zohan.

Zohan observed calmly; the room was large and sparse, with no magic-resistant materials on roof or walls.

This was not a mage ambush site. The entrances and windows lacked hidden guards, axemen, or archers—according to his teacher’s notes, rural merchants favored such traps.

So Zohan set down his luggage, finally eyeing the leech before him—parasite of Red Hazelnut Town, drinking its lifeblood.

This merchant, with his size, possessed unusual strength. If a mage were frail and slow to react, he’d have a crushing advantage. Yet he lacked agility; approaching a wary Zohan would be hard, let alone launching a deadly attack.

“Greetings, Master Aldos,” Zohan said, staff in hand, wearing the professional, calm smile honed by years of work.

Master Aldos shifted his bulk, chair groaning under the strain.

He ignored Gwyn completely, showing no gratitude for her risking frost and death to bring help, only squinting his beady eyes as he silently regarded the young mage.