Dawn of light - Reincarnated as a villain

Chapter 15: Training II

"Let's get you accustomed to the skills of your category," Drusilla said, her tone serene but bearing an underlying excitement that caused him to shiver. She moved toward him, her red eyes fastened on his, exuding a power that made it impossible for him to avoid meeting her gaze.

He swallowed hard, his instincts screaming that this wasn't going to be easy. But he pushed the fear aside, determination hardening his resolve. He had to master his skills if he ever wanted to survive in this world.

After composing himself, he stood tall in front of her. "I'm ready," he said, his voice steady.

She gave him a slight nod, her expression unreadable. "Good. Turn on your Shrouded Insight. I will adjust my speed to Tier-2 and strike you. Your job is easy: evade."

He closed his eyes briefly, intent on turning on Shrouded Insight. Reality around him subtly shifted—an invisible tapestry of life, emotion, and supernatural beings became tangible. He could sense her behind him almost instantly, a brief wave in the air, acute and feline.

Before he had even time to respond to the feeling of her presence behind him, a searing pain ripped through his arms. He stared in horror as both his arms were ripped off at the elbows, blood spurting in rythmic circles. He had hardly time to scream before his Crimson Renewal kicked in.

The regeneration was quick—three seconds only—but each second seemed to be an eternity while his body rebuilt itself. It was pain beyond description, each nerve screaming as bones fixed, muscles reconstituted, and skin mended back into place.

"You hesitated," Drusilla said, her voice cold but with a faint undercurrent of approval. "Regeneration will be second nature to you, but you must use it without hesitation. This pain is the best teacher for you."

He barely had time to nod before she moved again, sword flashing. The next two hours, she continued the onslaught, stabbing again and again. She was trying to kill him, every time, and Crimson Renewal revived him. His legs were hacked completely off more than he could number. She plunged a blade through his chest, smashed his back with the full weight of the blow, and even cut him half through, from side to side. Each injury had brought agonizing pain, and each regeneration was a matter of reliving the experience of being born.

By the time it was over, he was shaking, covered in sweat and blood, but his determination had only grown stronger. His body was learning and adapting. Every time he regenerate, the process was a fraction quicker, a little less painful.

Drusilla came to a stop at last, her scarlet blade disappearing into a cloud of mist. "You're getting better," she stated, sounding near-approval. "Having tried the worst that regeneration can give you, now let's work on your Crimson Wielding skill."

He dropped to his knees, struggling to breathe. His body ached as if it had gone through a meat grinder, but her words gave him a spark of determination again. "What... what do I have to do?" he demanded, pushing himself back to his feet.

She held out her hand, calling forth a dagger from her storage ring. She gave it to him, her eyes keen. "Cut yourself. And this time, pay attention to not triggering your regeneration right away. Let your blood run."

He hesitated for a moment before pressing the blade against his forearm, dragging it across his skin. A sharp line of pain blossomed, and dark crimson blood began to drip steadily. His body instinctively wanted to heal, but he clenched his jaw, focusing on keeping the regeneration at bay.

"Good," Drusilla said, her voice softer now. "Now, use your blood. Visualize it as an extension of yourself. Shape it. Control it."

He glared at the blood settling in his hand, wanting it to shift. Initially, it did not move, just dribbling off of his skin. But then, he sensed something—a bond, like a wire of energy tying him to the red fluid. Gradually, it started responding.

Grimacing, he concentrated more strongly, and the blood rose in the air, shaking as it hovered. Drusilla watched intently, her eyes burning with curiosity.

"Good. Shape it into something," she directed. "A spike, a tendril, whatever."

He concentrated, and the hovering blood twisted into a thin, jagged spike. It wobbled unsteadily before solidifying. He stared at it in disbelief, the raw potential of the skill dawning on him.

"Not bad for your first attempt," she said, a rare smile gracing her lips. "Keep practicing. The more you use this skill, the faster and more precise you'll become. With your regeneration, you can weaponize your own body without fear."

During the following hours, he worked ceaselessly, cutting himself over and over again in order to provide more blood for Crimson Wielding. Every time, he insisted that his regeneration wait until he had fully exploited the blood. It was hard labor, but by the end, he could make crude shapes—spikes, tendrils, even a crude blade.

"That's enough for today," said Drusilla, observing him with a look of satisfaction. "Rest now. But first, come to my room. There's something else we must do."

He blinked, perplexed but too exhausted to contest. After washing briefly and resting for a little time, he walked to her room.

Drusilla sat on her bed, her legs crossed gracefully. As she spotted him come in, she beckoned him to sit in front of her. He nodded, still not knowing what she wanted.

"As you already know...," she began, her tone soft but laced with a seductive edge, "...that I made you a vampire for only one reason—your blood."

He shifted uncomfortably but nodded, letting her continue.

"Each night after training," she whispered, drawing in a bit closer, "you'll come to my bedroom. So that I can drink your blood." Her voice softened, and she sent a chill down his neck.

He wasn't able to fully absorb her words before she sat on his lap, her face inches from his. Her breath was warm against his throat.

Then, without warning, she licked a spot on his neck, her tongue cold yet electrifying. A shiver ran through him, and before he could react further, her fangs pierced his skin.

The feeling was overwhelming—a combination of searing pain and an almost euphoric delight. As she drank, soft, sensual moans slipped from her lips, causing his heart to pound.

The intensity of the moment shattered something within him. Instinct took control, and he found himself sinking his own fangs into her neck. Her blood, warm and rich, poured into his senses, kindling a primal hunger within him.

Drusilla let out a deep, throaty moan, her arms tightening around him. The exchange was intimate, almost too intimate, and he felt a strange connection forming between them, as though their very essences were intertwining.

When she finally pulled away, her lips were stained with his blood, her eyes half-lidded with satisfaction. He reluctantly released her neck, his senses still reeling.

"You're... surprisingly good at this," she murmured, a sly smile playing on her lips.

He tried to stand, intending to return to his room, but his body betrayed him. Exhaustion overtook him, and he collapsed onto her bed.

Before sleep claimed him, he heard her soft chuckle and felt her fingers gently brushing his hair.

"Rest well, my disciple," she whispered. "Tomorrow, we will begin again."