"Phantom Rebirth: The Last White Raven’s Path to the Ultimate Assassin"

A dim red glow filled the lavish chamber, casting elongated shadows across the walls lined with intricate carvings of ancient rituals. The air carried the thick scent of aged parchment, exotic incense, and something darker—the unmistakable metallic tang of blood.

At the center of the room, Countess Isolde Veyne, the infamous Blood Collector, reclined upon a chaise draped in the deepest crimson. Her gown, spun from silk so dark it seemed to absorb the light, clung to her like liquid shadow.

In her lap, a sleek white serpent hissed, its forked tongue flickering toward the air. Its scales shimmered unnaturally, and its eyes—black as the void—held the same hunger as its mistress.

Isolde ran her delicate fingers along the serpent’s smooth body, her nails painted the color of freshly spilled wine. Her lips curled into a knowing smirk as she took a long sip from a goblet filled with something far richer than wine.

The chamber door creaked open.

A figure stepped inside.

A vampire, clad in the dark garb of a messenger, his cloak tattered, his face pale even by undead standards. He dropped to one knee, bowing his head, but his breath was labored, his shoulders tense.

Isolde knew the answer before he even spoke.

She took another sip, savoring the taste, before finally acknowledging him with a slow blink of her cold, violet eyes.

“Speak.”

The vampire hesitated. Then, in a voice barely above a whisper, he answered.

“The twenty you sent… they have fallen.”

For a moment, silence.

Then—a soft chuckle.

Not anger. Not frustration. Not surprise.

Just amusement.

Isolde leaned forward slightly, setting down her goblet. Her smile widened, revealing gleaming fangs.

“Did they succeed?”

The messenger nodded, though hesitation still clung to his movements. He reached inside his cloak.

From its folds, he produced a small glass vial, the crimson liquid inside swirling unnaturally, pulsing as if still alive.

A sample.

Seraphis’ blood.

At the sight of it, Isolde’s breath hitched.

The serpent in her lap stiffened, its gaze locking onto the vial as if it, too, could feel the power thrumming within.

Isolde extended her hand, her fingers ghosting over the glass. She could feel it.

The power. The potential. The very essence of a being who had defied death itself.

She took the vial delicately, holding it up to the flickering candlelight. The blood within was not normal.

It shimmered. It pulsed. It called to her.

Slowly, almost reverently, she unscrewed the top.

A single drop. That was all it took.

She let it fall onto her tongue.

The moment it touched her lips—her world exploded.

A sharp, searing sensation burned through her veins. Her body jerked, her back arching as a foreign energy surged through her.

Her breath came in ragged gasps, her pupils dilating, her hands clenching into fists so tight that her nails drew blood from her own palms.

She could see.

She could feel.

Flashes of battle. The flickering white blur of a woman—no, a hunter—moving faster than thought. Cards flying. Blades slicing. Blood spraying.

The taste of iron. The scent of death.

And then—pain.

A wound. A weakness.

Isolde’s lips parted in an exhale that was half agony, half ecstasy.

She had her answer.

She licked the last trace of the blood from her lips, her gaze snapping back to the trembling messenger.

“Find her.” Her voice was softer than a whisper, yet it carried an undeniable weight.

The vampire hesitated. “My lady, she is—”

“I don’t care.”

She rose from her seat, the serpent slithering from her lap as she moved with unnatural grace.

The room seemed darker now.

Her silhouette was sharper, her violet eyes glowing in the dimness.

“Seraphis.”

The name curled on her tongue like a prayer. Like a curse.

She wanted more.

And she would have it.

Even if it meant draining every last drop from the source.