Chapter Text
Paulecrain could no longer remember exactly how long he had lived—several centuries, at least, by a rough estimate. He slowly sat up from his coffin, rubbing his temples, letting out a casual yawn. Leaning against the edge of the coffin, he leisurely began yet another long night of existence. Naturally, anyone who had lived for centuries couldn’t possibly be human. And indeed, Paulecrain wasn’t. He was a vampire.
For ordinary humans, a good day starts at dawn. For Paulecrain, his "day" began when the night descended. As darkness cloaked the land, Paulecrain wandered through the nearly abandoned monastery he called home. The ancient stonework of the castle-like structure had been eroded by the relentless passage of time. Vines coiled in forgotten corners, and through the shattered glass of its windows, moonlight poured in, casting fragmented, shadowy patterns across the floors. This monastery saw few visitors these days; the last devout monk who had sought solitude here had been drained of all his remaining worth—literally. Now, as a pile of ashes, he was likely being whisked away by the wind to some distant place.
Paulecrain had deemed this location an excellent retreat for his "retirement." While he wasn’t particularly old by vampire standards, he had no interest in the hobbies of his kind: seducing humans with their otherworldly allure, sparring with fellow vampires to satisfy an idle craving for bloodlust, or parading their superiority in senseless displays. Paulecrain preferred to live a quieter life, carving out his own little world. That wasn’t to say he lacked power—rumor had it he once fought a direct descendant of a legendary vampire clan to a standstill. His opponent, said to be as burly as a bull, had failed to overpower Paulecrain despite standing half a head taller than him. Paulecrain, by comparison, might have looked more like a mule next to a bull, but as the saying goes, a mule can outmaneuver a bull. In the end, the bull failed to best the mule, and Paulecrain was content to leave it at that.
The downside of Paulecrain’s excessively laid-back attitude toward his nearly endless life was that he often found himself needing to relocate. Bustling towns were too noisy for his taste, and the desolate wilderness was simply impractical. Sure, a vampire could theoretically go months or even years without feeding, but there was a limit to how much asceticism he could endure. In Paulecrain’s ideal world, he would live a semi-secluded life—somewhere not completely isolated yet far from the hustle and bustle of humanity. Ideally, it would be a place where the occasional hapless traveler might stumble into his domain, practically offering themselves up to be… eaten—no, that didn’t sound right. "Eaten" wasn’t a particularly refined term, and while Paulecrain wasn’t the most cultured vampire around, even he felt it lacked elegance.
"Fed upon" was better, perhaps.
So when Paulecrain discovered this near-abandoned monastery, he was practically euphoric—his joy could’ve sent him spiraling into the sky. Aside from the unfortunate elderly monk who had expired the moment their gazes met, there wasn’t another soul in sight. The place was distant enough from the noise of cities and devoid of any significant threats. After all, who would bother paying attention to a decrepit old monastery like this? Paulecrain decided to settle here.
The monastery exuded an air of profound stillness and mystery, as if time itself had stopped. Paulecrain wandered through its narrow hallways and beneath its towering stone walls, his footsteps echoing faintly—an almost eerie accompaniment to his solitude. While his centuries had worn down his vitality, a glimmer of something—anticipation, perhaps?—still flickered in his small, sharp eyes. He appeared to be searching for something… or someone.
“What are you looking for?” A voice suddenly called from behind him.
“You,” Paulecrain replied nonchalantly, taking a book from the figure’s hands. “You move so quietly, it’s scarier than me.”
His gaze flicked to the ancient tome now in his possession, and he scoffed. “Still reading this old thing?”
“It’s the third volume,” the other person replied.
Paulecrain grunted in acknowledgment and slowed his pace slightly.
It’s hard to precisely define the relationship between Paulecrain and this individual. Perhaps it’s best to begin by recounting the circumstances of their initial meeting.
In the beginning, Paulecrain lived quietly in the monastery for over half a year. One evening, he went for his usual stroll. By now, he had explored nearly every corner of the place. Beyond the expected remnants of a crumbling monastery, he’d stumbled across something rather surprising—a remarkably large library. At first, Paulecrain was intrigued and wanted to take a look inside. However, the moment he stepped through the door, he immediately backed out again.
The library was ancient, and it seemed even the old monk hadn’t visited it often. The stench was overwhelming, a mix of mildew, dust, and decay that Paulecrain had no intention of enduring. Inside were countless religious texts and ancient tomes—exactly the kind of material that Paulecrain wouldn’t willingly touch in this life, or the next. While he had a passing curiosity about knowledge, reading was far from his idea of a good time. For him, the most important thing was safety. Choosing to hide in the monastery might seem risky at first glance, but in truth, it was safer than most other places. If he wished, his presence could remain so inconspicuous that it would only be revealed under the faint glow of candlelight.
The walls of the monastery were adorned with ancient paintings, many of which depicted religious stories or portraits of its past clergy. As Paulecrain’s gaze wandered, it fell on a heavy curtain. He realized there was something behind it that he hadn’t noticed before. With a touch of curiosity, he lifted the curtain, revealing a painting.
The artwork portrayed a young man with a serene expression. Clad in robes, the figure held an ancient scripture and gazed into the distance, his eyes carrying an almost ethereal quality. Paulecrain stared at the painting for a while, feeling as if the young man depicted within was searching for something—though it was clear he hadn’t found it.
The light of the surrounding candles flickered, casting faint shadows that gave the painted figure’s gaze an added depth. After a moment, Paulecrain let the curtain drop back into place. But just as he turned away, a faint sound echoed through the quiet monastery.
In a place so silent that even a pin drop could be heard, the sudden noise startled Paulecrain so much he nearly leaped into the air.
He turned, his sharp eyes scanning the far end of the corridor. There, at the source of the sound, his gaze settled on something unexpected: a stone coffin.
Hell’s bells. Was there something inside that stone coffin?
Paulecrain muttered a curse under his breath. He hadn’t paid any attention to this thing before. He had assumed it was just a boring skeleton or some equally lifeless artifact, considering how utterly deserted this decrepit monastery was. And yet, after more than six months of living here—practically draining every nearby “volunteer” who stumbled into his vicinity—he now discovered that, just a few steps away, this stone coffin had managed to stay disturbingly active.
“Che diavolo!” he muttered as he approached the stone coffin and placed his hands on the lid. With a grunt, he pushed it open. The heavy cover scraped softly against the stone, a sound that echoed faintly in the quiet corridor. As the lid slid aside, a dim shaft of candlelight spilled into the coffin, illuminating what lay within. Paulecrain squinted, his sharp eyes adjusting to the gloom as he stared down at a form unlike anything he’d encountered in his centuries of existence.
Inside was a body—no, a construct—an unnatural fusion of machine and flesh. The sight was grotesque, yet fascinating. Dead limbs had been stitched together to form its frame, the pale, snow-like skin stretched tight across what could only be described as the shell of an undead creature. Mechanical components crisscrossed its body, gears and rivets embedded into flesh, as if these parts were essential to keeping it alive—or whatever state it was in.
Its face was a patchwork of scars, haphazardly pieced together with skin—or something like it—crudely stitched into place. The musculature was distinct, but even that appeared less organic and more a functional part of the machinery. Its arms were a blend of metal and skin, its fingers unnervingly delicate, crafted with a precision that seemed out of place on such a monstrosity.
The overall effect was both terrifying and strangely pitiable, as if this creature was a tragic symbol of humanity’s desperate attempt to meld with machinery and cheat mortality.
For the first time in a long while, Paulecrain’s face showed something rare: genuine surprise. He stared silently at the creature, examining its strange anatomy, trying to piece together how something like this had been created. Even for someone like him—a vampire with a long history of encounters with the strange and the unspeakable—this was entirely new. He couldn’t help but think to himself, “Maybe I should head to town later and try my luck with a lottery ticket.”
Almost without thinking, Paulecrain asked, "Can you talk? Do you have a name? I can’t just call you ‘hey’ or—"
“Little monster or something?”
Paulecrain hesitated, carefully choosing his words. For the first time, he felt like a desperate illiterate grasping at straws.
It didn’t reply but pointed to the scattered papers on the ground. Paulecrain picked one up, its dried ink faint and scrawled in a clumsy hand. Among the smudges, a human name could just barely be made out.
“Noudenet…?”
He looked up to see its mechanical eyes glint faintly in the moonlight, as if reacting to the sound of its name.