Title: The Vampire King of Britannia

Rudolph Hill had arrived by car, parking just outside the apartment building.

"Hop in, Detective," he said, pulling open the door with an air of exaggerated courtesy. His actions drew the attention of a few nosy neighbors peering through their windows.

Lorien didn't hesitate. He gave a curt nod, slid into the back seat, and ran a hand over the leather cushions.

Oliver Winston's estate was located in the countryside, a considerable distance from Lorien's apartment. As the dark red automobile sped down the misty cobblestone roads, the city's dim lights stretched into streaks, blurred by the ever-present fog.

Rudolph, keeping one hand on the wheel, spared the other to gesture as he spoke.

"Jack Arnold was from Plymouth. Twenty-seven years old. He's been working for the Winston household since 1883," he said, his voice carrying a note of genuine regret. "He was practically family to Mr. Winston, and to think it ended this way… It's truly a shame."

Sighing, Rudolph returned to the facts. "Arnold was a reserved man—aloof, a man of few words. He preferred quiet to crowds, yet was sharp-minded and efficient. He had a habit of reading, something Mr. Winston deeply appreciated. Last year, he was promoted to head footman and also served as Mr. Winston's personal valet."

He glanced at Lorien through the rearview mirror. "Earlier this year, due to certain… economic difficulties, Mr. Winston had to lay off more than half of his household staff. Yet Jack Arnold remained. Even in the midst of cutbacks, he continued receiving a weekly salary of 150 shillings—15 pounds, no less."

Rudolph's expression turned somber. "Upon hearing the news of his death, Mr. Winston—who is nearly seventy—was devastated. His health took a turn for the worse, and he's been bedridden since. He entrusted me with handling Arnold's affairs and made it clear that the matter must be dealt with properly."

Lorien listened in silence, hands tucked into the pockets of his trench coat.

Inside, nestled within the fabric, a few ants lay dormant—mutated creatures that had fed on his blood.

His acceptance of this case wasn't solely motivated by the promised payment. He was more intrigued by the prospect of examining a human corpse firsthand. His earlier experiments had shown that even dead insects could be revived after consuming his blood. Though their behavior became strange—almost unnatural—they did, indeed, return to life.

"Number Two," the mutated ant that had granted him "environmental perception," had once been dead.

This was something worth investigating further.

An hour later, the outlines of a private estate emerged from the veil of night.

"This is Tepes Manor," Rudolph explained as the car approached. "Mr. Winston bought the estate and repurposed it solely as a residence. Most of the agricultural and industrial operations were abandoned, reducing the necessary staff to a skeleton crew of about a dozen people."

Shadows receded as they neared the building. A path of glowing lanterns stretched from the entrance to the grand Victorian-style manor, its towering spires and ornate embellishments standing out starkly against the night sky.

A guardhouse was visible through the windows, where a few watchmen were stationed for the night.

The car rolled to a stop in the courtyard, and Lorien was the first to step out.

The stone pavement was still damp from earlier rain. The grand estate—adorned with pointed arch windows, elegant carvings, and floral embellishments—radiated an almost theatrical presence.

"Nice place," Lorien remarked flatly.

Rudolph chuckled as he stepped up beside him. "Not mine, Detective. I'm merely a loyal servant to Mr. Winston. Now, if you'd follow me—time is of the essence."

Lorien inhaled.

The air carried a faint, lingering scent of iron.

He said nothing and followed Rudolph inside.

Jack Arnold had died in his own room—Room 104.

Following the discovery of his body, the entire servant quarters had been cordoned off with bright yellow-and-black police tape. The household staff—maids, cooks, and laundresses—had been gathered into an adjacent hall to await questioning.

Standing at the entrance to the dormitory were two individuals in navy-blue uniforms.

A man and a woman.

The man was tall—nearly Lorien's height, perhaps around six feet.

The woman was shorter in comparison, but still tall by most standards—five foot seven, at least.

They stood at the doorway, engaged in quiet conversation, but straightened up when they noticed Rudolph approaching.

"Mr. Hill," the male officer greeted.

"Apologies for the wait," Rudolph replied smoothly.

"Not at all," the officer replied, waving off the concern. "We've only just finished gathering statements."

Rudolph turned to Lorien.

"These are detectives from the Metropolitan Police. Detective Vincent and Detective Winnie."

Then, he turned to them.

"This is Mr. Lorien, a professional investigator. He'll be working alongside you on this case."

"Nice to meet you, Detective," Winnie said, stepping forward with an easy-going smile.

She wore her hair in a ponytail and had fair skin—unusual for a field officer who spent hours on patrol.

Lorien returned the handshake briefly. He was never good at small talk.

Vincent, meanwhile, crossed his arms, smirking slightly as he observed their exchange.

Winnie caught his look and shot him a glare before turning back to business.

"Shall we get started?"

"Yes," Lorien agreed immediately.

He had no interest in wasting time.

He inquired about the investigation so far and learned that the detectives had only gathered basic information from the staff. The body had yet to be examined in detail.

"Let's head to the crime scene," Winnie suggested.

Vincent nodded in agreement.

Crossing the police tape, the group entered Room 104.

The stench hit them immediately—a mix of dried blood and the first traces of decomposition.

"Urgh…"

Even Lorien, despite his mental preparations, almost lost his composure.

He lifted a hand to his nose and took several seconds to adjust before shifting his attention to the scene.

Jack Arnold's corpse lay sprawled on the ground, face turned toward the ceiling.

A single, clean wound marked his throat—three inches long, precise.

Blood had spread in a fan-like pattern across the floor, congealed into dark, dried rivulets.

In his hand, he still clutched a common fruit knife—the supposed murder weapon.

The room was undisturbed. No overturned furniture, no signs of struggle. It was staged like a textbook suicide.

On the bedside table, next to a ticking clock, was a framed black-and-white photograph.

A young man, expression cold and detached, wearing a black vest over a white dress shirt.

The background was a stretch of green lawn—the estate's garden.

Lorien's experience with corpses was limited.

He couldn't determine the exact time of death nor confirm whether the wound had truly been fatal.

Still, two things were clear.

One, the man had died from either blood loss or asphyxiation.

Two… something didn't add up.

Turning to the detectives, he posed a simple question.

"So," he said. "What do you think?"