"So early?" The figure huddled in the shadowy corner of the room leaned forward with interest. "Then this vampire must know a lot of things."
"…Actually, he told me he's already forgotten a great many things. Because those matters had nothing to do with him—he's always kept himself rather detached from the world." The black-haired man pressed a hand to his temple, looking utterly exhausted. "The things he remembers most clearly are always about himself. Every time he recalls those memories, I can see a brilliant gleam in his eyes, as though that past is his most precious treasure."
"I still remember what it was like when I was human. I was born in an ordinary little town: the streets were paved with uneven cobblestones, worn into dips and rises by centuries of footsteps. Ancient buildings still stood on either side, constructed from heavy stone blocks; in slanting sunlight their walls glowed faintly with moss, like the marks of time itself. Window frames were adorned with delicate wrought-iron flowers, and every wooden beam bore the weathered scars of history. At the town market, stalls overflowed with goods of every color. Vendors in coarse woolen robes led horse-drawn carts, lazily calling out their wares. Bright fruits and vegetables, fresh meat, and loaves straight from the oven sat on wooden counters, drawing in passersby.
My childhood wasn't poor, nor was it wealthy—just comfortably average. Back then I was like you: endlessly curious, filled with an insatiable desire to explore and learn about everything." He sat across from me and spoke slowly. "Life in the town moved at a very slow pace; people repeated the same routines day after day. When I was little, my favorite place was the tavern in town. The tavern was the heart of the place—always bustling. Its rough wooden door was carved with a goblet and an axe; bright lanterns hung from the porch, lit at nightfall to illuminate the faces of those coming in search of merriment. Inside the spacious, well-lit hall, long wooden tables groaned under abundant food: stews, roasted fish, fresh vegetables—all giving off mouthwatering aromas. Laughter, chatter, and the telling of tales filled the air; it felt like stepping into a lively little paradise cut off from the world. You could see all kinds of people there: during the day, families and friends gathered to eat and talk cheerfully; at night, drunken companions slung arms around each other's shoulders, roaring with laughter. I often stayed there all day, ordering a portion of stew—sometimes even skipping lessons just to listen to the storyteller who sat in the tavern."
The vampire sank into his memories, his face glowing with animation. "Just like I'm telling stories to you now."
"You're saying you used to be human?!" I blurted out in astonishment, completely interrupting him without realizing it. He frowned slightly, as though I had prodded at a memory he least wanted to touch.
"Yes. I was once human."
"Then you…"
"I was later turned by a vampire." He narrowed his eyes slightly, staring at the scarlet liquid swirling in his glass under the dim light. "But I didn't like him. He…"
"How did he take an interest in you?"
"Stop interrupting me all the time! That annoying habit of yours is truly insufferable." He snapped sharply, baring his fangs just a little; disgust flickered in his eyes—whether toward me or toward that other vampire, I couldn't tell. "At the time my parents weren't home, so I planned to spend a lonely evening at that little tavern. And that was when the person who would change my life forever appeared." His voice dropped low, as though he were sinking deep into a memory that still shook his soul.
"That night, I was sitting in my usual corner, savoring my customary plate of stew. Ah, right—" He closed his eyes, took a slow sip of red wine, then said with relish, "Old John."
"What?"
"Old John." He opened his eyes impatiently; those blood-red pupils fixed straight on me, sending that soul-piercing gaze washing over me once again. "He was my favorite storyteller. He always sat on the high platform in the tavern, telling his tales in a booming voice. He had a kindly square face, a bald patch on his head, wore thick robes, and his long beard dragged along the floor—I suspect he never once washed it. He told every kind of story—history, novels, myths. Ah, those days were so wonderful."
"Do you smoke?" I held out a cigarette to him.
"What?… No, thank you, I don't smoke."
Click—the sound of a lighter striking echoed discordantly in the room. The vampire frowned slightly, then opened the window. Faint outside noises drifted in along with the cold breeze, extinguishing the medieval-style candles inside. In the darkness, all I could see were his icy pupils, carrying a depth of emotion.
"But that night, when I sat in the tavern as usual, Old John wasn't on the high platform. In his place was someone I had never seen before. For some reason, the instant I saw him, I felt an overwhelming presence—even though the tavern had hosted all sorts of unusual guests, his aura was completely unlike anyone else's. For the first time in my life as an ordinary commoner, I understood what 'nobility' truly meant. He stood out like a swan among a flock of ducks. That man had jet-black hair falling to his shoulders, lifeless gray eyes that swept across the entire tavern. He wore a simple long formal coat, but what drew the most attention was his skin—pale, almost luminous under the dim lamplight. In the hand covered by lace cuffs he held a glass of fruit wine; he sat elegantly on the high platform, as though searching for someone."
"He was the one…"
"Yes." The vampire gazed at me quietly, his figure half-hidden in shadow. "At that time, still young and innocent, I stared at him just like you do now—full of curiosity. I thought he must have some connection to Old John. So I walked over to that mysterious man, hoping to get some information from him. 'Good evening, sir. I don't believe I've seen you here before,' I said politely. 'Have you seen Old John by any chance?'"
"'Old John?'" He spoke; his voice was hoarse, yet carried a strangely slick, unsettling smoothness. "'I've never heard that name.'"
"'But… you're sitting in his spot. This is Old John's place. If you sit here, he won't have anywhere to sit, and he won't be able to tell us stories.' Naively, I tried to get him to leave the seat, thinking that would bring Old John back. 'Could you please move from that spot?'"
The vampire rubbed his chin. "He just smiled, said nothing, and soon stepped down from the platform. Then he walked straight over to the seat beside mine—and sat there."
"So from that moment—"
"Yes, I suspect he became interested in me right from then." The vampire let out a long sigh and shook his head, as though trying to shake the memory out of his mind entirely. "He just sat there quietly, smiling and watching me. No matter where I went in the tavern, I could feel his burning gaze fixed on me—like a hunter locking onto his prey."
"I waited all night, but Old John never came. He had always been there rain or shine—never missed appearing on that platform, shouting to draw everyone's attention, pulling out a stack of tattered parchment, and launching into his stories at full volume. But that night, he never showed. I waited and waited until the sky was almost light, and still nothing."
"You really stayed up the whole night?"
"Yes… I kept pacing back and forth in the tavern. Every time someone entered, I anxiously checked to see if it was that familiar figure—but it never was. No one was him. Eventually I went home. Before I left, dawn was just beginning to break. I happened to glance back at my seat—and realized the strange man who had been sitting beside me the whole time had already vanished."
He took another sip of wine; his long, sharp fangs clinked softly against the glass. I stared at him.
"You…"
He raised an eyebrow. "What?"
I asked blankly, "…Are you afraid of sunlight?"
"His reaction after that really pissed me off." The black-haired man lit a fresh cigarette, took a fierce drag; the room filled with choking smoke. "He laughed loudly at me, as though he'd just heard the funniest joke in the world. 'Sunlight? No, I'm not afraid.'" The man exhaled the smoke, his face flushed red. "'Sunlight, crosses, holy water, garlic—none of that bothers me in the slightest.' He mocked me like that, toying with my ignorance."
The figure shifted again. "But I remember in all those literary works, vampires are supposed to be afraid of those things."
"I asked him the exact same question." The man's face turned an angry purple. "And this is what he said: 'Go read your literature, then come at me with those products of human imagination and see what happens.' I felt utterly humiliated. His words hit me like a hammer, forcing me to realize just how foolish I had been." The man slammed his fist on the table. "Who the hell did he think he was? Damn vampire… so arrogant, so conceited, treating humans like some lowly species." He pounded the table viciously.
The figure sensed his rage and shrank back into the chair. "…By the way, I haven't asked your name yet."
"Saleos. Saleos Metatron." The man took another deep drag, as though trying to exhale all his anger through the cigarette.
"Do you know what that vampire's name was?"
"Edward."