Sorry, I'm Just a Weak Little Vampire
Genevieve already died once. A silver stake. A half-blood's betrayal. Never again.
She wakes up three years before the prophecy. Her power is intact. Her knowledge is complete. She could destroy everyone who wronged her.
But that sounds like effort.
So instead, she plays weak. She trips. She cries. She hides under desks. She tells everyone: "Sorry, I'm just a weak little vampire."
Let Rosalie and her cheat system think they're winning. Let them steal the glory. Genevieve just wants to nap and eat blood pudding.
Too bad no one believes her.
Now the students are torn between mocking her and idolizing her. Rosalie's system is crashing. And Genevieve's "useless" act is accidentally building a legend she never wanted.
She just wanted to be trash.
Why won't anyone let her?
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Chapter 1
The phantom pain of a silver stake tearing through Genevieve's chest made her knees buckle.
She stood on the freezing marble floor of the Crimson Court's top-floor council chamber, her vision swimming with black spots. A violent headache split her skull. The metallic taste of her own blood-a memory from a future that hadn't happened yet-coated her tongue. Her lungs seized. She couldn't drag in a single breath.
"Are you even listening to me, Genevieve?"
Lord Marcus's low, authoritative voice echoed off the vaulted gothic ceiling. The sound hit her like a physical blow, snapping her out of the death vision.
Genevieve forced her chin up. She met Lord Marcus's crimson eyes. They were hard, cold, and filled with absolute disappointment. Her stomach dropped to the floor. Her heart, still trapped in the panic of the prophecy, hammered against her ribs like a trapped bird.
Rosalie cowered behind Lord Marcus's broad, custom-tailored suit. The half-blood girl gripped the edge of his jacket, her small shoulders shaking. But Genevieve caught it. Just for a fraction of a second, Rosalie's eyes darted toward her, flashing with a sharp, calculated provocation.
Lord Marcus pointed a long, pale finger at the torn blood-servant contract scattered on the floor.
"Explain to me why you insist on targeting a fragile half-blood," Lord Marcus demanded, his voice vibrating with raw power. "She just awakened. She cannot even withstand the sunlight yet, and you treat her like dirt."
Genevieve opened her mouth. The old Genevieve-the arrogant, pureblood prodigy-wanted to scream back. She wanted to rip Rosalie's fake innocence to shreds.
But her throat closed up. The phantom shadow of the silver stake pressed against her windpipe.
A glaring red warning flashed in her mind. The prophecy was clear. If she released her pureblood pressure right now, if she acted like the villain they expected, the countdown to her gruesome death would begin.
Genevieve sucked in a sharp breath. She pressed her thumb hard into the side of her index finger, digging her nail into the bone to suppress the ancient, chaotic magic boiling in her veins. She lowered her eyelashes. She stared at her own pale fingertips, forcing her face into a blank, deadpan mask.
Her sudden, unnatural silence hung in the air.
Lord Marcus twisted his custom cufflink, misinterpreting her silence as stubborn rebellion. His jaw ticked. He slammed his fist down on the heavy blackwood table.
The impact rattled the wood. A heavy, solid silver candlestick toppled off the edge.
It hit the marble with a sharp clang and rolled directly to Genevieve's feet.
A faint, holy aura radiated from the silver. To an Antediluvian pureblood like Genevieve, it was as harmless as a gentle breeze. But she stared at the silver metal, and a brilliant idea sparked in her panicked brain.
Genevieve gasped loudly. She clutched her chest with both hands.
She let out a weak, pathetic whimper. Her knees gave out completely. She collapsed onto the freezing marble floor, curling her body inward as if the mere scent of the silver was burning her flesh. She forced her breathing to become shallow and erratic.
Lord Marcus froze. His hand, still raised to scold her, stopped in mid-air. The anger in his red eyes fractured, replaced by a sudden flash of shock and hesitation.
Rosalie peeked out from behind Lord Marcus. She bit her lower lip, her signature move of innocence.
"Genevieve... sister?" Rosalie asked, her voice dripping with fake tears. "Are you feeling unwell?"
Genevieve didn't miss a beat. She stole Rosalie's exact playbook.
She forced her eyes to widen. She blinked rapidly until her eyes turned red.
"I'm just... so weak," Genevieve whispered, her voice trembling perfectly. "Don't blame anyone. It's not your fault. I'm just useless."
The massive chamber went dead silent. The air turned into solid ice.
Those pathetic, white-lotus words coming from the mouth of the notoriously cold and ruthless pureblood genius felt completely wrong.
Lord Marcus's eyebrows pulled together into a deep, harsh line. He took a step forward, reaching out to check the flow of her magic.
Genevieve flinched violently. She scrambled backward like a terrified rabbit, dodging his hand.
She wrapped her arms around her shoulders. She looked up at the faint, artificial sunlight filtering through the stained-glass chandelier. She let out a choked sob and dragged her body backward, shrinking into the darkest shadow behind a thick stone pillar.
In Rosalie's perception, an invisible, parasitic connection tried to lock onto Genevieve, but it slipped away as if hitting a wall of cotton. The emotional feedback she expected completely failed to appear, leaving her prepared words stuck in her throat.
Rosalie bit her lip harder. She took a step toward the pillar, reaching her hand out to help Genevieve up. She needed physical contact to trigger her low-level luck-stealing skill.
Genevieve felt the shift in the air. She saw Rosalie's hand coming.
Without a single shred of aristocratic dignity, Genevieve threw herself sideways. She literally rolled across the dirty marble floor, tumbling deeper into the dusty corner, perfectly dodging Rosalie's touch.
Lord Marcus stared at her. His mouth parted slightly. The sight of a top-tier noble rolling on the floor like a street rat completely short-circuited his brain. His anger evaporated, replaced by a heavy, absurd sense of helplessness.
Genevieve curled into a tight ball in the shadows.
"Please, Lord Marcus," she begged, her voice cracking. "Please don't throw me out of the Court. I promise I'll just be a useless piece of trash. I won't see the sun. I'll just stay in the dark."
Lord Marcus rubbed his temples. He let out a long, exhausted sigh. He waved his hand at the low-level blood servants standing by the doors.
"Leave us," he ordered.
The servants scattered instantly. Lord Marcus walked over to the pillar. He looked down at the pureblood child who used to be his greatest pride, now reduced to a shivering puddle of mud. His eyes were a mess of conflicting emotions.
Genevieve stared hard at the intricate patterns carved into the floor. She bit the inside of her cheek until it bled to stop herself from bursting into hysterical laughter. She kept her shoulders shaking, playing the terrified newborn to perfection.
"Get up," Lord Marcus said, his voice losing its harsh edge. He thought his own pressure had broken her. "Go back to your room and rest."
Genevieve shook her head weakly.
"My legs," she whispered, looking up at him with wide, pitiful eyes. "I can't stand. Please... can someone bring a wheelchair?"
Lord Marcus's eye twitched violently. He looked like he wanted to throw her out the window. But he swallowed his frustration, walked over to the wall, and pressed the call button for his personal butler.
Ten minutes later, Genevieve sat slumped in a leather wheelchair, being pushed out of the grand doors.
Just as the doors began to close, she turned her head. She looked straight at Rosalie's confused, frustrated face.
Genevieve gave her a weak, entirely innocent smile.
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9.2
Clara was drowning in student debt and barely making rent when she downloaded a fantasy mobile game to escape reality.
Inside the game, an exiled prince named Alex was freezing to death. Pitying him, she spent her last few dollars on microtransactions to fix his shelter and cure his poison.
But the game was far too real.
Every time she paid, the prince reacted. When she complained aloud about going broke, the in-game army suddenly halted, as if the prince had heard her voice.
Then, the terrifying real-world consequences hit.
Clara woke up to find her water glass and a box of Kleenex had vanished from her locked bedroom overnight.
She frantically searched the tiny apartment, her heart pounding in her chest.
She thought she was losing her mind. Had she thrown them out in her sleep? Was there a stalker hiding in her home?
How could physical objects just disappear into thin air behind a deadbolted door?
Until she looked at her nightstand.
Sitting exactly where her missing items used to be was a glowing, weightless crystal cup that defied all logic.
And on her laptop screen, the exiled prince was carefully holding her Kleenex box, offering a mountain of real gold on an altar.
She hadn't just downloaded a mobile game; she had opened a cross-dimensional trade route with a desperate future king.
8.4
My mate, Alpha Santino, brought another woman into our home. She was a pregnant Omega, the widow of his fallen Beta, and he swore to protect her above all others.
He gave her my seat of honor, left our bed cold each night to soothe her feigned nightmares, and ignored me completely. I was the Luna of the Blackstone Pack, but I was becoming a ghost in my own life.
The final betrayal happened in my own bedroom. She stood over my vanity and deliberately shattered my mother's sacred moonstone necklace, the last piece of my family I had left.
When Santino burst in, he didn't see my heartbreak. He saw only her fake tears.
"What did you do to her?!" he roared, his voice laced with the Alpha's Command, a sacred power he used to crush my will.
Then, for her, he did the unforgivable. He raised his hand and struck me, his mate.
In that instant, the love I had desperately clung to turned to ice. The man I had sworn my life to had not only betrayed me but had defiled the sacred bond the Goddess herself had blessed.
As the pain of his betrayal ripped through me, something ancient and powerful awakened in my blood. I rose to my feet and spoke the words that would destroy his world and begin mine.
"I, Alessia Bianchi, reject you, Santino Moretti, as my mate."
7.4
Shrouded in tales of pleasure and mystery, embark on a sensual adventure in a Cities of Sins, where the supernatural blends with the mundane in a city shrouded in fantastic tales and debauchery.
Come and discover this city, its inhabitants, and its ancient stories, amidst a tale of pleasure, lust, and tales that reveal the mysterious teachers who hide their secrets.
The question is: Are they really human or vampires?
This is the world where the dead, vampires, and witch tales intertwine in this hidden city full of mysteries from the past, amidst a life full of pleasure and lust.
In the midst of a mundane beginning, the girl was betrayed. Instead of Samantha finding solitude and suffering, she discovered a world of luxury, with her saviors, her teachers of pleasure, fantastic tales, legends of passion, shrouded in the supernatural. They embark on a limitless adventure, with sex, pleasure, and passion, which are always shrouded in fantastic power, in the world of passion and debauchery.
Lovecraft is a city that never sleeps. Built upon ancient ruins and fueled by centuries of secrets, it is known as the City of Sins, where pleasure and danger walk hand in hand. Its narrow streets, illuminated by red lanterns and eternal shadows, are the stage for encounters that defy reason: reclusive vampires hiding in decaying mansions, werewolves roaming under the full moon, witches whispering spells in hidden cafes, and mobsters controlling the underworld with iron fists and passionate hearts.
At the heart of the city, the Lost Canvas-a secret gallery-holds living portraits of forbidden loves and blood pacts. Each painting is a story, each brushstroke a memory of encounters that have marked generations. It is there that the handsome vampire Adrian, reclusive and mysterious, observes the world without ever fully surrendering. His life is a mosaic of interrupted passions, of glances that never turned into words, of promises lost in the night. But Lovecraft doesn't allow anyone to remain invisible for long.
Between the luxurious salons of socialites, the secret clubs of businessmen, and the alleys where supernatural mafias seal their pacts, the city pulsates with stories of desire and magic. Each encounter is brief but intense: a stolen kiss on a Gothic staircase, a forbidden dance in a hall lit by black candles, a whispered conversation on a ghost train that crosses the city at three in the morning. Lovecraft is made of these instants-moments that seem small, but carry the weight of eternities.
The city's inhabitants coexist with the mundane and the supernatural as if they were part of the same fabric. Businessmen negotiate with vampires, artists are inspired by fairies and elves, mobsters share territories with werewolves. It's a metropolis where power is measured not only in money, but also in spells, secrets, and seduction. Terror is subtle, almost elegant, manifesting itself in lingering gazes, in silences that conceal more than they reveal, in pacts that are never written, but always fulfilled.
Is a collection of stories that reveal Lovecraft's strengths: his ability to transform the everyday into magic, to make love a danger, and sin a promise. It is a city of wonders and dreams, of obscure encounters and ardent desires, where every corner holds a story and every shadow is an invitation. Lovecraft is not just a setting-he is a character, a lover and accomplice of all who dare to live in his eternal night.
7.3
For a thousand years, the Vora beastmen have been cursed by a madness-a burning sickness in their blood that only one thing can soothe: the legendary 'Blood-Blessed,' a human female whose very scent is a living cure.
When a virus wiped out nearly all females, their desperate hunt for this mythical girl turned into a brutal conquest. They crushed our fallen human kingdoms, reducing us to breathing meat under their cruel "Livestock Codex."
To save my little sister from being branded for their elite breeding auction, I took her place in the male-only death draft.
Disguised as a boy, I was thrown into a pitch-black labyrinth, a living sacrifice meant to feed their ultimate nightmare: the feral, half-dragon Mad King.
He tore our steel cage apart like wet paper. I pressed my back against the freezing wall, watching in horror as he slaughtered the screaming men around me.
He ripped the filthy coat from my body, exposing my true gender. As his crimson eyes locked onto my throat and he opened his jaws for the kill, my rage burned away my fear.
I was a pureblood heiress of a dead empire, but I would not die cowering like an animal. I gripped a shard of glass, ready to aim for his eye.
But as he lunged, the glass sliced my palm. The moment my blood hit the air, the legend became my reality. The sweet, intoxicating scent that flooded the dark wasn't just my pheromones-it was the living cure.
The terrifying, apocalyptic tyrant froze mid-strike. He dropped his massive body to his knees, his fangs retracting as he gently, desperately licked my bleeding hand.
His chaotic red eyes darkened with an absolute, world-ending obsession as he pulled my fragile body against his burning chest.
"Mine."
I was meant to be his final meal. They called me the Blood-Blessed. He called me his Queen.
7.9
For five years, April Gamble loved Julian Travis with everything she had, trusting him completely.
But on a stormy night, he casually tossed a liquidation agreement at her feet, single-handedly destroying her grandfather's company.
He coldly admitted he only dated her to steal Vance Group's internal financial data.
"You were convenient," Julian said, swirling his whiskey without a shred of guilt.
Before April could even process the brutal betrayal, a breaking news alert lit up her phone.
She watched in absolute horror as her grandfather jumped from the ledge of the Vance Tower on live television.
Julian looked at her writhing, screaming form with utter boredom and simply ordered his bodyguard to throw her out.
Blinded by grief and tears, April sped into the torrential rain, only to be completely crushed by a hydroplaning transport truck at an intersection.
As the shattered glass tore into her skin and the metal crushed her ribs, she died with a hatred so pure it made her teeth ache.
Why did five years of devotion mean absolutely nothing to him? Why did her family have to die just to feed his ruthless greed?
When she opened her eyes again, the harsh hospital lights blinded her, but the familiar burn scar on her arm was gone.
She wasn't the betrayed financial analyst April Gamble anymore.
She had woken up in the body of Altagracia Blanchard, the most notorious, obscenely wealthy heiress in New York.
Julian had taken everything from her, but now, armed with a billionaire's empire, she was going to bury him.
9.4
I was the eldest daughter of the powerful Kirk family, sent away to a Swiss sanatorium to recover from my supposed mental illness.
But my stepmother, Johnie, never intended for me to get better. She sent her personal cleaners to drag me onto a plane back to Washington D.C.
In my past life, I didn't know they were assassins. I was forcefully injected with heavy sedatives and locked in a secret torture chamber inside our luxury estate.
My stepmother and cousin skimmed my inheritance while watching me suffer.
They framed me as a crazy addict, and my own father, a sitting Senator, turned a blind eye to protect his political career.
"Her political value is gone, just get rid of her quietly."
That was the last thing I heard my father say before I was brutally slaughtered by my own family.
Until my last breath, I couldn't understand why they hated me so much.
Why did my father let them force those pills down my throat?
Why was my life worth less than my stepmother's public image?
Opening my eyes again, the freezing sensation of lake water filling my lungs vanished.
I was back in the VIP room of the St. Moritz Sanatorium in 2023.
It was the exact morning before the cleaners walked through my door with uncapped syringes.
This time, I wouldn't just survive. I was going to cut the throat of the Kirk family.