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 3
The crystal chandeliers in the Crimson Court's grand banquet hall blazed with blinding light.
Dozens of high-ranking vampires stood in small clusters, holding delicate crystal flutes of blood wine. The air hummed with the sound of classical music and the rustle of expensive silk.
The heavy double doors opened.
Genevieve walked in. She wore a plain, oversized black dress that hung off her frame like a potato sack. It was a brutal contrast to the skin-tight, diamond-encrusted gowns she usually wore to these events.
The moment she stepped onto the marble floor, the conversations died.
Dozens of pairs of eyes snapped toward her. The aristocrats stared, their eyes wide with shock and burning curiosity. The scent of fresh gossip flooded the room.
In the center of the hall, Rosalie stood surrounded by a group of young, eager male vampires. She wore a stunning white gown covered in crushed diamonds. She looked like a flawless, untouchable princess.
Rosalie saw Genevieve. A dark, calculating gleam flashed in her eyes.
She picked up a glass of premium, high-tier blood wine from a passing silver tray. She plastered a gentle, forgiving smile on her face and walked straight toward Genevieve, playing the gracious victor.
Genevieve watched her approach. She calculated the distance.
Just as Rosalie stopped in front of her, Genevieve threw herself backward.
Her back slammed violently into the solid marble pillar behind her. The impact produced a loud, sickening thud that echoed over the music.
Genevieve let out a dramatic, high-pitched gasp of terror.
Rosalie froze. Her hand, holding the wine glass, stopped in mid-air. Her perfect smile cracked, looking stiff and ridiculous.
Genevieve grabbed her own shoulder, rubbing it as if she were in agony.
"I'm sorry!" Genevieve shouted, her voice trembling and loud enough for half the room to hear. "A useless cripple like me doesn't deserve such fine wine. Please, Lady Rosalie, enjoy it yourself! Don't waste it on me!"
The surrounding nobles heard every single word. It was the exact, pathetic phrasing Rosalie always used.
A few of the older female vampires hid their mouths behind their feather fans, their shoulders shaking with suppressed laughter.
Rosalie's face turned stark white, then flushed a furious red. Inside her head, her system screamed. Her favorability points were dropping due to the sheer, suffocating awkwardness of the situation.
Desperate to save face, Rosalie forced her smile back. She took a step forward and reached out to grab Genevieve's hand, trying to force a display of sisterly affection.
Genevieve reacted like she had been struck by lightning.
She violently ripped her arm away. The motion was so exaggerated it looked comical.
Using the momentum of her own swing, Genevieve threw herself onto the polished floor. She landed hard on her side. She grabbed her own wrist, curling into a ball, and sucked in a sharp hiss of pain through her teeth.
The orchestra abruptly stopped playing.
The entire hall fell dead silent. Every single eye locked onto Rosalie, who stood over Genevieve with her hand still awkwardly extended.
Rosalie panicked. Tears instantly welled up in her eyes.
"I... I didn't even touch her!" Rosalie stuttered, her voice cracking. "I didn't use any force!"
The crowd parted. Lord Marcus strode through the gap, his face like a thundercloud. He stopped and looked down at the chaotic mess on the floor.
Rosalie braced herself, waiting for Lord Marcus to scream at Genevieve for bullying her.
Instead, Lord Marcus just sighed. He didn't even look at Rosalie. He snapped his fingers at two nearby blood servants.
"Help her up," Lord Marcus ordered tiredly.
The servants rushed forward and pulled Genevieve to her feet.
Genevieve leaned heavily against one of the servants. She looked at Lord Marcus with wide, watery eyes.
"Please don't punish Rosalie," Genevieve whispered weakly. "It's my fault. My bones are just too brittle now."
Whispers erupted across the hall. The nobles shook their heads. Half of them thought Genevieve had lost her mind; the other half thought she was a pathetic joke. The deep fear they used to hold for the pureblood genius vanished into thin air.
Lord Marcus's jaw tightened. This public humiliation was destroying the Court's dignity.
He grabbed Genevieve by the elbow and dragged her out of the hall, pulling her onto a secluded, wind-swept balcony.
The cold night air whipped Genevieve's hair across her face.
Lord Marcus let go of her arm. He glared at her.
"Since you are so restless in the Court, I will throw you into the Academy's rules to grind you down," Lord Marcus warned, his voice a low, dangerous growl.
Genevieve dropped her head. She twisted the fabric of her ugly black dress between her fingers, looking entirely clueless and submissive.
Lord Marcus watched her blank face and made a hard decision.
"Starting tomorrow, you will report to the Nightwalker Academy," Lord Marcus commanded. "You will attend classes, and you will act as Rosalie's personal bodyguard. If she makes a single mistake or suffers any harm, I will hold you entirely responsible. Let us see if having a real task cures your sudden frailty."
Genevieve's stomach plummeted. The Academy. That was the exact location where the prophecy said she would be framed and killed.
She snapped her head up.
"No," Genevieve said, her voice shaking with real panic this time. "I can't. The sunlight outside the Court... the silver weapons in the training grounds... I'm too weak!"
Lord Marcus's expression turned to stone.
"You will go," he said coldly. "Or I will cut off your blood supply entirely."
Genevieve bit her lower lip hard. She lowered her head, acting defeated.
"Yes, Lord Marcus," she mumbled.
But as she stared down at the dark balcony floor, a sharp, cunning light flashed in her eyes. If she had to go to the Academy, she would drag her trash persona all the way to the bottom. She would break every single plot point before it even started.
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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.