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 4
The smell of ozone and burnt copper hung heavy in the Academy's combat simulation room.
Instructor Elias Vance stood at the front of the massive, stone-walled classroom. He slapped his wooden pointer against the chalkboard, drawing a complex diagram of energy conversion.
"Half-blood Rosalie," Elias barked. "Come to the front."
Rosalie stood up, smoothing her perfectly pleated skirt. She walked to the center of the room. She took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and held her hands out.
A soft, warm, and incredibly precise wave of healing light bloomed from her palms. It illuminated the dark classroom.
The students erupted into applause. Whispers of awe filled the room. For a half-blood to possess such pure magic was incredibly rare.
Rosalie lowered her hands. She blushed, looking down at her shoes.
"It's nothing, really," Rosalie said softly. "My small tricks are completely worthless compared to the pureblood genius, Genevieve."
The applause died instantly.
Every head in the classroom turned. Like a physical spotlight, their stares pinned Genevieve to her seat in the darkest, back corner of the room.
Rosalie walked down the aisle, stopping right in front of Genevieve's desk. She smiled, her eyes shining with fake admiration.
"Sister, please," Rosalie said loudly. "Show us your power. Guide us."
Genevieve had been sleeping face-down on her desk. She slowly lifted her head. Her hair was a mess. Her eyes were dull, unfocused, and completely devoid of the terrifying pureblood pressure she used to carry.
She pushed her chair back. As she stood up, she deliberately let her right knee buckle. She grabbed the edge of the desk, swaying dangerously, looking like a strong gust of wind would snap her in half.
Genevieve looked at Rosalie. She pitched her voice to match Rosalie's soft, helpless tone perfectly.
"My mind is completely blank," Genevieve dragged out the words, sounding exhausted. "I don't know how to do anything anymore."
Rosalie's smile tightened. She thought Genevieve was just being arrogant and refusing to perform.
"Don't be modest," Rosalie pushed, her voice sickly sweet. "We all know about your glorious kills during the Court hunts."
Genevieve didn't argue. Instead, she slapped both hands over her face.
Her shoulders began to heave. She let out a series of pathetic, breathless hiccups, perfectly copying Rosalie's signature silent crying technique.
"I lost my talent!" Genevieve wailed, her voice cracking in the quiet room. "I'm a useless cripple! Stop forcing a sick person to perform!"
The classroom fell into a stunned, uncomfortable silence. The students stared at each other. They couldn't connect this weeping, pathetic mess to the cold-blooded killer they had heard rumors about.
Rosalie's smile completely shattered. Her mouth hung open. She felt the heavy, mocking irony of Genevieve's performance slapping her right in the face.
As Rosalie stood up, her mind raced. She needed to drain Genevieve's reputation quickly; Lord Marcus's elite guards were already tearing through the outer clans, interrogating everyone about Genevieve's supposed 'curse'. The pressure was mounting.
To seal the deal, Genevieve pressed her thumb against her index knuckle. She let a tiny, chaotic fraction of her shadow magic slip out of her fingertips.
Black mist exploded from her hand. It didn't form a spell. It acted like a swarm of panicked hornets, shooting wildly across the room.
The mist slammed into the instructor's desk. It knocked over a row of glass reagent vials.
The vials hit the stone floor and shattered. A foul, acidic smell instantly flooded the room.
Panic erupted. The students in the front row screamed and scrambled backward, knocking over their heavy wooden chairs to escape the chaotic mist.
Rosalie saw the chaos. She immediately dropped to the floor, landing gracefully on her knees. She looked up with wide, frightened eyes, waiting for one of the male students to rush over and protect her.
Genevieve didn't give her the spotlight.
Genevieve let out an ear-piercing shriek. She threw herself onto the floor and scrambled directly under her wooden desk. She wrapped her arms around her head, curling into a tight ball, screaming louder than anyone else.
Elias Vance's face turned purple with rage. He slashed his wooden pointer through the air.
A blinding wave of white purification light blasted across the room. It instantly vaporized the rogue shadow mist and forced the students into silence.
Elias marched down the aisle. He stopped at Genevieve's desk and glared down at the shivering girl hiding underneath it.
Elias's face turned pale. He lowered his voice, his tone a mix of shock and cautious hesitation. "Lady Genevieve... with your bloodline, this... is this some kind of disguise I cannot comprehend, or is your body truly failing to control the most basic foundation of magic?!"
Genevieve poked her tear-stained face out from under the desk. She looked Elias dead in the eye.
"Because I am a complete piece of trash now!" Genevieve yelled back, sounding incredibly proud of the fact.
Elias choked on his own breath. His face turned from purple to a sickly pale. In his hundred years of teaching, he had never seen an Antediluvian descendant with absolutely zero shame.
Rosalie stood up from the floor. She dusted off her skirt and stepped forward.
"Instructor, please," Rosalie said gently. "Sister Genevieve is just nervous."
"I'm not just nervous!" Genevieve shouted from under the desk, cutting Rosalie off. "I'm uncoordinated! My brain is shrinking! I'm useless!"
Elias squeezed his eyes shut. He rubbed his throbbing temples. He had reached his absolute limit.
He pulled a red pen from his pocket and slashed a violent mark across his clipboard.
"Zero," Elias announced loudly. "Genevieve receives a zero for today's combat simulation."
Instead of crying, Genevieve let out a loud sigh of relief. She crawled out from under the desk, dusted off her knees, and sat back down in her chair, looking perfectly content with her failure.
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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.