My SuperVillain System: Building Legion of SSS-Ranked SuperHeroines
Chapter 81- A Royal Blood

Chapter 81: Chapter 81- A Royal Blood

Far beneath the ocean, where the sun never touched, there stood a palace.

A place carved in silence. A world hidden from both humans and superheroes.

It was not made of stone.

It was made of bones.

And in the deepest chamber, wrapped in velvet shadows, she lay still.

The room held its breath.

Only the slow rise and fall of her chest gave away any sign of life.

A small red bat fluttered as it crept close now—sliding past the ribbed columns and the cold, glowing veins lining the ceiling.

It hovered over her bed, its wings fluttering closer. Past her lips, her silver hair fanned over black sheets...

To her eyes.

Brows faintly furrowed.

Lashes twitching.

She was dreaming.

A blur. A mess.

Flesh slamming into flesh. A man’s back arched as he pounded wildly into a woman pinned against a hospital wall, her legs wrapped around him, gasping, nails dragging down his spine. Her voice—choked, hoarse—moaned again and again.

It wasn’t slow. It was raw. Fast. Like animals.

The sound of skin slapping echoed in her mind.

’....’

She woke.

Her eyes opened with a snap.

Bright ruby orbs stared into the void.

No confusion.

No blush.

Just stillness.

Cold. Silent. Dead.

She sat up slowly.

A huge mirror stood ahead of her bed. Not for vanity. For reminders.

And what she saw?

A goddess... with no soul.

Long pale hair flowed over her shoulders. Her lips were faintly stained—leftovers from last night’s meal. Her body was like a sculpture—lean, curved, unforgiving.

But her eyes... those eyes were blades.

She walked to the mirror.

A short nightgown, white as her hair, hung over her thighs, loosely draped by thin strings to cover her body, which appeared white as if all the blood had been drawn out.

A deadly beauty.

Her hand moved to the pendant hanging above her heart.

It was glowing.

Not gently.

It throbbed.

Angry. Desperate. Flickering like something alive inside it had been shaken.

She narrowed her eyes.

A flash rippled through her mind—not her own doing.

Her.

That pathetic side. That useless, fragile version of herself. The one she locked inside this pendant long ago.

And now she knew why it stirred.

It had peeked.

Used clairvoyance. Not to gain intel. Not to find prey.

But to watch.

Some human.

Fucking.

That was all it took?

That weak self... still wanted to feel.

Still wanted to remember what love or pleasure was?

She tightened her fingers around the gem.

"I said stay down," she murmured coldly. "You’re not real anymore."

The glow resisted... Unlike before violently, as if trying to escape from that prison suppressing it.

Her gaze didn’t flinch.

Composed. Sharp.

She turned, deciding to completely ignore the protest of her weak self, even if strangely after observing those two humans, it was aggressively trying to free itself.

The bat, which was flying until now, arrived and seated itself on her shoulder.

"Feast time, my lady," it said with a bow.

She didn’t respond.

Her body dissolved into a mist of red—soft and elegant, like blood in water before being shot out through the bloodstream—one of the powers within pure-blood vampire nobility.

And vanished.

Or more like teleported in an instant to a ballroom far away on land from the deep ocean with ease.

The ballroom stretched endlessly, carved from black stone in an ancient architecture design like a cathedral. Gigantic glass panels circled the walls, revealing the moonlight outside.

The floor beneath was made of smooth obsidian, polished to the point that reflections stared back, more vivid than the real thing.

In the center stood a fountain, but it poured not water—it poured blood.

Thin streams of it slid down into a pool that glowed faintly red.

And yet...

Humans danced.

The room was a blur of silk, velvet, and satin, a swirling dance of nobility lost in the music.

Faces powdered to perfection, lips painted red like fresh blood, but there was an unnatural stillness behind their eyes—something far darker than what their perfectly crafted smiles revealed.

The laughter, if you could call it that, was brittle, edged with fear, like a thin veil barely covering their true nature.

They weren’t normal.

Some weren’t even morally alive in any real sense.

"I heard if she chooses you, you don’t die," a woman whispered to her partner, her fingers trembling as they clung to his arm.

"You become like her," he murmured back, his voice shaking with unspoken dread.

A man spun wildly, knocking wine onto a nearby guest. "I can feel it! She’s going to make me immortal!" he shouted, his eyes gleaming with greedy hope.

Risk was high, but if they became like her, they would be immortal, unlike fake superheroes who die after the completion of their age. They would be chosen by the true power of this world, not by fake capes.

But that hope was a lie—a fragile, desperate thing.

A chilling laugh cut through the tension. "Or you just become food for the side ghouls."

The crowd laughed nervously, but no one truly believed it.

They were too busy waiting for their chance—waiting to be noticed.

All eyes were drawn to the main gate, where she was supposed to appear, as tradition dictated.

They stood in eager anticipation, but it wasn’t through that door she came.

It was from the far end of the ballroom—silent, unnoticed by anyone except one.

’...So, I am about to get eaten...damn it.’ A woman, forgotten by most, stood near the back staircase.

She had been unlucky all evening, overlooked, dismissed.

Her hopes had been dashed hours ago when someone else took the chance she was too late to seize.

She’d been invisible, standing at the periphery of the glittering crowd.

But then... something shifted.

A mist, thick and red, seeped down the stairs beside her, trailing like blood-spilled wine, creeping across the floor with a quiet whisper of menace.

badump

She looked up—and her heart stopped.

There she was.

Barefoot. Silent. Her white gown shimmering like liquid moonlight. Her silver hair fell like a cascading river, gleaming beneath the chandelier’s cold light.

Her eyes—those eyes, glowing crimson with the weight of centuries—scanned the crowd, and everyone in the room felt it: a wave of pressure, of power, that pressed down on their very souls.

The music faltered.

The ghostly band continued to play, but their tune twisted, as if their instruments had become fingers on bone, creating sounds not of melody but of discomfort, of something broken.

The crowd was frozen.

And then, without warning, the woman at the back began to run.

Her body moved before her mind could process it—her feet pounding the floor, weaving through dancers, her breath quickening as panic rose.

"Who is that?" a whisper passed through the crowd.

"What is she doing?!" another voice gasped, and the whispers began to swell like a storm, but none of them could act fast enough.

The Queen stood at the foot of the stairs, her gaze fixed, unblinking, on the woman as she sprinted toward her.

The crowd parted instinctively, fear and awe pushing them aside.

The woman reached the base of the stairs and dropped to her knees in front of the Queen, her voice shaking as she whispered, "My lady, please—bless me."