Reincarnated as Dracula’s Son

Damian didn't wake up until the first light of morning slipped through the heavy curtains of his room. It wasn't the sun that woke him—no, the sunlight seemed timid here, barely daring to illuminate the space. It was the silence, an eerie sort of stillness, that pulled him from sleep.

The first thing he noticed was the absence of pain in his chest. That dull throb, which had been his constant companion the day before, was gone. He sat up, rubbing at his bare chest, and his fingers found smooth skin where there had once been a wound. Damian looked down, and there, right where the injury had been, was nothing but a faint scar—no wider than the edge of a fingernail. The flesh was soft and unbroken, a sign of healing that defied anything he'd ever known.

"I guess regeneration comes with being half-vampire," he muttered to himself, the words strange and heavy on his tongue. Half-vampire. It felt surreal. Yet the proof was there, plain as day, stitched into his very skin.

His gaze wandered to the room around him. The day before, he'd tried to take in his surroundings, but so much had happened that he never really looked. Now was the perfect time. Damian climbed out of bed, his bare feet sinking into the soft, dark carpet. The room was large but not grand—elegance in simplicity. The walls were deep gray with dark wooden accents. A large bookshelf lined one wall, the leather-bound spines of books glistening faintly in the dim light. A massive painting hung above the fireplace, depicting a forest at dusk, the trees dark and foreboding, almost alive.

He padded across the room toward the bathroom door and pushed it open. The bathroom was more modern than the bedroom, with sleek marble countertops and steel fixtures. A mirror stretched across the wall, tall and spotless. Damian paused when he caught his reflection, his breath hitching for just a moment.

There he was—the new him. Broad shoulders, a sculpted chest, arms lined with lean muscle, like the body of someone who'd spent years swimming or running, but never overdone. His skin was smooth, unmarred except for that faint scar. The face staring back at him was still jarring—a sharp jawline, straight nose, and vivid green eyes that seemed to glow faintly, as if lit from within. His brown hair was thick, falling messily around his forehead, as if even it had a natural charm. He ran a hand through it and smirked.

"I'm going to get so many girls," he whispered, and for a moment, his reflection smirked back. It was the kind of thought that would have been alien to him in his old body, but now it felt almost inevitable.

He would no longer simply daydream about beautiful women, he would no longer contain himself to just watching men rail beautiful women, no he would do the railing.

Just yesterday he had almost fucked a gorgeous girl, and he would have, if it weren't for the interruption.

But Damina was not displeased by the events, since she gave him head and he orgasmed.

The cold shower that followed was invigorating, sharp like ice against his skin. The water ran down him in thin, crystal streams, and for the first time in what felt like forever, Damian felt… clean. Not just physically, but deep inside, as though the cold had washed something more than sweat and sleep away.

When he stepped out of the shower, he felt refreshed—alive in a way he'd never known before. He dried off quickly, throwing on a plain shirt and briefs, and ran his fingers through his hair one more time to tame it. His hands hesitated at the doorknob.

The old Damian would have stayed here, safe within the four walls of this room. He would have buried himself in books or distracted himself with idle thoughts. But this morning was different. There was something in him—a pull, a curiosity that he couldn't shake. Maybe it was part of the vampire blood running through him now, or maybe it was something else entirely. He didn't know. What he did know was that staying locked away didn't feel like an option anymore.

He opened the door and stepped out into the hallway.

The house—or rather, the mansion—was massive, and the silence seemed to echo off the walls. The hall was lined with paintings, portraits of stern-looking men and women whose eyes seemed to follow him as he walked past. The light here was dim, as though the walls themselves absorbed the brightness. Damian felt small, walking through such a place, but he also felt watched.

The hallway led to a grand sitting room. Damian stepped in cautiously, his gaze sweeping the space. It was a room of contrasts—modern yet ancient, clean but somehow heavy, as if weighed down by the centuries. The furniture was dark leather, and a grand fireplace sat at the center, its mantel adorned with candlesticks that had long since gone cold. A faint smell of paper and old wood lingered in the air.

Sitting in one of the armchairs by the fireplace was a man. Damian paused in the doorway, his breath catching slightly.

The man was middle-aged—perhaps in his forties—but his presence made him seem timeless. He had a slightly muscular build that spoke of strength hidden beneath a polished surface. His face was clean-shaven, with a neatly trimmed mustache that framed his mouth. His hair, jet black and full, was combed back so precisely it looked like every strand had been put in place by hand. But it was his skin that was most striking—pale, impossibly so, like marble that had been carved and polished. The pallor gave him an unnatural beauty, almost otherworldly. Damian couldn't deny it—this was a man who commanded attention without trying.

The man's gaze stayed fixed on the newspaper in his hands, though Damian was certain he'd known he was there the moment he entered.

"Good to see you too, son," the man said finally, his voice smooth and low, like a velvet curtain being drawn over stone. He didn't look up, but a faint smirk tugged at the corner of his lips, as though he could see Damian's shock without needing to see him at all.

Damian didn't have to ask. This could only be one person.

Dracula.

His father.