Reincarnated as Dracula’s Son

Damian swallowed hard. His mind was spinning, his thoughts a chaotic storm. "I… I think there's been a mistake," he managed to say, his voice hoarse.

The woman stiffened for a heartbeat, her entire demeanor changed for an instant, her hands frozen mid-motion as if she had been struck by an invisible force.

Then, with slow deliberation, she pulled back, her eyes scanning his face. Her soft, gentle expression morphed into one of concern, the warm tones of her voice shifting to a delicate, protective one.

"What is it, sweetie?" she asked, her voice soft and melodic, like the gentle hum of a lullaby. It was a voice meant to comfort, to soothe, but in that moment, it only deepened Damian's unease.

Her hand reached up to caress his cheek, her touch as gentle as a summer breeze as she held his gaze.

He opened his mouth, fumbling for words. "I…" he began, but before he could form a coherent sentence, something extraordinary happened.

The words faltered on Damian's tongue, as his mind finally accepted the elusive truth that had hovered just beyond his grasp before.

It was as though a thunderbolt of clarity had struck his mind. Or perhaps it wasn't as grand as a thunderbolt—perhaps it was something smaller, something gentler, like the quiet plink of a pebble dropping into a still pond. Whatever it was, the impact rippled through him, and in an instant, the pieces of the puzzle began to fall into place.

His mind expanded, and a flood of understanding washed over him. Memories, fragmented and hazy, began to align with the stark reality of his current situation. He saw himself standing by a window—a weak, frail boy. He remembered the stumble, the helpless flailing of his arms as he lost balance. He remembered the fall.

The fall.

The memory hit him like a wave, cold and unrelenting. He had fallen from the window, images filled his head: the sickening drop, the ground rushing up to meet him, and the jarring impact that sent shockwaves through his feeble frame.

It shouldn't have been enough to kill him—surely, it wasn't that far a drop—but his fragile body, already weakened and brittle, must have failed him.

And then he understood the truth, a truth that sent a chill racing down his spine. I died, he thought. I actually died.

But that wasn't the end. It couldn't have been. Because here he was, alive again. Breathing, thinking, feeling. He glanced down at his hands—hands that felt foreign, hands that were not his own.

I've been reincarnated, he realized.

The thought struck with an almost eerie calm. He had read about this before—in novels, comics, the kind of escapist fantasies that offered a window into impossible worlds. He had dismissed them as fiction, as silly daydreams. But now, living it, he could not deny what had happened.

The flashes of light he vaguely remembered—the sensation of floating, weightless and untethered—those must have been real. Perhaps he had been suspended in some ethereal void, caught between death and whatever this was.

The realization sent a shiver crawling up his spine. He had been dead. Truly dead. And if not for some miraculous twist of fate, he wouldn't be here now.

"Well? What is it, sweetie?" the woman's voice broke through his thoughts.

Damian blinked and looked up at her. Her face loomed closer and it had changed once again, now her eyes filled with both worry and confusion. She repeated the question, her voice more urgent this time.

He hesitated, glancing around the room. The two men who stood nearby—silent, watchful—were also waiting for his answer. Their eyes bore into him, expectant and wary.

His mind snagged on one detail, one that didn't quite fit. The woman—his mother, apparently—had called him "Damian."

Damian.

The name echoed in his head. How could that be? Was this some wild coincidence, or was there something deeper at play? Could it be that the son of this woman shared his name? The thought seemed almost absurd, but it was the only explanation he could grasp at.

With a deep breath, Damian resolved to embrace the unlikely explanation, tucking away the niggling doubts that whispered at the edges of his mind

He forced himself to focus. Whatever questions he had, whatever mysteries he needed to unravel, they could wait. Right now, he needed to play along, to stay grounded in this fragile new reality.

Damian drew in a breath and plastered a smile onto his face. He tried to make it seem warm and genuine, like the smile of someone who was both relieved and happy to be back home.

In reality, his smile wasn't a warm smile— in fact it appeared weak and shaky, barely a ghost of genuine emotion. But it was the best he could manage.

His mother and the two other men knew what he had gone through already, they knew about the pain in his chest and so even though, the saw the fake smile, they thought it was just as a result of weakness so it was normal.

"It's nothing, Mom," he said, his voice steady despite the turmoil inside him. I must have gotten confused.

His mother's face softened instantly, her worry melting into a radiant smile.

She leaned forward and wrapped her arms around him, pulling him into a tight embrace. The warmth of her body pressed against his felt startlingly real, grounding him in a way that words could not.

"Oh, my son is back," she murmured, her voice brimming with joy.

She was happy because she had been expecting the worst. The past few hours had been stressful for her, as she waited and watched as her son's dead body lay still, unmoving.

Then as the man worked on him with their spells and rituals, she had her heart in her throat hoping it would work.

Then when they were done and there seemed to be change, she had turned away, heartbroken.

My son is back. She repeated, happily.