Reincarnated as Dracula’s Son

"Of course, he is back," the stocky man said with a gruff certainty, his thick mustache twitching as though it had a life of its own. "We're the best at this sorta business, we did the finest job bringing him back."

Damian barely resisted rolling his eyes. Finest job indeed, he thought mockingly. If only they knew he was another soul in this body, they would be mortified.

He shifted, grimacing at the sharp twinge in his ribs. He needed answers. Who were these men? Why was he in this body? And why did it feel like someone had plunged a dagger into his heart?

"What happened?" he asked, his voice slow and steady, though his mind churned with unease.

The taller of the two men, a wiry figure with sharp cheekbones, tilted his head. "You don't remember?" His tone carried a mix of disbelief and suspicion.

Damian shook his head.

"Nothing at all?" the short man pressed, his wide eyes narrowing as though searching for a lie, no not searching, hoping.

"Nothing at all," Damian repeated, his gaze steady.

The two men exchanged glances, their silent conversation thick with meaning. Damian could see it in their eyes—this was unexpected.

His mother, seated near the edge of the room, rounded on them, her voice sharp. "You two promised everything would go smoothly! My husband paid you a fortune for this… this procedure."

The two men deflated under her scolding, their earlier confidence wilting like leaves in the sun.

"Well, ma'am," the tall man began hesitantly, "this is, uh, new for us. Not exactly… standard."

"Yeah," the short man chimed in. "I mean, he's alive, isn't he? That's the most important thing. A little amnesia's not a big deal. He'll catch up, maybe get a refresher. No harm done!"

Damian's mother sighed, her frustration barely contained. It was clear she had no love for these two. He noted the flicker of regret in her expression, the kind that spoke of decisions made out of desperation.

"When my husband first suggested hiring them," she admitted, her voice quieter now, "I refused. I didn't want you to go through something like this. But when I realized… when I realized you were dying, I had no choice." Her voice cracked on the last word, her maternal instinct shining through her stern demeanor.

Damian swallowed hard, a lump forming in his throat. Dying? He was dying? The weight of the revelation sat heavy in his chest.

She scooted her chair closer to him, her expression softening. "Where do I even begin?"

He leaned forward, though the motion sent a dull ache through his ribs. "Start with the attack," he said. "What happened to me?"

His mother nodded, folding her hands tightly in her lap. "You were attacked."

Damian's brow furrowed. "Attacked?" His voice rose slightly. The thought of someone hunting him down sent a cold chill through his veins. "Is that why my chest hurts?"

"Yes," she replied, her voice steady but tinged with sadness. "The one who attacked you… he's called B. He's one of your father's enemies."

Damian blinked, stunned. His father's enemies? He hadn't even considered that his new body might come with its own share of baggage.

"He discovered who you were," she continued, "and followed you on a camping trip. He waited until you and your friend, Tyrion, were alone by a stream. That's when he struck."

The image unfolded in Damian's mind—a shadowy figure creeping through the woods, a knife glinting in the moonlight. "What happened next?"

"He knocked Tyrion out," his mother said, her voice trembling. "And then he fought you. It was brutal, Damian. He stabbed you in the chest with a silver stake."

Damian winced. His hand instinctively rose to his chest, tracing the faint outline of a scar beneath his shirt. "A silver stake?"

His mother nodded. "Yes. You need to understand something, Damian. Your father… he isn't like other men. He's…" She hesitated, searching for the right words. Finally, she said, "He's Dracula."

Damian's jaw dropped. Whatever he had expected her to say, it wasn't that. "Dracula?" he repeated, the name tasting strange on his tongue.

"Yes," she confirmed, her eyes locking with his. "Which makes you his son. Half vampire, half human."

Damian stared at her, his mind racing. A vampire. That was the last thing he wanted to deal with right now.

"You're serious?" he asked.

"Very," she said, her tone firm. "If you were a full vampire, a wooden stake would've been enough to weaken you. But because you're half human, wooden stakes don't work. That's why he used silver."

Damian frowned, the pieces starting to fit together. "So a silver stake is specifically made to hurt half-vampires like me?"

"Precisely," his mother said. "We don't know how B got his hands on it, but he used it against you. He almost succeeded in killing you."

Damian exhaled slowly, trying to process it all. "And what happened to him?"

"Tyrion woke up," she said, her voice softening. "He saw B trying to strangle you. He grabbed a tree branch and stabbed him just in the back, weakening him and then knocking him out cold. If it weren't for him, you wouldn't be here."

Damian leaned back, staring at the ceiling. His chest hurt, his head spun, and now he had to grapple with the fact that he wasn't fully human—and that his father was the infamous Dracula.

"Wow," he murmured, his voice barely above a whisper.

Damian could barely make sense of all the information flooding his mind. His thoughts churned like a stormy sea, each new revelation crashing into him before he had time to recover from the last. The ache in his chest seemed to pulse in time with his racing heart.

"Yes," his mother said softly, her voice drawing him back. "Then he called home. Your father was the one near the telephone, and he picked up."

She paused, her words hanging in the air for a moment, as though the memory itself was too heavy to speak aloud. Her eyes, though warm with motherly concern, glimmered with something deeper—relief, perhaps, or fear.

"He came immediately," she continued, her voice steadier now. "He ran the entire way and brought you here."

Damian's brow furrowed, the gears in his mind grinding as he tried to picture the scene. His father, running? The image seemed almost absurd. Surely a car or some other vehicle would have made more sense. But then, like a spark igniting a dry field, it hit him.

He's a vampire, Damian reminded himself.

Of course, his father wouldn't have needed a car. No machine on earth could rival the speed of a creature like him. His feet alone would carry him faster than any engine ever could. The thought was dizzying, almost surreal.