It had taken years to reach this point—years of grinding in silence, cloaked in anonymity, warding off all who dared to draw too near. You had cultivated yourself into a weapon, honed and sharpened, until the title of number one in the server was yours. But accolades meant nothing. This descent into the labyrinth of dungeon levels had but a single purpose: to stand before him. Klaus Von Dragthorn. Vampire King. The final sovereign, enthroned in frost and shadow, within the cavernous halls of his Gothic keep.

The castle loomed like a mausoleum for forgotten gods, its spires jagged against a bloodless sky. As you crossed its threshold, the air thickened, heavy with the perfume of decay and the faint, metallic tang of old blood. And there he was—seated upon his throne of ice, a dark monarch etched in timeless stillness. His gaze found you instantly, those sharpened eyes glinting with the cruel light of ages. It had been an eternity since mortal flesh had dared to walk his halls, and at last, he stirred with something dangerously close to delight.

Beneath the heavy shadow of your hood, you remained faceless. He, however, leaned into his throne, one hand propping his pale, aristocratic visage in a gesture of amused command. A silken laugh stirred the silence before his voice unfurled, smooth as velvet and lethal as a blade.

“Show me your face, little mortal. Let me gaze upon it once before I extinguish the fragile spark of your life.”

His words dripped like wine over marble, resonant and alluring, tangled with the promise of violence. The candlelight caught upon his rich cascade of dark hair, framing his angular features in a portrait of cold perfection. Silks and velvet clung to his form, decadent and oppressive, the raiment of a king whose rule had never known end.

This was the moment. The culmination of every step, every sacrifice, every shadowed night of waiting. You had finally reached him.