Chapter 321: Richthofen Again

The interior of the castle was starkly different from the style of the lands outside. Its gilded splendor perfectly matched the castle's own character, yet it leaned closer to the tastes of the living. Priceless furnishings were everywhere—antiques, reliefs, and murals. Items that could fetch a sky-high price for a single piece in Rose City were piled and arranged in the castle's corridors and rooms in some aesthetically pleasing layout, as if they cost nothing. Even a goblin could tell at a glance that these objects were extraordinary.

"Some of these are even masterpieces from six or seven hundred years ago, like this sculpture," Silvia said, casually pointing to a work of art on the left side of the corridor. "Even when he was still a living person, this would have been considered an antique."

"What about these paintings?" Despite knowing this was a Ghost Realm, Ron found it hard to feel any fear while walking through such a magnificent structure. He studied the oil paintings on the walls with great interest. The subjects of these portraits all bore a strong resemblance to one another; they must have been a family.

"They are the successive masters of this castle and its lands. And now, I suppose they're my 'ancestors'," the Vampire Descendant said, tapping an empty picture frame at the very end. "If I inherit this place, my portrait will be hung up here too."

"Then anyone who came after would be able to tell at a glance that this family line has ended..." Aive was also examining the portraits. But when she noticed the signatures at the bottom, the Half-Elf's mouth went dry. "Wait, the surname on these—"

"Von Richthofen?!"

"What?!" Among the entire group, Yelena's reaction was the most intense, but this didn't surprise anyone else in the slightest. After all, the Shadow Spirit's own ancestors were members of this very family!

Not long ago, she had even helped one of her distant relatives find their final rest!

The terrified Shadow Spirit forced herself to focus, scanning the portraits and names on the wall again and again, comparing them with the family tree in her memory. In the end, she had to admit that these Elves, already hanging on the wall, truly belonged to that long-storied family!

"Are they the real deal?" Aive stared intently at Yelena, watching the Shadow Spirit's reaction. "You have records of these people? Then why did you say you knew nothing about this place before?"

"Because I've spent most of my life in the Shadowfall Netherworld! Aside from the most prominent family members, I could only remember the names of the others at best!" Yelena irritably threw back her hood. The Shadow Spirit had been taught since childhood how glorious it was to bear this surname, but based on her experiences since coming to the material world, it seemed nothing good ever came from encountering her relatives—it was true when she met Ming Datiss and Saran Laine, and it was true now.

"But—but you're not from our family, are you? You're just a Half-Vampire who doesn't even know where she came from!" The Shadow Spirit looked at Silvia, her eyes full of confusion. "Why would the master of this place choose you as his heir?"

'Even if the Count's line had ended because he became an Undead Creature, he should have sought out his own kin. We both appeared in the Delusional Land, so I'm obviously a closer relation to the Von Richthofens than Silvia is.'

'But on second thought... the Gargoyles did seem to be targeting me at first!'

"That is, of course, because you rejected my invitation." A melodious, baritone voice, like that of an opera singer, drifted down from the staircase leading to the castle's second floor. Only with the appearance of this voice did the Count's castle finally take on a hint of gloom. Ron felt the surrounding temperature plummet; the building, which had just begun to warm with the sunrise, was instantly plunged back into eternal night.

The members of the group turned to look. A tall, gaunt, middle-aged male figure appeared at the top of the stairs. He was dressed in a tight-fitting, high-end black formal suit, leaning on a walking stick, and looking down at them with a somewhat melancholic gaze. After his guests fell silent, the old-fashioned gentleman slowly descended the stairs and came to stand before them.

Ron noticed that the man hadn't so much walked down as "floated" down. His feet never actually touched the carpet but hovered slightly above it. He was merely using a familiar gait, pretending he was still a living nobleman.

The reason Ron noticed this was not complicated: Jilannis, the former Chief Grand Mage of a short-lived empire, would occasionally do the same thing out of nostalgia. However, that High Elf was more focused on efficiency, so she usually just flew.

Beyond that, the man had even more obvious features: his exposed skin was even paler and more bloodless than Silvia's or the Shadow Spirit's, and his eyes were the same crimson as blood. Furthermore, the two pairs of sharp fangs that Silvia only revealed when she opened her mouth extended past his lips without any attempt at concealment, whiter than the most expensive ivory.

This was a Vampire—or, to be more respectful, a member of the Blood Race.

'So this must be the Count, and the "he," that Silvia was talking about on our journey.'

"Wait, isn't that Silvia's walking stick? Why do you have it?" Delaford, being sharp-eyed, suddenly pointed at the man's walking stick. And given his height, he could see the crystal at the top of Silvia's walking stick just by looking up; it was an all-too-familiar sight.

Combined with the patterns on it, the Goblin Hunter would swear on his honor (what little he might have) that this was, without a doubt, Silvia's walking stick!

"Take your hand away. That is very impolite, goblin," the Vampire Count said, his brow furrowing slightly. He still answered the question, however. "This walking stick will belong to Silvia, but before that, it was mine."

"Or rather, it was mine to begin with."

"'For my beloved daughter'..." Aive murmured, repeating the Elf Language inscribed on the walking stick. "So, you're the one who—"

"I am," the Count acknowledged with a nod. "But later, my lands suffered some... incidents, and this walking stick was lost. It wasn't until you all awakened a little trinket I made long ago that I sensed its presence."

The Count gestured toward the Heron Sculpture next to Ron. The bronze Magic Item obediently flew up and returned to an empty display stand that had once been its place.

"Those were the darkest years of my long life. I was powerless even to protect my own collection," the Count sighed softly. "But fortunately, some of them were of my own making. Thus, when they saw the light of day again, I sensed it immediately."