In a mist-shrouded castle manor, Isabella von Dracula stood on a tower balcony, overlooking her vast domain. The night was as thick as ink, and moonlight bathed her perfect face, illuminating an ageless beauty—a pointed chin, blood-red lips, and crimson eyes that gleamed with eternal hunger. Her figure was sculpted perfection, curvaceous curves clad in a rich black silk gown. A noble vampire, she had lived for centuries, commanding all life on this land. Her power stemmed not only from her bloodline but also from her awe-inspiring regenerative abilities—even mortal wounds healed in an instant, as if death itself were but a joke to her.