Outside the barren, war-torn city of Kazdel, deep within the suffocating darkness of a deserted cave.
“Run!
That girl is a monster, run!”
“Silver Coin, Copper Head, and Rusty Pen are already dead by her hand…
Damn it, why the hell didn’t you say beforehand that you kidnapped a monster!”
“A Blood Fiend!
She’s a monster!”
A mercenary cursed hysterically, screaming at the companion running beside him.
He turned his head, fully expecting an answer, only to be paralyzed by a sudden, chilling realization.
Just a moment ago, he had heard his partner’s heavy, frantic breathing echoing off the damp stone walls.
Now, there was nothing but the sound of his own desperate voice and the slapping of his boots against the dirt.
Cold sweat drenched his back.
He pushed his burning legs even harder, lunging forward into the gloom.
After rounding a jagged corner, the cave exit finally appeared just over ten meters away.
“Almost there, almost there!
As long as I can reach the light!” The faint moonlight spilling into the cavern offered him a desperate, intoxicating hope.
His exhausted limbs felt a fraction lighter.
He truly believed that if he could just cross that threshold, he would secure his freedom and his life.
But in the very next second, his vision violently distorted.
A sickening, sharp pain erupted from the very core of his body.
“No…
Help…”
He wanted to drop to his knees and beg for mercy, but his vocal cords snapped.
His entire skeletal structure was instantly folded inward, crushed into an impossible, inhuman shape like a discarded, twisted ragdoll.
Click-clack…
click-clack…
The crisp, rhythmic sound of small leather shoes echoed from the depths of the cave.
The newcomer did not spare a single glance at the mercenary’s gruesome, mangled remains, instead strolling calmly toward the moonlit exit.
“Kazdel is still far too dangerous,” a soft, delicate voice murmured to the empty air.
“It is a pity that the Sarkaz princess has already fallen and Babel has vanished into thin air.
Otherwise, Flandre thinks that would have been a lovely place to settle down.”
The girl stepped out under the pale moonlight, talking quietly to herself.
She possessed short, vibrant blonde hair, crowned by a white mob cap adorned with pristine frills, and a pair of striking, scarlet pupils that glowed faintly in the dark.
She wore a thin, elegant red Gothic dress that seemed entirely out of place in the barren wastelands.
Below her white bubble socks sat a pair of small, polished brown leather shoes.
Yet, the most stunning feature was the pair of wings extending from her back.
To call them wings felt slightly inaccurate, for they lacked the soft feathers of a Liberi or the leathery membranes of a Sarkaz bat.
Instead, they were bare, branch-like appendages hung with brilliant, colorful, crystal-like prisms that chimed softly with her every movement.
If any soul from a certain other world were present, they would have instantly cried out in recognition.
Her appearance was virtually indistinguishable from the infamous vampire of Gensokyo, Flandre Scarlet.
But this Flandre was not entirely that Flandre.
After all, a sheltered vampire from the Scarlet Devil Mansion would know absolutely nothing about the war-torn continent of Terra.
Her mind was currently a fractured mosaic of two distinct lives.
One half contained centuries of memories living with her older sister in the Scarlet Devil Mansion.
The other half belonged to an ordinary girl who loved playing a mobile game called Arknights—a girl who had quite literally fainted and died from sheer rage after gambling all her resources in the Integrated Strategies mode and failing to pull the heavy hitters of the Laterano lineup.
“Sigh, that Integrated Strategies run really ruined Flandre…”
Recalling the sheer injustice of it all, Flandre ground her small fangs together.
Trying to clear Kjerag stages without Pramanix, facing the Unyielding Abyssal horrors without Gravel to stall, handling Sargon without the golden god of thunder, and even the Laterano bigwigs abandoning her when she needed them most.
All of it was the game designers’ fault.
A massive, unforgivable fault.
If she hadn’t died of a rage-induced aneurysm, she wouldn’t have awakened in this grim world possessing Flandre’s body, powers, and memories.
Or rather…
it felt more accurate to say that the Flandre who arrived in this world had suddenly inherited the memories of a frustrated gamer, granting her complete knowledge of this land called Terra.
‘So, is Flandre just a character in a game?’
When she first woke up, her mind had been entirely dazed and muddled from the violent fusion of two souls.
In that state of vulnerability, she had been scooped up by a passing mercenary squad.
It was only after she regained her senses and overheard those same mercenaries casually discussing selling her to a Leithanian noble who had a twisted preference for little girls that Flandre’s murderous instincts took absolute control.
What followed was a one-sided, bloody massacre.
Only now, standing alone in the quiet wilderness, did her reasoning fully return.
She looked down at her small hands.
Despite having just slaughtered an entire squad of hardened killers, she didn’t feel the slightest bit of nausea or guilt.
She really was Flandre Scarlet.
As for the existential dread of this world being nothing more than a game?
She simply didn’t care.
Four hundred and ninety-five years of memories remained perfectly intact within her mind.
Though much of that time spent in the basement was dull, the warmth of her sister’s company made it real.
With centuries of vivid life behind her, she was absolutely certain she was no mere string of code.
And if anyone dared to claim this world was fake?
They were welcome to ask the Sarkaz mercenaries currently twisted beyond human recognition inside that cave if their deaths felt fake.
“Flandre should see if there is a way to go home!”
She let out a soft sigh, her scarlet eyes gazing up at the alien, star-filled sky.
Which home?
The Scarlet Devil Mansion, of course.
She couldn’t help but wonder if, after her sudden displacement, another version of Flandre Scarlet had been left behind to keep her sister company.
If not, and she had simply vanished without a trace, Remilia would probably tear Gensokyo apart in a panic.
Shaking her head to clear the gloomy thoughts, she began to carefully consider her next destination.
She had just heard the mercenaries gossiping about the recent death of Her Highness Theresa.
They had mentioned fleeing the final, chaotic throes of the Kazdel civil war to make a living in Leithanien.
That meant the current timeline was likely the summer or autumn of the year 1094.
Given that, her options for a peaceful life were severely limited.
First, she immediately crossed Victoria off the list.
The Military Committee of Kazdel had already begun infiltrating Londinium, the heart of the empire.
In just a few short years, the entire nation would plunge into a brutal, nationwide civil war., with her demonic wings and vampiric traits, the locals would instantly brand her a Sarkaz.
Being a Sarkaz in Victoria during the Londinium crisis was a guaranteed death sentence.
Then there was Leithanien.
It was certainly more stable than Victoria.
Even when one of the Twin Empresses eventually became trapped in the void, the nation’s political foundation wouldn’t crumble.
But Leithanien’s extreme feudalism, strict centralization, and obsession with Arts made it an exhausting place to exist.
Casters were everywhere.
If an anomaly like her drew the gaze of the ruling class, it would invite endless, annoying trouble.
Laterano was completely out of the question.
While it boasted high living standards, her appearance screamed ‘Blood Fiend.’ The moment she stepped foot in the city, the Sankta would likely point their Originium firearms at her head, regardless of how stable their moods were.
Sargon, Columbia, and Bolívar were simply too far away, and Flandre couldn’t be bothered to fly across the entire continent.
Iberia was a decaying, isolated nightmare, so she ignored it.
Ursus?
Absolutely not.
That empire was fundamentally broken.
The ruling class didn’t treat their citizens like human beings.
They proudly claimed that everyone was ‘fuel for the great Ursus engine,’ yet it was always the starving, infected commoners being thrown into the furnace to keep the ambitious high nobles warm.
That left the nearby regions of Siracusa or Yan.
Truthfully, she despised both options.
Siracusa was overrun by mafia families, and her unique appearance would instantly make her a target for every greedy Don in the country.
Yan, on the other hand, was still a rigid feudal dynasty burdened by ancient laws.
‘A place suitable for living…
a place that tolerates outsiders…’
Her gaze shifted toward the protruding, independent economic zone of Yan—Lungmen.
It was the ultimate gateway between Yan and the outside world.
Lungmen possessed advanced technology and a melting pot of cultures dragged in from every corner of Terra.
That diversity bred a unique tolerance.
Combined with the iron-fisted, stable social order maintained by Chief Executive Wei Yenwu in the light and the Rat King in the shadows, it was easily the most comfortable place to settle down.
If Lungmen proved too annoying, she could always retreat to a quiet, forgotten town in Leithanien.
But before she did any of that, Flandre turned her gaze toward the frozen north.
This winter, a quiet, heartbreaking tragedy would unfold in a snowy forest in Ursus, acting as the catalyst for a cascade of future disasters.
Though the vampire Flandre couldn’t care less about the fate of mortals, the human soul fused within her simply couldn’t let it go.
“In that case, Flandre will take a little trip to Ursus first!”
Since she had no immediate leads on how to return to Gensokyo anyway, Flandre decided to follow the lingering warmth in her heart.
She would head to northern Ursus and crush that specific tragedy before it could bloom.
As for whatever happened after she saved that person?
She didn’t care.
She only intended to intervene because she genuinely felt it was far too cruel for that gentle woman to die solely because of her own kindness and a sickening, orchestrated conspiracy.
But Flandre was no savior, nor did she possess the medical knowledge to cure Oripathy.
Once she satisfied this tiny urge of human compassion, the rest of Terra could burn for all she cared.
With a light, graceful kick off the bloody dirt, Flandre Scarlet took to the sky, her crystal wings chiming as she flew north.
A full day after she departed, a lone scavenger crept into the Kazdel cave, only to immediately double over and dry-heave at the grotesque slaughter painted across the stone.
“Holy crap…
what kind of twisted Caster did this?
This is beyond cruel.”
Staring at the impossibly folded, crushed anatomy of the mercenaries, the scavenger muttered nervous prayers while skillfully looting the corpses of their remaining valuables.
Meanwhile, high above the clouds, Flandre suddenly clutched her stomach, her flight path wobbling in distress.
She was hungry.
As a vampire of the Scarlet Devil Mansion, she knew exactly what her ‘snacks’ were supposed to consist of.
But the moment she considered hunting a human, the human soul fused within her consciousness violently resisted.
“How about Flandre only takes a little bit of blood from each person?” she bargained aloud with herself, pouting.
“Just enough so they don’t die!
Otherwise, Flandre is going to starve!”
She paused, her scarlet eyes narrowing.
“Besides, if Flandre gets too hungry, you really won’t be able to control me.”
As if understanding the sheer danger of a starving, frenzied vampire, the human consciousness reluctantly settled down, offering a silent compromise.
Soon, she descended toward the edge of a small, rustic mountain village.
“Animal blood?
No, that doesn’t seem right.
Animal blood stinks; Flandre can’t drink that garbage at all.” She muttered to herself, flipping through the Terra-related memories in her mind.
“What do you mean Terra people are all evolved from animals?
That’s completely different…”
As she approached the dirt road leading into the village, a sharp sound caught her attention.
“Hmm?
Someone is crying!”
Before she even spotted the crowd, the desperate sound of weeping drifted through the evening air.
Peeking from behind a thick tree, she saw a man dressed in lavish, excessive finery pointing a riding crop at a terrified family.
The noble was babbling loudly, his face flushed with arrogance.
Flandre tilted her head.
Curiously, while she could perfectly understand the Sarkaz mercenaries, the words coming from this man’s mouth were complete gibberish to her.
Glancing at the architecture and the clothing of the villagers, she realized she had already crossed the border out of Kazdel.
Based on her flight time, she had entered Leithanien territory.
They were speaking the local Leithanian dialect.
‘Well, Flandre just found another reason to avoid Leithanien.
The language barrier is too annoying.’
“Flandre hopes she can understand whatever they speak in Yan,” she whispered.
Despite the language barrier, the situation playing out in the dirt street was universally easy to read: a forced abduction.
In Flandre’s eyes, the weeping woman being dragged away was only moderately pretty, and she was clearly fighting desperately to stay with her family.
The wealthy noble, eyeing his prize with a disgusting, lecherous grin, waved his hand.
His armored guards immediately shoved the woman forward, violently kicking away her battered, bleeding husband.
When a little boy ran forward, crying out in a desperate attempt to save his mother, the noble casually kicked the child into the dirt.
“So…
Flandre can eat this guy, right?”
Feeling a sudden surge of disgust and anger radiating from the human half of her soul, Flandre smiled.
The compromise was clear.
She wasn’t allowed to slaughter the innocent, but evil men?
They were free game.
“But this guy’s taste is really poor,” Flandre complained softly, watching the noble strut.
“He clearly has plenty of money, so why go out of his way to ruin a family and steal a woman who already has a husband and a child?”
Influenced by her human memories, she couldn’t help but judge the man’s pathetic lack of class.
Since hunting was officially permitted, she didn’t hesitate for another second, eager to strike before her human conscience could change its mind.
She kicked off the branch, plunging downward like a crimson comet.
Down in the village, Little John was in an exceptionally good mood.
He had finally tracked down the rumors of this rural beauty living on the edge of his territory and had personally ridden out with his guards to claim her.
The sun had nearly set by the time they finished their ‘negotiations.’After some heavy-handed persuasion involving steel boots and broken ribs, the peasant husband had finally agreed to’lend’ his wife to the lord for a few days.
Just as Little John turned around, eager to head back to his manor and enjoy his new toy, he had no idea he had just been classified as dinner.
“My Lord, watch out!”
By the time his captain’s frantic warning registered, Little John felt an overwhelming, crushing force slam into his chest, lifting his heavy frame entirely off the ground.
“Who is it?!
Guards, help me!”
He thrashed wildly in the air, panic seizing his heart.
Then, a small, delicate face framed by a white mob cap peeked out from his left side.
“Don’t worry, Flandre will make this quick!”
A cheerful fragment of the Sarkaz language, spoken in a chillingly sweet, childish tone, brushed against his ear.
‘Quick?
What’s quick?’
Before his sluggish mind could process the words, he felt two impossibly sharp fangs pierce straight through the thick collar of his coat and deep into his neck.
In that fleeting fraction of a second, the searing pain brought absolute clarity.
He finally recognized the pale skin, the crimson eyes, and the unnatural strength.
“A Blood Fiend…
No!
Please—!”
His desperate plea died in his throat as the blood was violently drained from his veins.
He tried to thrash, to claw at the tiny hands holding him in a death grip, but his strength vanished into the cold night air.
After draining him dry and satisfying the burning ache in her stomach, Flandre kindly tossed the shriveled, pale corpse back onto the dirt road.
Staring at the horrifying, mummified remains of Little John, the guards and villagers collectively lost their minds.
“Blood Fiends!
The Blood Fiends are attacking!”
Weapons were dropped.
Torches were abandoned.
The crowd scattered in absolute terror, screaming as they fled into the shadows.
Wiping a stray drop of crimson from the corner of her mouth, a bright, genuinely happy smile bloomed on Flandre’s face.
“Since they’re running, Flandre can eat one more, right?”
Her scarlet eyes locked onto a specific target: the burly lackey who had beaten the peasant husband the hardest.
Whether he had done it out of sheer cruelty or just to impress his now-dead master didn’t matter.
He was on the menu.
The lackey was sprinting north, desperately trying to lose himself in the dense treeline to survive the nightmare.
Unfortunately for him, every clumsy, panicked step was perfectly tracked by the predator hovering silently in the sky above.
Just as his boots hit the edge of the forest, Flandre descended, landing lightly right beside him.
Before he could even draw a breath to scream, her small hand clamped onto his shoulder with the force of a hydraulic press.
Amidst his pathetic, muffled shrieks and the distant wails of the fleeing villagers, she sank her fangs into his neck.
A moment later, she pulled back, her face twisting in utter revulsion.
“Ptooey!
Ptooey!
How long has it been since this guy took a shower?
This neck is so dirty!”
Spitting the foul taste from her tongue, Flandre tossed the drained lackey into the bushes with a look of deep disgust.
Flapping her crystal wings, she immediately flew toward the sound of a nearby stream, desperate to wash her mouth out.