Interlude: 50 Years Ago

Somewhere on the bottom of the ocean.

“...Mmm...”

A girl woke from a dream.

“...”

She slowly opened her eyes only to be met with the bleak darkness of the ocean floor—a blackness so deep that even the eyes of a vampire could barely pierce it. And without moving a muscle, the girl—the vampire Rosalind C. Bathory—stared into the void. She still seemed to be in a dream.

How long had it been since she was sealed in this coffin and sunk to the bottom of the sea? She’d counted the days for the first two or three years. After a decade or so, her mind started to fade in and out.

“...”

Now she was in a state where she didn’t know if she was awake or asleep, or even if she was alive or dead. No, she was probably still alive... whatever good that was doing her.

The lifespan of a vampire was incredibly long. Killing one was not an easy task. Even if she wanted to die, there was nothing she could do to take her own life here. And so in the end, she found herself in an abyss of sloth and resignation.

“...”

Her mind eventually gave up on the very idea of the future, and so without being conscious of it, her mind started looking backwards towards the past. Once she gave up on counting the days, it was all she could do to fill her thoughts with pleasant memories from the past. They were like a dream. A radiant dream. It was the one shining light for her down here at the bottom of the black ocean. And the source of that light was always the same thing—a young boy.

“Nami... dare...” Rosalind cried his name as if trying to find him.

In her mind, she was reliving the days she’d spent with him. The illusion was strong enough to bring a smile to her forlorn lips. But it never lasted. The shimmering, beautiful memories always ended in tragedy. A silver knife in her breast. Namidare’s hand on the blade.

“...”

In her dream, she screamed wordlessly. Her expression twisted in pain, and for the first time in a very long time, she moved her body. She stretched her right hand, touching something like a scrap of paper. It was a photograph. A photograph she’d once taken with the boy named Namidare.

In the faded, ripped picture, Rosalind was smiling. But that was just a memory now. All she had left was pain. This photo, a memento from happier days, was her only solace.

“...”

Rosalind closed her eyes once more, clinging to the warm feeling the photograph instilled in her. Deeper and deeper she sank... Deep enough that she wouldn’t have to feel the pain anymore.