My Blood Legacy: Reincarnated as a Vampire

Fenrir stood in a shadowed corner of Helheim, the bleak and frozen realm where the spirits of the dead wandered in endless torment.

The sound of slicing winds echoed off the ancient stone walls, mingling with the wails of lost souls and the hiss of falling snow. It was a place even the mightiest gods feared to tread — but Fenrir was no ordinary being. She was the daughter of Loki, the trickster serpent-god, and had exiled herself here in a desperate attempt to halt the coming of Ragnarök.

She sat alone, her eyes fixed on the distant horizon where the eternal sky met the indistinct earth. Her form, cloaked in shadow-black wolf fur, seemed to blend into the darkness around her. Her fangs, sharp as ancient blades, and her predator's claws were ever-ready for war — yet here, in the stillness of Helheim, only silence remained. Only solitude.

It felt strange to be this way. Fenrir had always been a force of nature, a symbol of uncontrollable power and inevitable chaos. Yet here, in her self-imposed exile, she had become something else — a lonely sentinel.

Her only purpose now was to stop Ragnarök, if such a thing could even be done. But the winds of destruction blew ever stronger. Fate, it seemed, could not be silenced.

Her father, Loki — god of mischief and chaos — had always been a mystery to her. He had vanished long ago, leaving behind nothing but cryptic words that still echoed in her mind.

"You are stronger than you think, my daughter," he had often said. But words of comfort were not enough to fill the emptiness in her heart.

Loki, the absent father, the god who twisted the threads of fate like a game, had always felt far away... even when he was near.

Fenrir rose from her resting place, her body trembling faintly in the icy wind that pierced even her resilient hide. She walked toward the edge of a towering rock formation that loomed in the heart of Helheim. The landscape was as grim as ever, the air thick with despair. She gazed out once more into the horizon, her lupine eyes taking in the eternal desolation — but inside her, something stirred.

Then she felt it.

A shift. A strange, sickening sensation.

It was as if a thread in the tapestry of existence had been cut — as if a tether deep within her soul had snapped. Fenrir's brow furrowed, her predatory instincts sharpening with alarm.

'Father?' Her aura expanded, the energy within her weaving through the invisible forces that shaped the world. She closed her eyes, trying to listen — to hear the whisper of the cosmos, to understand what had changed.

Something was wrong.

Suddenly, a wave of emotion crashed through her — a profound disturbance in the essence of reality itself. A presence had vanished. But not just any presence.

Loki's aura.

Fenrir froze, her heart beating with erratic intensity. The aura was still faintly there, distant, but unmistakable. The mischievous energy of her father — the divine touch that had meddled with destiny for eons. But now, it felt... fractured. Weak. Wrong.

His essence was located far away, too far. The connection between them, always elusive, now frayed and splintering. She clenched her eyes shut, reaching with her spirit to grasp the fading thread — but it slipped further away, as if reality itself recoiled from her.

"No…" she whispered, her lips trembling. "It can't be…"

She knew what this meant.

Fenrir had felt death many times before — the passing of warriors, of enemies, of allies long gone. But Loki's death… her father's death… that was something she could not accept.

Suddenly, a presence materialized beside her.

Fenrir spun around, body tense, claws unsheathed — ready to tear apart whatever dared approach. But as her eyes met the figure beside her, the tension slowly eased.

It was a woman. Tall and slender, with skin pale as new-fallen snow and eyes that glowed gold like distant stars. She wore a dark cloak that seemed to absorb the very shadows, and an aura of divine mysticism radiated from her — the unmistakable presence of a goddess.

"Fenrir..." The woman's voice was soft, yet carried the weight of ancient power. "I knew you would feel it."

Fenrir looked at her, instantly recognizing who stood before her. It was the ruler of Helheim — Hela, the goddess of death and shadow. She stood there calmly, her golden eyes fixed on Fenrir with a quiet, somber intensity.

"You know what happened?" Fenrir asked, her voice laced with a volatile mix of sorrow and fury.

Hela studied her in silence for a moment, as if choosing her words with care. She understood what the loss of Loki would mean to Fenrir — a grief no one else could possibly grasp. The bond between father and daughter had been twisted, fragile, and distant… yet undeniable.

"I know," Hela finally said, her voice edged with sorrow. "Our father… he's gone."

Fenrir looked down, eyes locked on the void beneath her feet, as if searching for answers in the restless shadows dancing at her toes. Hela's words echoed inside her like a cruel chant — slow, cold, and final.

The death of Loki.

The death of the god she had never fully known, yet whose presence had always lingered like a silent storm — a constant shadow at the edges of her existence, a whisper in her blood.

His death… meant the end of an era. The end of a force that felt eternal. Loki was chaos. He was laughter in ruins, irony wrapped in fate. Loki was the impossible.

And now… he was silence.

Fenrir shook her head.

Denial — the first stage of grief, raw and unreasoning — rose inside her like an unrelenting wall.

"No," Fenrir growled, her voice low and cutting through the frozen air like a blade of ice.

She stood, rising to her full lupine height, towering against the bleak horizon of Helheim. Her golden eyes blazed with restrained rage, and her aura surged outward — vast and violent — making the very ground tremble beneath her claws. She looked beyond the world, into the endless void, as if by sheer will she could drag Loki back from the clutches of death.

"NO!" Her roar tore through the fabric of the realm, shaking the veil of the dead itself.

She was the Beast of the End. The Devourer of Suns. The Omen of the Gods. And now, with Loki gone… what was the point of holding back the end? Why suppress the storm?

Something deep within her stirred — something ancient and buried. A dark seed bloomed in her chest, awakened by grief and fury.

Ragnarök…

It felt like she had awakened from a long slumber — a terrible, divine purpose flaring to life.

But instead of unleashing her wrath upon Odin… instead of charging toward her fate…

"AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!"

Fenrir's scream shattered the skies of Helheim — an ancestral howl that ripped across veils, dimensions, and time itself. Her pain transformed into pure, raw power — an emotional cataclysm becoming divine force. The shadowy aura around her erupted like a dark supernova, shaking the land, making the mountains bleed, and sending the souls of the dead scattering in blind terror.

And then… she changed.

Her body, once bestial and quadrupedal, began to twist and reshape. Bones cracked. Muscle stretched and reformed. Fur gave way to divine flesh. Before the bleak horizon stood a new form — humanoid, primal, colossal. She was still Fenrir… but now with arms that could rend stars, eyes that stormed with celestial wrath, and a presence so overwhelming that even Hela took a step back.

"I WILL KILL WHOEVER DID THIS!" she roared, and her voice thundered across the Nine Realms, tearing through time and logic.

The echo of her fury reached Asgard, Midgard, Vanaheim, Alfheim… no realm was spared.

But she did not charge toward Odin.

Not yet.

Her rage was too vast for a single target.

With a furious impulse, she tore through reality, ripping the veil between worlds with her own hands. In a single leap, she soared toward the World Tree — Yggdrasill — her body carving rifts between dimensions like spears of pure energy.

The Tree trembled.

Each beat of her distorted wings made the very fabric of the cosmos shudder. When she reached the divine branches of Yggdrasill, Fenrir landed upon one of its eternal limbs — a feat no creature had ever dared attempt.

She was panting, consumed by maddening rage.

And then, like a starving beast devouring its own fate, she sank her fangs into one of the branches.

The Tree screamed.

Ethereal flames and primordial energy burst from the wound, but Fenrir swallowed it all. Every drop, every spark. By consuming that sacred limb, she absorbed the power to traverse the Realms — to move through the roots of the cosmos as if she were one with existence itself.

That was when the chaos began.

Overwhelmed by pain and power, she opened portals across all Nine Realms at once. She ripped holes in their realities, made worlds quake, oceans boil, and skies crack. The walls of Asgard trembled. The skies of Midgard darkened at midday. Rifts tore through the fields of Vanaheim. Ancient beings stirred from their tombs.

The order of the Realms… collapsed.

It didn't take long before the Sector Administrators intervened — entities that watched over the balance between worlds. They manifested as celestial lights, figures of frozen time and crystallized logic. And still, they fought with everything they had to contain her.

The battle was short, brutal — and inevitable. Fenrir only fell because she chose not to kill them all.

She allowed herself to be captured.

And then, with her head held high and a presence still more threatening than a thousand unspoken wars, she demanded only one thing:

"CAST ME INTO THE SECTOR WHERE MY FATHER WAS THROWN."

It wasn't a request. It was a decree. And the Administrators knew that even in defeat, she was still a cosmic threat. It was safer to obey.

Time bent. Space split.

And so, Fenrir was cast beyond the borders of time and death, into the sector where Loki's aura had vanished… into a Realm hidden from the gods' eyes.

She fell.

Like a living meteor, her body pierced reality once more, crashing into the heart of a wild, moonlit world.

When she rose, covered in stardust and with burning eyes, she felt it.

She smelled the cold forests. Heard the distant howls. Felt the pulse of the full moon thrum in the sky like an invisible drum.

"And that… is how I ended up here."

Fenrir's voice cut through the air like a smooth blade, ending the story abruptly.

She stared ahead, sitting atop a great moss-covered stone, while dozens of young werewolf children gathered around her — eyes wide, mouths agape in awe. Some sat on the grass, others lay down with furry ears twitching at every detail of the tale. Even the most mischievous pups were silent — a rare thing — enchanted by a story that felt like pure magic.

The silence lasted one full second… then exploded.

"Auntie is awesome!!" shouted a little boy with ashen fur and amber eyes, throwing his arms in the air as if trying to hug the size of the tale.

"She ate a branch of the World Tree!" said a girl, clapping her hands in excitement.

"She screamed so loud she broke the realms! I wanna learn how to do that!"

Fenrir raised an eyebrow, surprised by the reception. She still didn't know how to deal with that kind of… adoration. From gods, she received fear. From mortals, she was myth. But here, in that hidden village within the Realm of the Werewolves, she was a living story — and more than that, some kind of hero.

"…Auntie?" she murmured to herself, almost smiling.

"Auntie Fenrir, are you stronger than Odin?" asked one of the smallest, his snout smeared with dirt.

She sighed, folding her arms. Her golden eyes still glowed, but now with something different… a flicker of tenderness. A thing long forgotten.

"Am I stronger?" She tilted her head. "Maybe. But strength doesn't always mean victory. Sometimes, the hardest thing is not to destroy everything."

The children exchanged confused glances at the sudden bit of philosophy. One boy scratched his ear and made a face.

"But you could scare him a little, right?" he asked innocently. "Like… just give him a tiny fright."

Fenrir laughed. Not a cruel laugh, not a threatening cackle. She laughed from the chest. From the soul. A clean, husky, and warm laugh — like a campfire on a cold night.

"Maybe one day, little one. Maybe one day."

The children began buzzing around her again, jumping and spinning, each trying to ask more questions, to touch her cloak made of shadow fragments, or simply to stay close. She was a legend. A monster. But to them… she was "Auntie."

"She looks pretty happy."

Siren's soft voice broke the silence as she approached Dante, who watched everything through the wide glass window of the learning hall.

Inside, Fenrir kept playing with the children, letting herself be wrapped in laughter, messy hugs, and the purity she had long forgotten.

Siren stopped beside him, crossing her arms with a mischievous smile tugging at her lips.

"I thought you'd claim your 'little wolf' after she said you two kissed… a few thousand years ago." Her tone was playful, but her eyes glinted with genuine curiosity.

He didn't answer right away. His eyes were fixed on Fenrir — on the way she smiled without holding back, as if, for a moment, the weight of her existence had evaporated. As if she were just one more among the younglings, and not the creature who carried the end of the world within her heart.

"She's not ready to move on from the past," he said finally, his smile serene, almost melancholic. "That's why I let the children wash her soul."

Siren glanced sideways at him, one brow raised with a hint of surprise. He spoke like someone who truly knew that kind of pain… and maybe he did.

"Even though we were enemies, in the end…" Siren sighed, her eyes softening as they returned to Fenrir. "She was just a scared pup… who lost her family in the middle of the storm. No home. No direction. No one to guide her through the dark."

A brief silence followed. The image was painfully true.

"She can't return to the realm that rejected her… and she can't see the one she came looking for," Siren added quietly. "It's sad. Lonely."

Dante nodded slowly.

"But even in the shadows, something new was born." His voice was calm, almost a whisper. "New bonds have formed. New memories are being made. And those new memories…" He took a deep breath, watching as Fenrir knelt to tie the crooked sandal of one of the children. "…they'll begin to wash away the old ones. Not completely. But little by little, like rain cleaning the blood from an open wound."

Down below, Fenrir smiled — truly smiled. Not with mockery, not with restrained fury, but with purity. The smile of someone who, for the first time in eons, had found something no god, not even Loki, had ever given her: Peace.

Dante closed his eyes for a brief moment and smiled too.

"My beautiful little wolf… finally found what she deserved. A chance to start over."