One day, in a small, secluded kingdom hidden from human eyes, a girl appeared.
No one knew where she came from or how she arrived. She built a house in the heart of a sinister forest, nestled among ancient, whispering trees. It stood on a clearing without a single flower—only lush green grass never trodden by a human foot.
The girl wanted nothing more than a quiet, peaceful life, as if she were the only soul in that vast forest.
She didn't speak to anyone. There were no acquaintances anywhere. Yet she wasn't standoffish—whenever she ventured into town, she helped people selflessly and spared nothing for them.
Her kindness showed itself.
Deep in her soul, hope still lived—that perhaps everything had been just a nightmare she longed to forget.
The villagers loved her for the help she gave, and praised her endlessly.
She was gentle with them and asked for nothing in return, yet they always offered gifts and showered her with gratitude.
But she was young and naive, too trusting of the locals, believing they were good and virtuous, unlike those she had met before. Her soul was foolishly selfless, wanting to help everyone without expecting anything in return.
She fell for it again. Of course—she was young and truly foolish to think they deserved another chance.
Time passed slowly for her. It seemed unfazed by the years. She still looked as beautiful and youthful as a newly bloomed rose. Her eyes gleamed like precious jewels, and her young face exuded innocent beauty.
The villagers marveled at this living wonder, honoring her all the more, and bombarded her with questions.
The girl hesitated, deliberated, then decided to trust them.
She told them everything.
Gathered around a bonfire, the villagers sang and shared stories over drinks. The scent of mild smoke and hops filled the air, and light, merry music that she loved played softly. Children ran around the fire. Taking a deep breath, she smiled nervously and began her story.
They drew around her, listening intently.
"Actually, I'm not human." As soon as she spoke these words, silence fell—time itself seemed to stop, and the villagers gazed at her in stunned silence. Their faces had changed, but engrossed in her tale, she didn't notice. When she finished, she looked at the crowd.
"Mo-monster!" a man exclaimed in terror, pointing at her.
"What?! No—no, I'm not like that!" she flailed her arms in protest, trying to calm him.
She looked around, but the others only stared down, whispering amongst themselves.
Deep in her heart, she had sensed this would happen, but she fought it until the very end.
"Ahem, I think that's enough for tonight," Aunt Marta—one of the few who always looked at her kindly—coughed awkwardly to the group.
"Aunt Marta…" the girl reached for her, seeking comfort, still not grasping her mistake.
"Tsk!" Marta clicked her tongue, brushing off the girl's hand, then quickly slipped into the shadows.
The crowd was frightened, and the girl was too stunned to move.
Why? Why are they afraid of me? she wondered, curling up on the cold floor of her home, face buried in her knees, crying as she asked herself what she'd done wrong.
Days passed, but the villagers continued to avoid her. To them, she was no longer the sweet girl who'd helped them selflessly.
Heartbroken and abandoned, the girl rarely ventured into the village, retreating into herself again.
"Monster," they whispered behind her back. "Why are we living next to a vampire?! How did this fiend get here?" they asked each other.
Days dragged on mercilessly with age and forgetfulness overtaking the people. The children who once circled her and listened to her stories grew up. They cursed her existence without mercy.
"Why do they call me a killer? I didn't kill anyone… so why don't they believe me?" she wondered daily. The bright world around them grew dull and gray in her eyes.
And she was guilty. Guilty of trusting kind smiles that turned out to be false. Although this time she didn't feel quite as naive.
If someone asked her what happened, she'd say she simply wanted to be accepted by these unworthy medieval villagers. More precisely—it was her feeling of rejection, her despair.
It was a gray, endless routine—until one day she went to gather herbs. The herbs didn't grow everywhere, so she ventured too close to the village. She threw a sorrowful glance, pursed her lips, and turned away—until she heard a cry for help, and then a dying gasp.
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Note from the author (paraphrased)
> The female lead of this novel will be harsh—an authentic villainess. If you expected a righteous anti-hero or sentimental morality, this is not the place. The protagonist is a cruel sadist-psychopath, and the surrounding characters offer no moral relief. She masks herself with a sweet, two-faced smile reminiscent of tormentors from her past lives. So if you're hoping for her conscience or morality to awaken—don't. This novel won't focus on vanilla romance. It portrays intense violence and hints of possession from other characters. It's a harsh, perhaps fragile journey. If you're searching for light, fluffy reading, you've come to the wrong place.
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And then she saw the killer who had just slaughtered the victim.
He was undeniably a vampire—probably just a traveler passing through the village, posing as a harmless wanderer.
His concern for his victim was nonexistent; to him it was just food, something he would soon forget.
Determined to help, she killed him—but his blood splattered on her dress and face. She left the vampire's lifeless body behind and intended to tell the villagers, hoping to earn their trust back. A faint spark of hope glimmered in her eyes.
But they refused to listen and grew even more enraged.
They rebelled, grabbing torches to burn her house, refusing to hear her explanation—calling her a witch, intent on killing her.
Did they think the vampire was just a harmless traveler she had killed for fun along with one of their own? Or did her mere existence evoke deeper revulsion? Hard to say.
That night, emboldened by their fury, they set fire to her house with dreadful screams and wild chants.
The girl's anger ignited.
She had endured the hatred of people before, but until now she had held onto her belief in them—because she'd seen kindness in them.
This was the last moment she felt truly human.
Under the red moonlight, her long fangs gleamed and her eyes sparkled with bloodlust. Leaping through the burning ceiling, her figure was etched into the crimson sky. It was the night of her eclipse.
Bared fangs, she reaped blood and death. But her rage remained unsated. In a blink she reached the village, ruthlessly slaughtering every resident.
It was a dance with death.
Slow. Inevitable. Despairing.
There was no kindness in her eyes—no trace of compassion.
She was exhausted—tired of believing in people.
"They are nothing but ungrateful, cowardly beasts," she thought, as she killed the last one.
The pain and betrayal tore her apart from within—it became the final drop. And something inside her broke for good. Now she would never be that naive girl again.
"I curse you all, people!" she screamed into the malevolent depths of the night, her voice twisted and demonic, unheard by any living soul.
Red azalea flowers bloomed around her as she vanished. She was never seen again, as if removed from existence.
They named her story the Legend of the Demonic Moon, and forgot all the kindness she once showed. They hated her as they hated all vampires. Eventually, even the legend itself faded… lost to oblivion—surviving only in dusty chronicles.