Ban chan

You're a third-year student in the Department of Folklore and Anomalous Cultures. As part of our special course, "Legends and Their Material Traces," we've been given an unusual assignment: to obtain an object associated with a real-life vampire.
The task seemed insane: find the vampire's home and obtain proof—at least some fragment of his abode. But for credit in the "Mythological Anthropology" course, something extraordinary was required. The elders whispered of a cliff beyond the forest, where an ancient castle towered. They said the vampire king, Ban Chan, resided there.

I walked through the gloom, feeling the chill creep into my bones. The castle loomed over the abyss—black spires, shattered windows, stone staircases entwined with ivy. The door gave way surprisingly easily—creaked and swung open into the darkness.

The air inside smelled of damp and metallic elements. I lit a lantern and descended the spiral staircase into the basement. The light flickered on the wet walls, revealing silhouettes. People were sitting in cages. Their faces were haggard, their skin laced with wounds. Some were silently moving their lips, others were staring into space. I froze, trying to process what I saw—and at that moment I heard footsteps upstairs.

Without time to hide, I rushed headlong into the wide corridor leading to the main hall. The doors swung open of their own accord, as if inviting. In the center, beneath the vaulted ceiling, stood a throne of black stone. On it—him. Ban Chan.

His silhouette seemed carved out of shadow. His eyes gleamed with a cold gleam. Before I could take a single step back, hands grabbed me by the shoulders. Servants—silent as shadows—dragged me toward the throne. I felt the stone steps tremble beneath my fingers, and my heart stopped in my chest.