Fangless: The Alpha's Vampire Mate-Chapter 296: How to Train Your Demon

Taking the Blood Moon’s power had been Kaan’s goal from the very start. Thessara had told him about it, and after learning more, one thing became crystal clear—such an extraordinary power obviously belonged in the hands of someone as deserving as, well, him.

But now, there was a new complication. The demon.

It sounded intriguing. Dangerous. Exciting, even. But at the end of the day, a demon was still just another creature with its own pesky free will. Could Kaan break it? Make it roll over and play dead on command? And, more importantly—what if it didn’t? What if it turned on him and, oh no, killed him?

The thought made him laugh. Kill him? Truly? The idea was almost insulting.

Then again, calling Ol’gaz a mere demon would be selling him short. He was strong. Frighteningly so. But Kaan? Kaan was Kaan. He had power, centuries of training, an iron will, and the power of a living vampire flowing through his veins. And, not to forget, an unshakable belief in his own superiority.

Besides, how strong could a demon truly be if it had been locked away in the first place?

"Technically, the Blood Moon’s power was granted to those with the will to protect the world or change it for the better," one scholar said, carefully choosing his words.

"Historically, the first wielder of the Blood Moon’s power used it for the good of the world," another added, as if that would make a difference.

"At its core, the Blood Moon power is meant for great things—grand, noble, selfless things," a third chimed in, voice dripping with idealism.

None of them dared to say it outright, but the thought was the same: And yet, here you are, wanting to wield it for nothing but your own selfish gain.

There were no records of a Blood Moon child who had taken the power and used it to conquer, to make the world kneel beneath them. The histories told only of three outcomes—either the wielder became a force of destruction, perished under the weight of the power, or, predictably, did something noble with it.

Kaan wasn’t interested in any of those. He wasn’t looking to be some tragic cautionary tale, and the idea of being the world’s shining hero? Pass. That was so boring. So predictable. He wanted power. Control. A world that bent the knee at his command.

"Then Ol’gaz is the most fitting choice for you," Thessara said, her voice edged with something between amusement and warning.

Kaan wanted both, but life’s unfair like that, so he had to pick one. In the end, he chose the demon. Thessara had a point—Ol’gaz seemed like the best bet for world domination. If he could find a way to bend the demon to his will, nothing would stand between him and his lifelong dream—conquering the world.

Kaan handed his underground team a brand-new nightmare of a task: figure out how to control the demon before it turned him into a chew toy. He told Roderick to bring in more scholars—specifically, the kind who actually knew something about demonology instead of just nodding wisely and stroking their chins.

But that wasn’t enough. He also sent his knights to play spy in the Kingdom of Eira, where the demon was currently making a mess of things.

If this creature was causing such chaos, then surely its movements and behavior could reveal something useful. By studying it closely, Kaan’s special unit might just discover the key to forging a solid master-slave relationship—one where he was the master, and the demon didn’t turn him into a pile of ash.

The study was far from complete, and Kaan’s team still had a mountain of work ahead—dots to connect, theories to unravel, and enough red marks on their notes to make it look like a crime scene. They had estimated that, to be truly thorough, this endeavor would take at least another five years.

And then, before the seasons even had a chance to change, Eira decided to shake things up.

While keeping tabs on the so-called Vampire Hunter—or Ol’gaz, the demon currently joyriding in the body of the gullible Florian—his spies spotted Lady Maris sneaking out of the palace.

That was a big deal, considering the spies themselves couldn’t even get inside.

Ever since Florian’s dramatic return and King Valentin’s rather unfortunate realization that his nephew had been born solely to serve as a demon vessel, palace security had tightened to near-paranoid levels.

To outsiders, it looked like they were trying to keep intruders out, but in reality, the priority was keeping a certain someone in.

This heightened security had made infiltration impossible. The Royal Guards had been drilled to memorize every single face within the palace walls. If they didn’t recognize you, you weren’t getting in—simple as that.

Of course, this brilliant system had a tiny downside: not every guard had a great memory. Some of them, frankly, just forgot.

As a result, more than a few unfortunate servants had found themselves locked outside, pounding on the gates, all because the guard on duty stared at them like, Who are you again?

Kaan couldn’t have cared less about the poor, forgotten servants. Their misery was not his problem. What was his problem, however, was figuring out where the king’s mistress was sneaking off to.

Why was she slipping away alone, without her usual entourage of knights? She was acting like she didn’t want to be seen. Suspicious. Did the king even know she was up to something?

Sensing an opportunity, Kaan made up his mind. "We’re heading out tonight. Get ready," he declared.

Ah, the perks of being emperor—he just had to bark a command, and someone else had to figure out how to actually make it happen. That someone was, of course, Roderick.

Normally, assembling a royal travel entourage took weeks. If it was urgent, they could maybe pull it off in a few days. But Kaan wanted to leave in a few hours.

And as a loyal aide—who, let’s be real, was less of an advisor and more of an overworked personal assistant—Roderick had no choice but to drop everything and make miracles happen.

For Kaan, it was the best decision he had ever made. For Eira and Riona, it was a catastrophe in the making—one that would hit like a runaway carriage with no brakes.