Egypt is hot. Egypt is dusty. And Egypt is dangerously underrated when it comes to the undead.

We were called to Luxor after reports of bodies drained of blood near a remote archaeological dig. The police dismissed it as wild animal attacks, but the victims were pale, eyes wide open, and fangs weren’t exactly something a jackal leaves behind.

Naturally, Morizumi packed lightly. Just a long coat, a satchel, and a few ritual implements that looked like they belonged in a museum exhibit. I packed cameras, snacks, and a boater hat, because style is essential when hunting monsters.

The vampire’s lair was beneath the ruins of a partially excavated temple. The air inside the tunnel was cool, dank, and smelled faintly of iron and incense. Shadows stretched in ways that shouldn’t be possible. Every torch flickered the instant we lit it, as though the darkness was laughing.

“Stay alert,” Morizumi said, voice low. “It doesn’t hunt by sight.”

“Then… how do we know it’s here?” I asked, nervously glancing at the walls that seemed to pulse with shadow.

Morizumi didn’t answer. He just stepped forward, palms out, and the shadows recoiled like they’d just realized they’d been caught.

We entered a large chamber beneath the temple. The walls were etched with hieroglyphs warning of a “blood-seeker” that rises when disturbed. At the center, chained to stone pillars, was the vampire—ancient, regal, and very, very awake. Its eyes opened slowly, black as tar, and the fangs gleamed like ivory daggers.

“You shouldn’t be here,” it hissed, voice echoing off the stone. “Mankind forgets why it built my tomb.”

Morizumi tilted his head. “You forgot why you died.”

The vampire lunged. I swear, for a second, the air itself screamed. I stumbled backward, camera swinging wildly, recording the clash. But Morizumi didn’t move much. He simply raised one hand, muttered something under his breath, and the vampire froze midair—fangs inches from Morizumi’s chest.

“You’ve lingered too long,” Morizumi said, calm as a lecture in a library. With a flick of his wrist, the chains binding the vampire glowed with a white light. The creature struggled, shrieked, and tried to bite again—but it couldn’t move.

“Now,” Morizumi whispered, stepping closer. His hand hovered over the vampire’s forehead, and in an instant, the creature screamed—an ancient sound that shook the walls—and then collapsed, dusting away like dried leaves in the wind.

I blinked. “Did… we just kill a vampire in Egypt?”

“Yes,” Morizumi said simply. “It was overdue.”

When we left the temple, the desert night felt impossibly calm. The stars were bright, the sand silent, and for the first time that evening, I didn’t hear a single hiss or whisper.

But of course, I did hear Morizumi mutter, just as we were walking back to the car:

“Someone left a curse in the burial chamber. I’ll have to clean it up later.”

And I knew, without a doubt, that meant our Egyptian adventure was far from over.