Unthreatening Creature Protection Association 

by Matthia

Genre: BL, fantasy, vampires, novelist, powers

Novel Status in Country of Origin: 100 chapter + extras, complete

Translator: Addis

Editor: PlumSauce

~~~~Brought to you by ExR~~~~

 

SUMMARY:

 

Demons. Vampires. Headless knights.

Mediating extraordinary species was about to get real.

While visiting a mysterious writer who had been widowed three times for a tabloid story, John stumbled — entirely by accident — into a hidden world within what seemed like an ordinary villa. Strange and dangerous events quickly escalated:

A headless knight striking under the cover of night

A vampire noble imprisoned by his own choices

A cunning, sinister bone-winged demon

When a vampire who considered himself ordinary met a human who was anything but, the line between everyday life and the extraordinary blurred — and their partnership officially began.

 

Ordinary vampire × extraordinary human

From acclaimed Western fantasy BL author Matthia comes another thrilling modern fantasy adventure following To Boris the Spellcaster and His Family.

 

Chapter 1: Human Disguise

Translated by Addis of Exiled Rebels Scanlations

Editor: PlumSauce

 

By evening, the sky had turned gloomy. When John saw the villa that resembled a small castle, he almost wanted to give up on the job. 

The house sat atop a rocky low hill, away from the highway, and was entirely gray, resembling ruins more than a residence. Narrow stone steps connected the shrubs to the front yard entrance, and the whole atmosphere reminded him of the hotel from And Then There Were None. 

John was looking for Deville Coraci, a horror and suspense novelist. His residence was quite remote, a full two-hour drive from the city center.  

Walking up the stone steps, John finally stood before the old house that resembled a castle. 

There were stone pillars on either side of the manor’s entrance, which seemed like they were once connected to iron gates or low walls. On top of the pillars crouched creatures that resembled gargoyles or small demons. John couldn’t tell, but he found them terrifying. As he reached the door, he noticed that it actually had a doorbell and a video intercom system, suggesting that Deville Coraci wasn’t entirely isolated from the world.  

Although most of Coraci’s novels were fictional, the details were realistic, and his descriptions of horrifying things were impressively vivid, as if those things would appear before you when you closed your eyes.  

His allure wasn’t just in the eerie worlds he created but also in his own legendary experiences.  

His past was as bizarre as his books.  

Deville Coraci was not yet thirty years old, yet he had been married three times in five years, each marriage ending with the spouse’s accidental death. People used the term “spouse” instead of “wife” because one of them was male, and by local law, it wasn’t considered a marriage but rather a civil partnership.  

These individuals all died in accidents, and the type that, after thorough police investigation, had definitive conclusions. Afterward, Mr. Coraci, the author, didn’t remarry, and the public continued to question him — it was almost like he was a modern-day Bluebeard.  

Recently, people had started to praise him again, describing him as fascinating as a demon. After all, his books were captivating, and from the photos, he appeared rather handsome.  

When Mr. Coraci opened the door, John was secretly surprised: the man wasn’t somber or reclusive; in fact, he smiled quite often.  

Just like in the photos from his books, Deville Coraci had slightly curly black hair, a scholarly demeanor, and a slender build with a bright smile. John had always thought that smile was only for photos, but it seemed that Coraci was even more prone to smiling in person.  

“I’ve been waiting for you!” The black-haired author wore a dress shirt, pants, and an apron with little ducks on it. He was holding a spatula in one hand and an egg in the other, making a gesture as if to hug John but then stopping halfway. “Mr. John Lockland, right? Your email comments about Turning Into Light nearly brought me to tears. God, I didn’t even understand it that deeply myself. Come in!”  

Coraci was referring to one of his short stories, which had a warm title but was actually a ghost story. John had done his homework on it.  

Now, John’s identity was that of an editor from a new magazine, intending to write an interview about inspiration sources for a feature piece.  

But in reality, he wasn’t from any magazine; he made a living off selling stories to sensationalist tabloids. What he needed wasn’t new ideas or writing experiences from Mr. Coraci, but rather his private life and his experiences with widowhood.  

Upon entering the house, John realized he had been wrong again.  

From the outside, Coraci’s home looked like an ancestral old house, but the interior had been renovated, retaining some classical details suited to the structure but was overall modern. For example, there was a video phone in the hallway, a home theater system in the spacious living room, a motion-sensing gaming console, Blu-ray discs scattered on the sofa, and a kitchen that had been converted into an open-concept space.  

A house this big should have felt eerie and empty, but the current owner had deliberately made it a bit crowded. It seemed Coraci loved colorful cushions, some with unique designs, and others shaped like bears or rabbits. He had even added an entire wall of bookshelves, with the topmost shelves requiring a ladder to reach.  

While John was busy taking in the surroundings, it sounded like Coraci had knocked something over in the kitchen, followed by a crashing sound and a few pops.  

“What happened?” John asked.  

“No, thanks, I’m fine… No need, I can handle it myself!”  

John sensed that something was off. Coraci suddenly raised his voice as if trying to emphasize something. But John hadn’t pressed him further…  

This small discovery didn’t scare John; instead, it excited him, as it suggested that Mr. Coraci might indeed have something worth investigating.  

After a while, Coraci emerged with what looked like a sorrowful creation of his.  

Probably due to the cloudy weather all day, this evening was darker than usual. With insufficient lighting, it was hard to make out what was in the dish Coraci was holding, even when he entered the well-lit living room. John could only discern that it was garnished with bay leaves; the rest was just a blur, difficult to identify.  

It was close to dinner time, but John hadn’t planned on eating with him during the appointment, and seeing that dish made him a bit nervous.  

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” Coraci stood by the table in a mournful pose, “Had I known it would fail, I wouldn’t have gone to all that trouble. My hobby is making desserts, but I’m not good at presentation. The taste should be okay. If you don’t mind, you can try it.”  

No, I definitely mind! John looked at the indescribable lump on the plate and almost suspected that those deceased spouses had been killed by it.  

So he immediately put on his professional face, intending to discuss Coraci’s works and the new magazine. Coraci removed his apron and poured two cups of coffee, sitting down earnestly.  

They talked about general topics like how he started writing, his most satisfying works, and so on. John had thought Deville Coraci would be a serious or shy person, but he was wrong. He found Coraci loved to talk, perhaps even a bit too much.  

When he felt the timing was right, John decided to steer the conversation towards what he really wanted to ask.  

“Mr. Coraci,” John said, “We want to create a clear, well-guided feature, not just sensationalism for the sake of sensationalism. We want to focus on how your life experiences and changes in mindset have influenced your literary style, rather than irresponsibly labeling things like ‘devil’s curse’ or ‘sacrifice.’ So, about…”  

Coraci thought for a moment. “I understand. You’re referring to the people I’ve lost?”  

“Yes,” John said. “For example, after going through such grief, how did you manage to move forward and return to life and writing each time?” He put on a concerned and somber expression, trying to appear serious and avoid looking like a gossip.  

He expected Coraci to evade the question, but to his surprise, the author gave him a touched smile. “You’re the first person to ask me that, really. Many people have interviewed me, but they usually ask for the gruesome details of the tragedies, whether I’ve fallen in love again recently, or what I believe in — they want me to say Satanism or even the Order of Dagon, perhaps?” 

John was startled. At that moment, Coraci’s eyes began to redden, and after a brief pause, he decisively pulled out tissues to wipe his eyes. 

“This job is very stressful, and almost no one can understand,” Coraci exhaled deeply, smiled awkwardly, and continued, “When Eileen was killed by the shattering of tempered glass, I thought I could never face it again… Later, I thought I had gotten better until Smith died in a gas explosion…”  

John was a sharp person. He immediately sensed that something wasn’t right in that statement.  

Coraci was telling the truth, not acting, but he was omitting something.  

John was almost certain that when Coraci mentioned “stress,” he wasn’t referring to writing, and when he said “could never face it again,” he didn’t specify what “it” was — marriage or novels?  

John guessed that perhaps Coraci did need to talk about this, to vent, whether it was due to a devil’s curse or a perfect crime; he was bearing some kind of pressure.  

So John gently guided the conversation further. “But you didn’t give up writing, nor did you give up on life.”  

Coraci said, “Yes, I won’t give up on my hobby. I’m doing much better now because I no longer need to be so…”  

At that moment, there was a dull thud from upstairs, like a heavy cabinet being knocked over. John was startled and instinctively stood up.  

“Sorry, I’ll be right back.” Coraci immediately ran out of the living room. “It’s probably an open window upstairs. Please wait a moment.”  

With that, he quickly ran upstairs. John could hear his hurried footsteps growing fainter.  

The wind had indeed picked up outside. Through the living room window, John could see the branches swaying wildly. It wasn’t even 6:30 yet, but the sky was already pitch black, and it looked like it was going to rain.  

John sat back down on the sofa, looking at the chocolate, potato chips, and uncleaned cups on the coffee table. The coffee wasn’t too bad.  

But Mr. Coraci hadn’t returned after several minutes.  

Then, another sound came from upstairs, this time clearer than the first. It wasn’t something being knocked over but more like the sound of footsteps, almost synchronized with the wind’s rhythm outside.  

At this point, John hesitated. He didn’t know whether to follow up and ask Mr. Coraci about his safety, or stay put and wait for him to return. But Coraci hadn’t asked him to leave or been abrupt with him so far, so if he barged in, it might seem impolite.  

John decided to observe quietly.  

Then, more sounds came, like the rumbling of several feet walking in a corridor, yet only one person had gone up there. At first, it didn’t bother John much, but soon it became suspiciously constant and couldn’t be dismissed as imagination.  

A house this big could easily play tricks on people’s minds, making them think they’re hearing things. As John contemplated leaving, a short cry suddenly pierced the air, filled with terror and agony. There was a burst of noise upstairs, followed by silence.  

John broke into a cold sweat. That cry had been filled with such genuine fear that he couldn’t believe it was Coraci, who had been smiling just moments ago. The noise that followed sounded like a fierce scuffle, more than just furniture being knocked over.  

John decided not to wait any longer. He immediately bolted out of the living room and started moving up the stairs.

“Mr. Coraci, do you need help?” John asked.

No one responded. He walked across the wide landing and chose the stairs on the right to go up to the second floor.

There were many rooms on the second floor, enough to open a small hotel. The walls were covered in green wallpaper with small white flowers, and the doors were framed with pure white classical wooden lines, with lace wrapped around the door handles. Ordinary people wouldn’t put such meticulous effort into rooms that weren’t lived in.

To leave some photographic evidence, John took out his phone and snapped a few photos. Just as he pressed the shutter button, a shadow flickered under the crack of one of the doors.

John held his breath. It was as if someone inside the room had approached the door and then moved away.

Deville Coraci lived alone and occasionally hired a housekeeping company to handle chores. He had denied having a new lover recently…

John was an experienced secret digger. He knew that a small sense of absurdity often hinted at more secrets behind the curtain.

At that moment, two muffled thuds came from upstairs, as if someone had fallen and then slammed a door shut. John backed out of the corridor and immediately heard footsteps coming down toward him.

“Mr. Coraci?” he probed.

This time, Coraci responded promptly, “Nothing’s wrong, don’t worry, it’s very safe!”

But this answer only confirmed that it wasn’t safe.

John was even more convinced that both this house and the author himself were abnormal — he hadn’t asked if there was any danger, yet Coraci had responded with “it’s very safe.”

“Sorry, there was a bit of an issue upstairs… it’s been taken care of now.” Coraci led John back to the living room.

John noticed that Coraci’s hair was a bit messy, and his shirt had been pulled askew. Initially, the top button near Coraci’s collar had been fastened, but now two buttons were undone. From the somewhat forced calmness of the author’s demeanor, perhaps something was indeed happening. John followed Coraci, glancing upstairs and speculating about the truth behind this eerie house.

A flash of lightning lit up the dark sky, followed by a rolling rumble of thunder. It really looked like it was going to rain.

They continued their conversation in the living room by the window, talking about the planned new book, the magazine’s positioning, famous thriller novels from the past, and so on. Eventually, the topic inevitably returned to Coraci’s three deceased spouses.

This was actually John’s little trick. He deliberately took a roundabout way, guiding the conversation back to this topic without Coraci noticing.

“I couldn’t imagine that she would leave me in such a tragic way,” the young author said, his head slightly lowered.

Now, with the rain pouring down outside, John felt that the atmosphere was even more fitting for their conversation. He had his recorder on, without Coraci’s consent… Hearing this, he felt even more confused, as Coraci’s words grew increasingly eerie.

Coraci continued, “I know the rumors out there. Sir, don’t deny it, you’re actually very curious about this, aren’t you?”

John awkwardly nodded. “It seems I can’t avoid being rude… Please believe me, I really don’t want to force you to recall things you’d rather not talk about.”

“Let me ask you this,” the author sighed, “Mr. John Lockland, are you here to write about a mysterious and bizarre modern-day Bluebeard, or do you have another purpose? If it’s the former, feel free to write whatever you want, the more sensational the better. I can even help you pen it. I guarantee it’ll be a version that grabs attention; if it’s the latter… then just state your needs directly. Where are you from? Why are you here?”

John secretly clenched his fists.

What he actually needed was the former, the most mundane version. But as he sat here, he grew increasingly curious. He wanted to know what had really happened here.

He decided to keep the conversation going, mixing truth with lies. “I’m a freelance writer, I—”

Before he could finish, a clap of thunder roared nearby. Coraci stood up nervously, looking toward the direction of the stairs outside the living room. By now, the sun had also set. The house grew darker, and the heavy rain showed no sign of stopping.

“What?” Coraci spoke to the air. “Impossible! I just reinforced it!”

John sat frozen in shock. The author’s expression was extremely serious, even tinged with fear. He continued talking to the air, “This is trouble. It tricked me, I thought it was a human!”

Coraci completely ignored John and rushed toward the stairs, continuing to speak, “Wu Jiu, follow me. Hai Jiu, go watch the other one!”

Who? John stood up slowly, dumbfounded.

Coraci’s demeanor was as if he were speaking to companions on either side of him. As he ran, the air he passed through seemed to stir the cloth covering a small cabinet and the dried flowers in a vase, something no ordinary person could cause just by passing by.

John steeled himself, turned on the recording functions of both his recorder and phone, and securely placed them in his pocket before following.

As he ascended the stairs again, he heard a sharp cry coming from the second floor, sounding like an animal, or perhaps a woman’s scream. He didn’t take the time to investigate and followed the footsteps up to the third floor.

Heavy thuds resounded, followed by the sound of things toppling over.

John rushed in the direction of the noise. He saw a red rope hanging, curved at a high point on the wall, as if it were tied around an invisible body. Before he had time to be shocked, he heard violent crashing sounds from behind the double doors.

John barged in and saw a scene that left him utterly stunned: A creature with gray skin and a well-built body was pressing Coraci against a desk, one hand gripping his jaw and neck, the other holding his arms above his head.

Coraci still clutched a piece of chalk in his hand, nearly crushing it in his struggle. The walls of the room were covered in intricate geometric patterns, many of which had been damaged.

John was momentarily paralyzed. He had never seen such a being before — a tall, slender figure with grayish skin, a body like a male model’s, and taut muscles. Its face was handsome yet menacingly evil, and from its back sprouted black bat wings, while its black hair shimmered with a reddish glow, and its eyes were a deep red.

The creature slowly raised its head, glaring fiercely and disdainfully at the intruding John.

John glanced around, finally fixing his gaze on Coraci. What was happening? What was this creature? What was it going to do to Coraci…?

He almost found it laughable that, in this situation, the first thought that came to his mind was “attempted rape”… because the monster’s and Coraci’s positions really suggested that.

He realized that this vulgar suspicion might be true — the gray-skinned creature was completely naked! And the thing between its legs was already erect and intimidatingly large compared to its body size.

Coraci fiercely kneed the creature in the stomach. Though the blow didn’t make the creature let go, it did loosen the grip on his neck slightly.

Taking advantage of this, Coraci struggled to shout to John, “Sir! Help me! It’s not very strong, you can defeat it!”

The creature lowered its head again, staring directly into Coraci’s eyes. Coraci tried to avert his gaze, but the creature forced his head back. Its eyes flickered with something, as if attempting to control the human it had captured. Coraci resisted, and it hadn’t succeeded yet. As it continued its attempts, the creature slowly lowered its body, pressing its waist between the human’s legs. John watched in shock, sweating, his whole body tense.

“What are you waiting for?” Coraci shouted desperately at John, “At a time like this… I beg you! Stop pretending to be human!”

John felt that, if described in literary terms, at that moment his heart skipped a beat. John narrowed his eyes, deciding to set aside his surprise for now, “So you knew all along…”

Then, with a speed that human eyes couldn’t perceive, he instantly appeared in front of the creature. His heart would never skip a beat — after all, it hadn’t beaten in a long time.

 

 

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