Here's a literary and light novel-style English translation of your text:
Grol let out a hearty, amused laugh, as if he'd just unmasked a fox disguised as a lion. His fingers deftly flipped the three Bloodcores, their fresh crimson gleam like they'd just been torn from a living heart. He shot a brief glance at the two guards behind him, a terse signal passing between them. Immediately, they took the Bloodcores, swiftly tucking them into a rune-bound leather box before retreating.
"Don't do anything foolish in my town, Lucien," Grol rumbled, his voice heavy as the axe on his shoulder. "Our King—the Bloods King—doesn't much care for your noble kind."
He took a step forward, his face almost level with Jack's, every word sharp and deliberate.
"In Ashengrave, putting on airs won't do you any good… 'my lord'."
The words "my lord" slipped from his tongue like a knife's edge across a face—sarcastic, provoking, demeaning.
To the Vampires here, Jack—a nobleman accompanied by two filthy slaves—was nothing more than a joke. And perhaps… they had chosen the wrong guise to infiltrate.
From the very beginning, from the moment the three guards scoffed at Mira and John's grimy appearance, something had felt off. The façade of nobility in a world where power was crumbling… was no longer a safe shield.
But… they had entered the city.
Despite sacrificing three Bloodcores, despite the mockery, their true identities remained hidden—and that was what mattered most.
This situation also revealed a gaping flaw: the Vampire Empire, seemingly ironclad, was silently cracking from within. The gears of power continued to turn, not only between Vampires and humans, but within their own ranks.
Stepping through the checkpoint gate, all three of them… finally set foot in Hollowrest.
And the moment they crossed that threshold, a bustling, vibrant scene assaulted their senses. The atmosphere here was utterly different from the desolate, scorched lands they had traversed.
Hollowrest—one of the Ashengrave kingdom's most bustling trade towns, and that fact was laid bare before their eyes.
The black stone road stretched ahead, teeming with both humans and Vampires. Human slaves lugged baskets of vegetables, wooden crates, sacks of blood, bolts of cloth. Each bore a crimson Blood Mark on their wrist, a certificate of temporary existence in this world.
The hurried cries of vendors echoed through the thoroughfares:
"Fresh blood, gathered this morning from the northern tribes! Cheap for you, sir!"
"Blood Horses! 100% tamed Blood Horses! Can gallop 100 miles without rest!"
"Protection runes, light armor, noble garments imported from Duskar here!"
Stalls erected from dark wood, with monster-hide canopies, displayed everything from clothes, weapons, fresh blood, to low-level magical equipment, magic stones, and even… items forbidden to common folk. At the fringes of the streets, some vendors whispered, exchanging goods covertly, their eyes constantly darting around.
Vampires moved everywhere, as if this were just another ordinary morning for them. Some wore tattered leather cloaks, their hair disheveled, red eyes bloodshot but glazed, yawning as they walked, as if tired from an unslept night shift. A few others gathered at a street corner, holding blood transfusion tubes—a common substitute for biting humans—bringing them to their mouths for a long drag as if smoking, then exhaling a faint blood mist, their eyes hazy with indulgence. Here and there in the bustling streets, one could still spot humans—laborers, slaves, workers… But the truth was, most of the humans here looked miserable and pitiable, as if they were clinging to their lives.
A troop of Vampires on Blood Horses galloped down the main street. The thud of hooves on stone echoed, their dark red cloaks flapped skyward, leaving a trail of dust. The common folk dispersed, accustomed to it, showing no fear, only the ingrained habit of yielding to those with the right to move faster. Some Vampires whistled, some looked up with admiration, others spat a blob of blood onto the ground and turned away.
Not far from the town center was a large stone plaza, dominated by a colossal fountain—a structure of black marble, at its heart a statue carved in the likeness of Bloods King Max Draventhal.
He stood proudly, fist clenched, head held high, eyes cast toward the blood-red sky. Around the statue's base were rings of ancient inscriptions, perhaps Ashengrave's vows for the Vampire era.
Jack stood watching, silent. His eyes swept across the flowing crowds, the sounds, the blood, the scent of sweat, and the red sky… and he realized something clear:
This wasn't the apocalypse. Not for the Vampires.
For them… this was the beginning! A new era…!
"My lord Lucien, what do we do next?" John softly inclined his head, stepping closer to Jack, his voice low enough to cut through the surrounding clamor.
Mira, meanwhile, was still scanning continuously, observing every street corner, every Vampire, every expression. She—who had always hidden, evaded, living in the shadows where humans still held sway—now stood amidst a Vampire town utterly belonging to them. The world after 70 years… had transformed to an unbelievable degree.
Jack walked, looking around, his eyes flicking over every sign, every alley, every architectural layer as if cross-referencing a map in his mind. "Follow me… we need to find a place to rest first. I know an inn."
"Right! I need to wash off all this disgusting mud!" Mira immediately interjected, her voice full of distaste. "It smells horrible… it's all your fault, John! What kind of disguise was that? It didn't help at all and almost made me throw up at the gate."
John shrugged, offering no rebuttal. "Indeed, and… we also need to reorganize our gear, check our weapons. And… I recall that your disguise, Jack, only lasts for one day."
Jack nodded, his gaze more serious. He knew well: their time in this facade was counting down by the hour.
Without another word, Jack subtly tilted his head, a silent signal. Mira and John understood immediately, quickly weaving into the motley crowd of Hollowrest, following closely behind "Sir Lucien Valtoras."
They quickly left the bustling, overwhelming central area. Jack led the three of them into a narrow alley nestled between two old stone buildings, so cramped that the red light from the sky only managed to filter through in thin streaks. The air here was damp, thick with the scent of moss, blood, and old ash.
The deeper they went into the alley, the more the surroundings changed. No more dazzling stalls, no more noisy hawkers or noble Vampires on Blood Horses. Instead, there were dilapidated houses, crumbling walls, and rusted iron gates.
In this place, one could clearly see the bottom layer of Vampire society.
An elderly Vampire with wrinkled skin and cloudy red eyes sat leaning against a doorstep, puffing on a crude pipe, the smoke exhaling thick and dark like shadows. Another Vampire stood right at a doorway, yelling into the face of a scrawny human slave, a silver-tipped leather whip in hand, seemingly waiting for any excuse to vent his anger.
Some eyes from behind half-closed doors silently watched them. No clamor, no disturbance. But no friendliness either. The gaze of those accustomed to living at the bottom.
Jack walked in front. His steps were steady, unwavering, but his eyes held a layer of hidden emotion. He had been to Hollowrest many times before. As Jack the Butcher, he had visited this place to procure, to hunt, even to deal with failed transformations.
But today—for the first time, he stepped here in the guise of a human.
Every sound, every breath, every smell of blood and refuse… felt alien.
Not because this place had changed.
But because his mind no longer belonged to the other side.
Mira walked in the middle, close to John, her eyes constantly darting around as if she couldn't quite believe what she was seeing. Every house, every Vampire she saw made her both fearful and curious. This was the world she had only heard stories about—a world where humans lived in shadow, and Vampires ruled.
Suddenly, Mira stopped dead.
She had just glimpsed through a dusty glass window, and inside…
A small Vampire child, looking only about three or four years old, with pointed ears and typical pale gray skin, was playing with wooden toys with a human slave. The slave—a middle-aged woman in a silver-gray cloak—was smiling gently, showing the child how to stack a stone tower model.
The sight startled Mira.
She wasn't sure why… but it made a corner of her belief tremble slightly. Were not all Vampires cruel? Or was it… that everything was just chaotic now?
Jack didn't turn back. But he had felt Mira falter, and he understood why.
Only John… still silently walked at the very end.
Saying nothing.
Not looking up.
His eyes remained fixed on the cracked ground, his shoes treading on old, dried bloodstains.
He didn't want to see it anymore. He didn't need to. Because… everything there was to know, he had seen a long, long time ago.