How could one find a group of Vampires in a pitch-black, vast place with obstructed visibility?
The answer was—challenge their limits.
Strangle being unable to find the bloodkin, and its sense of smell failing, was no big deal. Su Ming had plenty of methods; it was just that the simplest one was unavailable, so he had to put in a little more effort.
Whatever the bloodkin liked, he just had to deliberately ruin it.
As aristocrats with long lives, most bloodkin were proud and self-satisfied. Their proudest distinction was neither immortality nor their Healing Factor, but their taste in art.
Oil paintings, poetry, operas—those things constituted virtually all of a vampire noble's daily life.
In this environment, Su Ming had no way to find a painting to tear apart for them, and they would not be able to see it anyway. Reciting poetry lacked emotion, so singing was the better option.
Actually, without his mask and voice changer, he was quite a decent singer.
But after being processed layer upon layer by the voice changer and loudspeaker, then distorted by the Abyss's terrain, the song could only be described as a ghostly shriek. On top of that, he had chosen to imitate Werewolves singing mountain folk songs, mixing in wolf howls from time to time. To Vampires, it was even more piercing and grating.
And now, the plan had worked. He had deliberately sung terribly, and they had indeed been unable to endure it, immediately answering with a classic operatic passage as though they meant to teach him what real singing was.
But was that useful? Their location had been exposed.
Su Ming put away the loudspeaker, returning it to its scimitar form. He intended to negotiate terms with the Vampires. If they really were going to deal with Dormammu,