Before the fall of the Earth Mother Cult and the widespread rise of the Holy Crown Church, the world was filled with countless faiths. Beliefs that sought to forge a brilliant future.
And yet, amidst war, faith turned into cynicism.
No god had come to save them.
No prayer had lessened their suffering.
No doctrine had provided them with answers.
Among them were monks once considered a branch of the Earth Mother Cult, though in truth, they had little connection to it. Watching the world, they groaned in disillusionment. Some chose to turn their backs on the wretched mortal realm, withdrawing into seclusion. Others, unable to stand by, stepped forward to ease suffering, preaching their teachings and guiding the weary.
...But war spared no one—not even monks. Their way of life, built upon principles different from those of the mortal world, often led to conflict. If not for the presence of martial monks, honed through years of training, they would have been reduced to nothing more than common victims, swept up in the flames of battle.
The secular world was filthy and cruel. Many monks who had descended with grand ideals fell into despair and disappointment. Some returned to the mountains, disheartened. Others, however, allowed themselves to be tainted by the world and began building power.
Two factions emerged from a single root, yet their paths diverged so greatly that conflict was inevitable.
The martial monks, once united through hardship, now turned their blades upon each other, weakening themselves. One side denounced those who embraced the world as defrocked monks, while the other called their former comrades hypocrites who feigned purity while standing idly by. Their conflict only grew, birthing more suffering and more turmoil, despite their shared faith.
"To mistake the form of a young girl as justification to disregard the disaster named Kanzhaka—that is a foolishness that ignores the essence. I will break my vows to tell you this."
Among those defrocked monks who had succumbed to the mortal world, one was Grandmaster Dogo.
Disillusioned with teachings that had lost all meaning, he chose to cast himself into an even greater abyss of doubt.
"Progenitor Tyrkanzyaka. I do not know what you truly are. But it is said that vampires feel neither suffering nor turmoil. In words alone, that is the very enlightenment we have sought."
And so, he chose to pledge himself to the Nobility of the Night—to become a vampire.
"I do not know if enlightenment granted without suffering, contemplation, or discipline has any worth. But that too must be a trial. I wish to challenge myself further with this body of mine."
All Elders were the progenitor’s subordinates.
But that did not mean they always shared her will.
"Make me a vampire. In return, I offer you this wretched body."
Some had joined out of revenge.
Some, for survival.
Some, for curiosity.
Some, out of duty.
Some, for ambition.
Some, for immortality.
Some, for recklessness.
Some, for their love of combat.
Some, for faith.
Some, for kinship.
Some, for fear.
And some, simply because they stumbled into it.
Their reasons differed, but once they became the progenitor’s subordinates, they all became Elders.
What, then, had Dogo felt?
Or perhaps—what had he not felt?
For the first time, Tyrkanzyaka was at a loss for words.
Until now, every Elder had acted in accordance with her will. They shared her emotions. Even Dogo, who refused to speak to women or even exchange blows with them, had no hesitation in driving his fist into the chest of a believer of the Celestials.
The fists of the wrathful martial monks knew no gender, no age—only faith.
As an Elder, Dogo had been just as devoted. His faith in Dao had been redirected toward the progenitor, a natural conclusion given the circumstances.
And yet, now, Dogo stood before her—openly defiant.
"...Are you out of your mind? You wish to put me on trial?"
"Not only Ruskinia’s daughter but all of us must be tested. Progenitor, you are the first of them."
Though his body was gaunt, his eyes burned fiercely.
Grandmaster Dogo.
His lineage had always sought suffering, abstaining from human blood whenever possible, earning them respect from mortals.
In the best sense, they were principled.
In the worst sense, they were rigid.
Among vampires, Dogo’s kin had been entrusted with the administration of law and order.
And now, that very man was denouncing the progenitor.
"Progenitor. The reverence I once held for you was not something I was born with."
"I became a vampire in pursuit of enlightenment, to cast aside all suffering and turmoil. Until now, we have all fulfilled our roles. However—"
Dogo cast a glance at Tyrkanzyaka, his expression betraying the faintest hint of disappointment.
"Having lost your authority, keeping a man in your chambers, and indulging in worldly pleasures... Tell me, what reverence should I feel for you now?"
He did not speak to women.
He did not acknowledge them.
He believed they disturbed discipline and clouded the mind.
It was an outdated doctrine, but Dogo, being an outdated man, adhered to it nonetheless.
And now that the shackles were gone—he was weighing his faith against his progenitor.
His rebellion.
This trial against the heavens.
And the emotion welling up within Tyrkanzyaka was—
"...Huh?"
Above all else—bewilderment.
She had never known sensation, never known emotion.
Other Elders, bound by hemocraft, were at least synchronized with her in some way.
But Tyrkanzyaka—the progenitor of all vampires—felt nothing.
No sight could move her.
No scent could stir her.
No taste could rouse her.
The only thing that remained was her hatred for the Holy Crown Church, and she clung to it blindly.
But vengeance alone was not enough to quench the thirst in her heart.
She had wanted her heart to beat once more.
She had wanted her blurred existence to solidify, to regain the ability to feel.
But she had never once considered what that process might entail.
She had never truly thought about what would happen to her subordinates in the process.
After all, for over a thousand years, every vampire had been merely her servant—extensions of her will.
She had never once considered that they could act against her.
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That thought simply did not exist within her.
"Are you serious, Dogo?"
"I am."
"...Is this your decision alone?"
"I am but a lowly monk. I cannot claim to know the workings of all things. Now that the shackles are gone, the minds of others likely swirl like filthy waters."
Dogo glanced at the other Elders seated beside him.
Runken.
Kabilla.
Erzebeth.
Even in the face of rebellion, they remained silent. Watching. Waiting.
This was not just Dogo’s defiance.
For the briefest moment, Tyrkanzyaka felt her heart sink.
Like her own limbs breaking off and pointing accusing fingers at her.
A possibility she had never once considered.
This was not a fear for her safety.
It was simply—shock.
A situation that should have never occurred had unfolded before her eyes.
She had no heart, and thus, she had never known fear or confusion before.
But now—bewilderment was turning into rage.
Her piercing gaze fixed itself upon Dogo.
"Your True Blood originates from me. Do you believe you can handle the consequences?"
"Then allow me to ask in return."
Grandmaster Dogo.
Once a martial monk, now the most corrupt of defrocked monks.
Once a seeker of enlightenment, now a man with hands forever stained in blood.
The ascetic with fists that never dried of crimson raised his gaze to the progenitor.
"Progenitor—can you handle me?"
"You...!"
She understood the situation.
Now, it was time for rage.
Tyrkanzyaka slowly descended from her throne, coming to stand before the gaunt old monk.
"Even if I have reclaimed my heart, I remain your progenitor. Do you think I cannot subdue you?"
"I am certain you cannot."
"You will regret those words."
Tyrkanzyaka clenched her small fist.
A delicate, fragile hand—one that had never truly harmed anyone.
But she raised it nonetheless, drawing it back.
Hemocraft stirred within her.
The art of blood control.
The battle was about to begin.
Knowing that the ascetic Dogo would not dodge, Tyrkanzyaka threw her full strength into her punch.
Dogo did not evade. As always.
The duchy trembled for a moment.
Neither Tyrkanzyaka’s fist nor Dogo’s body could be seen. The Full Moon Castle quivered, and shattered stone belatedly crumbled down. A straight passage had formed in the castle, a fortress built upon blood. The wind created by a single human body had shaken the entire structure.
Her strength had not disappeared—only changed. Every vampire intellectually understood this, but only one, Tyrkanzyaka herself, felt something, a very slight incompleteness.
‘...Does this hurt?’
She had never known pain before, which allowed her to use her own body as a mere tool. After all, she could regenerate. Trusting in her overwhelming regeneration, she had always used all her strength to crush her enemies.
But after these past few days, during which she had regained her senses, she had become sensitive not only to pleasure but also to pain. The overflowing force shattered her own arm as it was released, and a dull ache pulled at her limb. She should have been faster, stronger.
Even after displaying overwhelming power, Tyrkanzyaka felt something off.
"...Was that your full strength?"
She was not the only one who felt something strange. A mere strike could not kill a vampire. No matter how powerful the blow, it was the same.
Though Dogo had been half-crushed for a moment by the tremendous force, he had already begun regenerating from the moment he collided with the first wall.
Trials and tribulations.
The ascetic monks of old had once developed a martial technique—what was now called Hemocraft Combat.
Pain and suffering were not avoided but endured.
A body that swayed like a reed in the wind did not resist the storm but let itself be carried along.
They did not dodge—they withstood.
Even if their bones shattered, even if their muscles tore, as long as they did not die, it was enough.
Such was the strange and unwavering philosophy of the ascetics.
And after becoming a vampire, this philosophy had only grown more formidable.
Though Dogo had been overpowered, he endured. Stepping forward with measured, unshaken steps, he spoke—
"A child's fist, without mystery or divine authority. Is this the enlightenment you have reached?"
"You dare mock me?!"
Her authority remained intact.
But pain—the distinction of self—had caused her dominance to falter, preventing it from extending outward.
The solution was simple.
She needed only to touch his blood.
Even for a moment, if she could make contact with his True Blood, she could revoke the very power that had made him an Elder.
This was unprecedented.
Never before had Tyrkanzyaka strategized in a battle.
She had always relied on sheer force, overwhelming her enemies without thought.
Killing an Elder she had kept at her side for so long would be a waste—but in her fury, she was willing to accept that loss.
She clenched her hand. Sharp nails dug into her skin, drawing blood.
It stung, but she could endure it.
Just as she had done before, she would scatter her blood, weaponizing it. If even a single drop wounded Dogo, she could reclaim the True Blood interwoven with it.
As Dogo approached, she flicked her fingers, scattering a crimson storm toward him. The corridor was instantly flooded with the red tide of her hemocraft—
But an ascetic allows only one strike to land.
Dogo was an Elder.
He wielded vampiric authority.
But even in life, he had been a martial master of unparalleled renown.
Sensing her blood and its lethal intent, he moved—tracing scarlet footprints through the air.
He did not resist the surging force—he angled himself against it.
He absorbed the full brunt of the impact with his body, bones breaking, muscles tearing—yet still, he did not waver.
Pain was part of the path.
Through hemocraft, he controlled his body, floating weightlessly within the bloodstorm like a drifting leaf.
It was the pinnacle of martial mastery.
Having endured the calamity, Dogo’s fist streaked toward Tyrkanzyaka’s jaw—only to pause at the last moment.
Tyrkanzyaka did not block it.
That was not the way of vampires.
Instead, she reached to grab Dogo with her free hand.
A thunderous shockwave erupted as the two forces repelled each other.
A simple shift in stance—a mere twist of external and internal forces—redirected the energy outward.
Such a feat was not something just anyone could do.
The greater the power, the more difficult it became.
Distance widened between them once more.
Closing his eyes, pressing his hands together in a monk’s seal, Dogo reached his conclusion—
"My business here is finished."
"You think you can just walk away?!"
Tyrkanzyaka seethed.
But Dogo did not respond.
He did not speak to women.
To him, they were nothing more than vessels for bearing children, obstacles to self-discipline, distractions from enlightenment.
His kindness toward them was not kindness—it was contempt.
And now, he no longer saw Tyrkanzyaka as the entity that had once granted him liberation.
She was merely a woman blinded by infatuation, squandering her body and mind on a lover.
Without another word, he turned and withdrew.
"You...!"
Enraged, Tyrkanzyaka gathered darkness to strike again—
But before she could, something cold brushed against her neck and arm.
For a moment, her limbs felt loose, as if dangling—then reattached themselves instantly.
Pain.
For the first time, she hesitated.
And in that fleeting pause, a voice—languid and playful—slithered into her ears.
"Oh my~... Progenitor, did a blade just pierce your body~? But how~?"
A shadow, smooth and sinuous, wavered within the darkness.
A dancer—a phantom assassin whose exposed midriff and underarms gleamed under the dim light.
Twin daggers rested in her hands.
Barefoot, she stood lightly upon the void, flicking her blade as if tasting candy.
"Myuri...?"
"A forbidden act. A crime against the natural order. And yet... why is it possible? Why can’t you stop me~?"
She was an Executioner of Darkness, a Silent Assassin, a mockery of divinity.
The Specter Dancer, Myuri of the Waning Moon.
Even before her presence had fully settled, the sound of hooves echoed through the corridor.
A gait too controlled for any ordinary beast.
From the darkness, a centaur emerged.
Once upon a time, in an era when Qi techniques had yet to flourish, horses were humanity’s greatest weapon.
They were power.
They were mobility.
They were war.
And a certain kingdom, one that defied the laws of nature, had sought to merge that weapon with humans.
Thus, centaurs were born.
Superior strength. Unparalleled mobility. They trampled over nations with inherent might.
Yet, like all of Agartha’s creations, they were doomed.
Their hybrid nature made reproduction nearly impossible. Their kind dwindled, fading into extinction.
Until one—one chieftain—made a desperate choice.
To become a vampire in order to preserve his people.
"Chieftain. Is this betrayal? Have you truly abandoned our kin?"
The bastion of savagery. The lord of the wilderness. A destroyer of civilizations who once swept through nations, drenching them in blood before his fall... The heir of the one called the Khan of Barbarians.
Watcher Lahu Khan approached, his spear slung diagonally across his back.
Crunch. Crunch.
The sound of someone chewing on stone echoed through the air.
The Full Moon Castle was built from bricks hardened with blood. The power of vampires reinforced and sustained its structure. It was as if the castle itself was a massive, living vampire—capable of repairing itself even after destruction. The walls shattered by Dogo’s collision were already beginning to restore themselves.
But some parts... did not.
As if something had devoured them.
"Hunger... So hungry... How long has it been?"
A boy, gnawing on the broken stones, murmured sadly as he rose to his feet. The jagged shards tore at his throat as they slid down, but he paid it no mind.
As long as he could fill his stomach, it did not matter what he ate.
"I became a vampire to rid myself of hunger. But if I am still hungry... then what am I?"
The boy, who seemed barely able to drink water, let the half-eaten stone slip from his grasp with a melancholic expression.
Gluttony is an instinct.
The starving will devour anything.
There are those among humans who fail to recognize taboo for what it is—those who make other humans their food. Even consuming a corpse is a grave crime. Slaughtering the living for sustenance is not merely a crime but an outright abomination.
When word spreads that someone has committed cannibalism, the first to try and kill them are the people around them. If that fails, soldiers are sent to hunt them down. If even that is impossible, a full-scale purge is organized.
And if all else fails, the executioners of the Holy Crown Church descend upon them with divine mandate.
Most cannibals are exterminated.
But those who survive... become stronger.
Or rather—was it that only the strong survived?
One way or another, the Devourers who won their gamble with death gained power equal to all they had consumed.
Raised as a wild beast, knowing neither parents nor homeland, incapable of reading nor writing. A being who carried the remnants of entire villages within his stomach.
The Abyssal Maw. The Man-Eater.
Old Bakuta, the Blood Leech.
Even in life, they had been monsters who defined their era.
Now, as vampires, they had become legends spanning all time.
That was what it meant to be an Elder.
And now, the ones who had long slumbered had broken their silence.
They had come—because of the progenitor.
Lir was an Elder.
No matter how experienced or powerful an Ain was, they could never hope to stand against an Elder.
These vampires had come to monitor both me and Lir—just in case.
But before they could act, someone else had already arrived first.
Hilde.
She had infiltrated ahead «N.o.v.e.l.i.g.h.t» of them and had skillfully managed to find me.
"Father. I have a report."
Hilde’s face was serious, her voice steady and precise.
"Ruskinia’s Ains are going around awakening the slumbering Elders. They’re spreading the claim that the progenitor has abandoned them."