Vampires had one bad habit: they always believed that time was on their side. Free from its constraints, they often wasted it indulging in distractions.
And now, they had wasted time listening to Kabilla’s words.
Even Runken, who had been relentlessly pummeling Tyrkanzyaka, had stopped.
“Hng! So you’re accepting the challenge now? I like it! I should’ve stopped holding back just because you were a lover!”
With a sharp snort, Runken let go of his brief disappointment.
It was a common misconception that boar beastmen were narrow-sighted and reckless. But Runken hadn’t always been a warrior who relished battle. The beastmen who picked fights indiscriminately had long since been killed off, leaving behind only the more tempered survivors.
As a beastman, Runken had inherited heightened senses of smell and hearing. He had once led his kin as a mercenary, making great use of those traits. But his inability to overcome his naturally poor peripheral vision had ultimately led him to be discarded as expendable on the battlefield.
Scattered and hunted like beasts, Runken had only survived because Tyrkanzyaka had come to collect the bodies. She had given him her blood, turning him into an Elder. In her name, he had trampled the very army that had killed him and the forces that had abandoned him.
But even after all that, a thirst remained deep in his heart.
His keen senses had dulled, leaving him able to perceive only the scent of blood. The dry wind that once ruffled his fur was gone. He no longer needed to grind his itching tusks against trees. At first, he had thought it a relief—one less nuisance to deal with. But as he eliminated all the inconveniences necessary for survival, all that remained was emptiness.
The more sensitive one was, the greater the void left behind. Runken had fallen into despair.
The only time he felt his blood stir again was in battle—when blood splattered across the battlefield, whether his own or his opponent’s. The reason was simple: on a purely physical level, his blood was being forced to flow where he had not willed it.
Runken threw himself into endless battle.
“I even tried to be considerate of weak little humans and gave a warning, but I suppose he never passed it on! Haha! So it was meant to be a challenge all along! That’s right! Of course, the King of Humans is just another beast—!”
With another forceful snort, Runken charged at Tyrkanzyaka again. This time, she made no attempt to defend herself. She merely raised her arms to shield her head, allowing herself to be battered. Like a reed caught in a storm, she was ravaged by Runken’s relentless strikes.
As mentioned before, vampires had a bad habit. They always believed time was on their side. Even if they weren’t as extreme as the ascetic Dogo, they had an undeniable tendency to observe their opponent’s methods before committing to a response. Was it because they were immortal and didn’t fear death? Or was it because they found amusement in experiencing new things?
The Elders, watching the fight between Runken and Tyrkanzyaka, realized too late what was happening.
“...Runken. That’s enough. Stop there.”
“Enough—? Hah! And why should I?!”
Runken scoffed and lunged at the Progenitor once more. His sheer ferocity and explosive movements made it difficult for anyone to intervene. If they carelessly interfered, they might end up obstructing Runken rather than helping.
So the Elders simply watched...
...a dull, meaningless fight where neither side could truly wound the other.
“Leave this to me and Bakuta. Crude, ignorant fists with no authority behind them will accomplish nothing.”
With Erzebeth’s dominion and Bakuta’s devouring ability, they could at least challenge Tyrkanzyaka for control. But someone like Runken, who fought purely through brute force, would achieve nothing more than causing a little pain.
Recognizing the futility of the fight, Erzebeth attempted to stop him—but Runken dismissed her words with ease.
“No, there is meaning! I am inflicting pain!”
“Pointless...”
“It’s not pointless! Pain brings change! A good hit always knocks some sense into you!”
Boom. Boom. Boom.
A monotonous, one-sided beating. Painful, yes, but not fatal to a vampire.
If his goal had truly been to injure Tyrkanzyaka, then this was an absurd, foolishly stubborn attempt—one befitting a boar beastman.
But if his goal was something else...
“Does it hurt? Then fight back—! Show me your full strength—!!”
“Runken, you—! Everyone, pull him off her!”
“Do as you like! I will fight—! As long as my opponent is worthy—!”
Like a blacksmith tempering steel, Runken hammered away at Tyrkanzyaka. The repeated impacts falling on her reshaped her.
She adjusted her stance, slightly bending her knees to better withstand the force. She moved subtly upon impact, reducing the pain. She wove her authority and blood magic together, forging herself into a warrior capable of countering Runken’s sheer strength.
Tyrkanzyaka was not weak. Her raw power already surpassed Runken’s. She simply lacked the means to wield it effectively.
Even if their difference in strength was vast, any creature would die if they simply stood and took hit after hit. But she was the Progenitor. Even as her body was crushed and battered, she regenerated instantly.
After suffering countless deaths, she had found a way to never die.
“Think, Progenitor! I know you have the power! Show me everything you’ve got—! I don’t want to fight this half-hearted version of you!”
“You damn boar...!”
He was engraving the art of combat into her.
It was rough, but undeniable.
That didn’t mean Runken had suddenly become Tyrkanzyaka’s ally or that he would turn against the other Elders. He simply found joy in charging at the strong—even if he had to mold them into warriors himself.
Realizing this, Erzebeth regained her composure.
“I will not concern myself with Runken. Let us proceed.”
The Elders, who had been watching, finally moved to collect the Progenitor’s blood.
Vampires were not creatures known for cooperation. Unless bound by dominion, they seldom worked in sync.
But hesitation due to friendly fire? That was never a concern.
“A beast... feeds when its belly is full. Some creatures exist whose greatest wish and duty is simply to propagate.”
Lahu Khan leveled his massive spear and charged.
For a centaur warrior, even a simple charge became an unstoppable cavalry assault. He tore through space like a gale, his spear rending apart the darkness surrounding Tyrkanzyaka.
Crunch.
Something shattered, and Tyrkanzyaka was hurled backward.
“You talk too much! Are you interfering?!”
“No. You are.”
Lahu Khan spun his enormous spear like a windmill. Standing atop his four powerful legs, he whipped up a storm.
Lahu Khan, the Watcher.
Once a ruler of the wilds, now fallen due to the fate of his kind.
His voice was resolute.
“The chieftain abandoned his duty. I will protect my people. The centaurs must save themselves.”
“Hng! And you only realized this now—?!”
As the two beast warriors clashed in the narrow corridor, Muri descended like mist beside Tyrkanzyaka.
Wrapped in darkness, the Progenitor looked like a black sphere.
Even for an Elder, the density of her darkness was becoming difficult to ignore.
But for the Phantom Dancer Muri, it posed no threat.
With a dancer’s grace, she weaved her blades. Crescent-shaped slashes cut through the darkness, carving it away.
Through the gaps she created, Muri whispered.
“My heart flutters~. Progenitor, were you truly betrayed by love? Were you abandoned by the one who shared your heart? Ahh, what a tragedy worthy of song~.”
Darkness lashed out, as if rejecting her words.
But the Phantom Dancer moved like a ghost, slipping through it effortlessly.
Eventually, Tyrkanzyaka gave up on trying to shake her off and simply asked,
“...Muri.”
“Yes~?”
From within the wavering darkness, the wounded Progenitor spoke in a chilling tone.
“Are you enjoying this?”
“Of course not— or... am I? I don’t know—I really don’t know!”
In stark contrast, Muri’s voice carried a melodic lilt, as if she were singing.
“To see my heart, my queen, my faith, my everything... so utterly broken—oh, it’s indescribable. My heart races. Is it sin? Or is it excitement?”
“...And what is it that you wanted to do?”
Muri had once proclaimed herself the Progenitor’s dancer, contributing to the arts of the duchy. One might scoff at the idea of vampires producing music—what would creatures devoid of passion know of art? But in that detachment, they had refined their craft to chilling perfection. Muri had even used humans as audiences, observing their reactions.
Reflecting on the past, Muri brushed her lips with her fingers and murmured.
“Dance, song, painting... all meant to be seen. I suppose—I suppose I just wanted to perform for you, my Progenitor—!”
“...If you had brought me your dance and music, I would have watched.”
“But not like now—not truly, not fully—!”
Muri’s hands moved in a dazzling blur. The ghostly blades that sliced through the darkness wove their way toward Tyrkanzyaka. They cut shallowly across her flesh, revealing the briefest glimpse of her True Blood before the wounds sealed almost instantly. But even that fleeting moment was enough to cause a slight tremor in her dominion.
The blood-soaked ground, Erzebeth’s creation, did not let that moment slip by. Sensing the spill of blood, it lunged forward like a phantom.
No matter how minor the wound, a wound was a wound. Spilling blood here was dangerous.
Tyrkanzyaka, watching the graceful arcs of Muri’s blades, let out a quiet groan—
And at that moment, Muri cried out passionately.
“Look at this—this reaction! It’s different, isn’t it?! Look at my movements properly! Applaud when I perform my feats! Hum along when I sing! This is what I wanted! I wanted a response that echoed back!”
She swung her blades like an extension of her soul, dancing through the air. Each strike was as unpredictable as it was beautiful. The moment Tyrkanzyaka lost sight of the blades, Muri’s attack carved a delicate pattern into her arm.
A flinch.
Clenched lips.
A quiet, stifled gasp.
Muri basked in every reaction, mirroring Tyrkanzyaka’s movements in her dance.
“Come, let us dance together, my Progenitor—!”
Despite being a vampire, Muri was a peculiar one—she avoided taking hits. Many had ridiculed her for her unnecessary movements, calling them inefficient. But to someone like Tyrkanzyaka, who possessed raw power yet lacked refined technique, Muri was like a bird that could never be caught.
Her body was cut again.
But the attack itself was not the purpose.
It was as if Muri’s goal was not to wound her, but to move in harmony with her. The closer she got, the farther she drifted. The moment she retreated, she would close the distance again.
This small body was insufficient. If she was to unleash her explosive strength, she needed a different approach. Even if it was something as primitive as scattering her own blood—a technique that might not even work against another vampire.
Like loading a gun, Tyrkanzyaka wounded her own fingers, aiming at Muri.
“Aahh.”
Suddenly, a small figure lunged forward, clamping down on Tyrkanzyaka’s fingers.
It was Old Bakuta, the Blood Leech.
The Remnant of Devouring.
A monster whose very existence was a deep, insatiable swamp of hunger.
His power was to consume others—especially blood—and make it his own. Like a predator, he swallowed Tyrkanzyaka’s fingers whole, his expression one of sheer ecstasy.
“Delicious... Mother’s fingers... Just one bite, and I feel so full....”
It was the Progenitor’s True Blood.
It could not be digested so easily.
If left unchecked, ❀ Nоvеlігht ❀ (Don’t copy, read here) it could consume him instead.
But in the face of his boundless hunger, the danger of the future was meaningless.
Tyrkanzyaka’s fingers regenerated instantly. But the True Blood that had been swallowed remained inside Bakuta. The struggle for dominion was fierce—her power seeking to reclaim itself, while his hunger sought to digest even the mightiest blood.
Bakuta trembled with the overwhelming sensation of fullness.
“I was starving... but now, I feel... content... happy....”
He had longed for freedom from his endless craving, but vampiric existence had stolen even the smallest satisfaction from him.
To feel satisfaction, one first needed deprivation.
To achieve something, one first had to desire it.
And it was not just Bakuta—every Elder here was the same. Like Tyrkanzyaka before she had regained her heart, they had broken their chains, allowing themselves to be consumed by their individual desires.
“Hugh... are you truly the king of all these creatures...?”
And the one who would be most pleased by all of this—
The one who had restored her heart and senses—
The one who had awakened the Elders’ dormant wishes—
This chapt𝒆r is updated by frёewebηovel.cѳm.
Thinking of him, Tyrkanzyaka writhed in pain.
“Was I nothing more than another human whose wishes you granted? Was calling me human supposed to be unremarkable?”
The King of Humans had said it himself. That she, the Progenitor, was human.
Tyrkanzyaka, who had longed for an ordinary life, had been happy to hear those words.
But now, understanding the cold and brutal meaning behind them—shame and self-loathing crashed over her like waves of sorrow.
Even during their journeys together, even when they had shared nights together—
To him, it had meant little.
Even her most precious feelings, her purest devotion—perhaps...
“...Not once. Not even once did you call anything special.”
All things that humans did, to him, were simply human.
To Tyrkanzyaka, Hugh had been the most special person in the world.
But to Hugh, she had not been special. She had merely been human, just like anyone else.
If it had been another Elder, if it had been Ain, if it had been Yeiling—
He would have granted their wishes just as earnestly.
...Perhaps that was why Finlay had been able to influence her, even slightly.
If, at that moment, she had not been distracted by the lightning—
If her long-buried desires had not been stirred—
If she had not let go of her will to control herself, even for an instant—
If Hugh had not given him the chance to fulfill his wish—
Perhaps none of this would have happened.
It felt like the world was collapsing around her.
This was not the kind of pain she had wished for when she chose to live again.
She had thought regaining her senses and emotions would make the world feel joyful.
But now, she no longer knew what was left for her.
Hugh wasn’t even here.
It hurt. Her heart felt like it was being torn into a thousand, ten thousand pieces.
Her body had been shattered and regenerated so many times that she no longer even knew what pain was supposed to feel like.
Was it true what they said? That life was suffering?
Since regaining her heart, Tyrkanzyaka had never felt life as intensely as she did now.
“...Hugh. Is this what you wanted? A world where everyone desires?”
And so, a new desire took root.
She wanted this pain to end.
She wanted to find happiness and joy again.
Not as the Progenitor of Vampires, not as the Queen of Shadows or the Blood Sea.
But as something else.
As a slightly stronger, slightly more unique human.
“Progenitor~? Your reactions have weakened~. Are you already losing interest~?”
Despite her relentless attacks, Muri no longer received any response.
Had Tyrkanzyaka already adapted to the pain?
Tilting her head in curiosity, Muri sheathed her blade and teased.
“I suppose I should put on a more provocative performance~. Shall I paint a picture on that pale body of yours? Drive my blades through your hands and feet? Or perhaps—shall I decorate your lover’s corpse and turn him into a puppet~?”
If her goal had been to provoke Tyrkanzyaka—she had succeeded far too well.
Tyrkanzyaka’s eyes flashed.
And in the next instant, a massive shadowy hand shot up from the ground, seizing Muri in its grasp.