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 co 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 disillusionnt. So 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 flas of battle.
The secular world was filthy and cruel. Many monks who had descended with grand ideals fell into despair and disappointnt. So returned to the mountains, disheartened. Others, however, allowed themselves to be tainted by the world and began building power.
Two factions erged 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 forr 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 nad 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 aning, 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 enlightennt we have sought."
And so, he chose to pledge himself to the Nobility of the Night—to beco a vampire.
"I do not know if enlightennt 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 an they always shared her will.
"Make a vampire. In return, I offer you this wretched body."
So had joined out of revenge.
So, for survival.
So, for curiosity.
So, out of duty.
So, for ambition.
So, for immortality.
So, for recklessness.
So, for their love of combat.
So, for faith.
So, for kinship.
So, for fear.
And so, simply because they stumbled into it.
Their reasons differed, but once they beca the progenitor’s subordinates, they all beca Elders.
What, then, had Dogo felt?
Or perhaps—what had he not felt?
For the first ti, 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 won 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 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 sothing I was born with."
"I beca a vampire in pursuit of enlightennt, 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 disappointnt.
"Having lost your authority, keeping a man in your chambers, and indulging in worldly pleasures… Tell , what reverence should I feel for you now?"
He did not speak to won.
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—bewildernt.
She had never known sensation, never known emotion.
Other Elders, bound by hemocraft, were at least synchronized with her in so 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 rely her servant—extensions of her will.
She had never once considered that they could act against her.
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 mont, 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—bewildernt was turning into rage.
Her piercing gaze fixed itself upon Dogo.
"Your True Blood originates from . Do you believe you can handle the consequences?"
"Then allow to ask in return."
Grandmaster Dogo.
Once a martial monk, now the most corrupt of defrocked monks.
Once a seeker of enlightennt, 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 ?"
"You…!"
She understood the situation.
Now, it was ti for rage.
Tyrkanzyaka slowly descended from her throne, coming to stand before the gaunt old monk.
"Even if I have reclaid 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 hard 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 mont.
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 ford 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 sothing, a very slight incompleteness.
‘…Does this hurt?’
She had never known pain before, which allowed her to use her own body as a re 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 beco 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 sothing off.
"…Was that your full strength?"
She was not the only one who felt sothing strange. A re strike could not kill a vampire. No matter how powerful the blow, it was the sa.
Though Dogo had been half-crushed for a mont by the trendous force, he had already begun regenerating from the mont 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 asured, unshaken steps, he spoke—
"A child's fist, without mystery or divine authority. Is this the enlightennt you have reached?"
"You dare mock ?!"
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 mont, 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 mont.
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 re twist of external and internal forces—redirected the energy outward.
Such a feat was not sothing just anyone could do.
The greater the power, the more difficult it beca.
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 won.
To him, they were nothing more than vessels for bearing children, obstacles to self-discipline, distractions from enlightennt.
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 rely 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, sothing cold brushed against her neck and arm.
For a mont, her limbs felt loose, as if dangling—then reattached themselves instantly.
Pain.
For the first ti, 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 glead 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 cri against the natural order. And yet… why is it possible? Why can’t you stop ~?"
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 erged.
Once upon a ti, 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 rge 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 dood.
Their hybrid nature made reproduction nearly impossible. Their kind dwindled, fading into extinction.
Until one—one chieftain—made a desperate choice.
To beco 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 soone 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 so parts… did not.
As if sothing 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 beca a vampire to rid myself of hunger. But if I am still hungry… then what am I?"
The boy, who seed barely able to drink water, let the half-eaten stone slip from his grasp with a lancholic 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 cri. Slaughtering the living for sustenance is not rely a cri but an outright abomination.
When word spreads that soone 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… beco 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 consud.
Raised as a wild beast, knowing neither parents nor holand, 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 beco legends spanning all ti.
That was what it ant to be an Elder.
And now, the ones who had long slumbered had broken their silence.
They had co—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 co to monitor both and Lir—just in case.
But before they could act, soone else had already arrived first.
Hilde.
She had infiltrated ahead of them and had skillfully managed to find .
"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."
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