Chapter 443: Trial That Defies Fate (6)

Just before the fall of the Order of Gaia and the widespread rise of the Sanctum’s faith, the world was scattered with countless beliefs—beliefs striving toward a radiant future.

And yet, in the midst of war, belief turned to cynicism.

No belief saved them.

No prayer eased their suffering.

No teaching delivered them an answer.

The monks, mistakenly thought to be a sect of the Order of Gaia, groaned nonetheless as they watched the state of the world.

Some resolved to turn their backs on the filthy secular world and secluded themselves.

Others, unable to endure the sight, stepped into the world to relieve its pain.

They spread teachings and guided the weary.

…But war spared none.

Acting by principles and doctrines different from the secular world, they clashed with others wherever they went.

If not for a few martial monks who had trained in combat for many years, the monks would have been reduced to mere peasants engulfed in the flames of war.

The world was filthy and cruel.

The monks, who had descended with noble aspirations, were disheartened, falling into despair.

Some returned to the mountains, while others, tainted by the world, built their own power.

Though once of the same root, the two branches split.

Given how divergent their paths became, mutual condemnation was inevitable.

The martial monks who had once stood together began to grow weak as they fought amongst themselves.

One side condemned the others as apostates corrupted by the world. The others called them hypocrites for pretending to be noble while doing nothing.

The conflict between the two forces grew increasingly bitter.

Their shared faith only bred more pain and suffering.

“Judging her by her youthful appearance while ignoring the calamity carried in the name Kanzyaka is folly that overlooks the truth. This humble monk breaks his vow to speak to you.”

And Dogo, one of those apostate monks tainted by the world, fell into disillusionment with teachings that had lost all meaning and chose to plunge himself into even deeper torment.

“Progenitor Tyrkanzyaka. I do not know what you are, but it is said that vampires feel no pain, no suffering, no doubt. By that alone, one could call it the enlightenment we monks have pursued.”

Thus, he chose to become a noble of the night, a vampire.

“Perhaps there is no worth in an enlightenment given without agony or reflection, but if it too is a form of hardship, then I shall take this body through an even greater trial.”

All Elders are the Progenitor’s retainers.

But not all share her ideals.

“Make me a vampire. In return, I offer you this wretched body.”

Some were driven by revenge.

Some by survival.

Some by curiosity.

Some by duty.

Some by ambition.

Some by immortality.

Some by recklessness.

Some by pride.

Some by faith.

Some by race.

Some by fear.

Some by accident.

Each had different reasons, but once they received the Progenitor’s essence, they became Elders.

What, then, did Dogo feel?

Or did he feel nothing at all?

Tyrkanzyaka, facing this for the first time, was at a loss for words.

Until now, all Elders had acted according to her will.

They shared her emotions.

Even Dogo, who wouldn’t exchange words—let alone fists—with a woman, had once driven his fist into the chest of a Sanctum believer without hesitation.

The furious punches of a martial monk spared neither young nor old, man nor woman, only faith.

Dogo had always been loyal as an Elder, placing his belief in the Dao upon the Progenitor.

It was a natural result.

And now that very Dogo stood in defiance against her.

“…Have you lost your mind? You would put me on trial?”

“Not only Luscynia’s daughter—all of us must be tested. And Progenitor, you must be first.”

Though his body was thin and frail, his eyes burned bright.

Blood Monk Dogo.

His coven, known for embracing pain and barely feeding on human blood, was revered by many humans.

They were also unyielding to the good, rigid to the bad.

So they handled law and principle within the Duchy.

And now, he stepped forth to condemn the Progenitor.

“Progenitor. The reverence I offered you was not born within me. I became a vampire to shed all doubt and pain and reach enlightenment. Until now, we each fulfilled our roles, but…”

With the faintest hint of disdain, Dogo looked upon Tyrkanzyaka.

“Having lost your dominion, keeping a man in your chambers and indulging in lust—I can no longer feel any reverence toward you.”

He never exchanged fists nor words with women—beings that disturbed training and clouded the mind.

A dated doctrine, yes, but Dogo abided by it all the same.

And now that the shackles were gone, Dogo weighed the Progenitor against his teachings.

Dogo’s betrayal—his rebellion—left Tyrkanzyaka with one overwhelming emotion.

“…What?”

Above all, confusion.

Tyrkanzyaka had no senses, no emotions.

Other Elders, bound by bloodcraft, may have sympathized with her, but the Progenitor of all vampires could not be stirred by sight, scent, or taste.

Only her hatred for the Sanctum remained—her blind obsession.

But vengeance alone could not quench the thirst in her heart.

That’s why she longed for her heart to beat again.

To restore her dimming body and become someone who could feel.

Yet she had never seriously considered what might happen along the way.

What might become of the vampires who were her retainers.

Why would she?

For over a thousand years, all vampires had been her limbs, her retainers, hers to command at will.

Tyrkanzyaka had always been the Progenitor.

No matter their pasts, those who received her blood became her retainers.

She felt nothing about it.

Just another tool to use, she thought.

Rebellion and defiance were never a possibility she imagined.

“Are you serious, Dogo?”

“I am.”

“…Is that just your thought?”

“I am, but a lowly monk—how could I grasp the truth of the world? I cannot see into the murky minds of others but now that the shackles are gone, I imagine their clouded hearts stir just the same…”

Dogo glanced at the other Elders seated nearby—Lunken, Kavila, Erzsebet—who remained silent even as the defiance unfolded.

Dogo’s rebellion was not his alone.

Tyrkanzyaka felt a faint sinking in her chest.

A sensation like her own limbs turning against her, pointing fingers at her.

Something that had never happened—something that could not happen—was now unfolding before her eyes.

And she was speechless.

It wasn’t a fear for her life.

She was simply shocked.

As one without a heart, even surprise and fear were foreign sensations to Tyrkanzyaka.

Surprise quickly turned into anger.

She glared at Dogo with eyes that could kill.

“Your Primordial Essence comes from me. Do you think you can handle what comes next?”

“I ask you the same.”

Blood Monk Dogo.

The martial monk who was more worldly than any, more human than most.

The apostate who killed more people than any other monk before him.

The ascetic whose fists were never clean of blood looked up at the young girl and murmured—

“Can you, Progenitor, handle this humble monk?”

“You…!”

Enough was said.

Now came the time for fury.

Tyrkanzyaka slowly stepped down, standing before the gaunt old monk.

“Even if I restored my heart and created lines between myself and others—I am still your maker. Do you think I can not subdue you?”

“…Perhaps.”

“Do not regret those words.”

Tyrkanzyaka clenched her small fist.

A fist too tiny to hurt anyone.

And yet, with perfect posture, she aimed it at Dogo and drew it back.

Bloodcraft moved her body.

Knowing Dogo, the ascetic, would not dodge, Tyrkanzyaka poured all her strength into her punch.

And Dogo, as always, did not dodge.

The Duchy quaked.

Tyrkanzyaka’s punch struck Dogo’s body, and both disappeared.

The Plenilune Castle shook, crumbling rock tumbling down seconds later.

A single, straight path carved through the fortress built of blood and stone, made not by a storm, but by a human fist.

Her power had not vanished.

It had simply changed.

All vampires understood that truth in their minds, but only one—Tyrkanzyaka—felt something off.

｢…It hurts?｣

Having never felt pain before, she’d used her body like a tool.

It would regenerate anyway.

That was her combat style, breaking herself if it meant destroying the enemy.

But after days of restoring her sensations, Tyrkanzyaka had grown sensitive to not only pleasure—but also pain.

Her overpowering blow fractured her arm, and the aching throb pulled at her limb.

It should’ve been faster.

Stronger.

Even as she displayed overwhelming might, Tyrkanzyaka felt something was wrong.

“…Was that your full strength?”

She wasn’t the only one who noticed.

No vampire could be killed with a single blow.

Despite being crushed by her immense force, Dogo had been regenerating since the moment of impact.

Agony and Tempest.

The ancient Qi Art was now called the Demonic Martial Arts.

He didn’t avoid pain. He endured it.

His body swayed and flowed like the wind and waves.

He didn’t evade.

He withstood.

Even if wounded, even in pain—as long as he didn’t die, it was enough.

A strange Qi Art, once practiced in asceticism, became even stronger after becoming a vampire.

Though overpowered, Dogo withstood the blow and walked forward.

“A mere child’s fist, lacking Arcane or power. This… is this the enlightenment you’ve reached?”

“You dare—!”

Her dominion remained intact.

The authority still existed.

It simply didn’t extend beyond her body because she now felt pain and perceived her own boundaries.

So the solution was simple.

All she needed to do was touch Dogo’s blood.

If she could make contact with his Primordial Essence even for a moment, she could reclaim the power that made him an Elder.

It might have been the first time in her existence that Tyrkanzyaka had schemed for the sake of battle.

Though it felt like a waste to kill an Elder who’d served her this long over something so foolish, she was too enraged to care.

– Click.

She scraped her nails.

The pain stung, but it was bearable.

As she had done before, Tyrkanzyaka scattered her blood to attack Dogo.

If the wave of blood so much as leaves a scratch on him, the Primordial Essence mixed within would be hers to reclaim.

As Dogo approached, she snapped her fingers and scattered blood.

A tidal wave of crimson surged forth and engulfed him.

The corridor flooded with red light…

But the ascetic allows only a single strike.

Dogo was an Elder—one who had immersed himself in power.

At the same time, he was a martial artist of renown even in life.

He sensed Tyrkanzyaka’s motion and blood flow, and moved through it, leaving a trail of red footprints.

He slanted his body against the crashing force.

The full shock was absorbed by his body.

Even as bones shattered and muscles tore, he endured it—this too was his asceticism.

With Bloodcraft guiding his body, he drifted like duckweed amidst the waves.

It was the pinnacle of martial arts.

Dogo’s fist, having overcome disaster, nearly struck Tyrkanzyaka’s jaw—then hesitated.

Tyrkanzyaka didn’t block.

That wasn’t the vampire way.

Instead, she reached out with her other hand to grab Dogo.

– Boom.

A massive shockwave erupted, throwing both of them apart.

A simple application of bot Geon and Gon, but to redirect such tremendous energy outward using both Blood Aura and the opponent’s strength was no easy feat.

Pulled away in an instant, Dogo closed his eyes, brought his hands together, and declared.

“The task of this humble monk is complete.”

“Who said you could decide that on your own?!”

Tyrkanzyaka shouted in frustration, but Dogo didn’t answer.

He didn’t trade blows—or words—with women.

To Dogo, women were merely beings who bore children, irrelevant to his cultivation.

His so-called kindness was rooted not in respect, but contempt.

The Progenitor who lost her dominion no longer embodied enlightenment in his eyes.

She was just a lowly female blinded by an infatuation with her consort.

Dogo withdrew himself, indifferent to Tyrkanzyaka.

“Why you…!”

As she gathered the darkness to lash out again, something chilling grazed her neck and arm.

For a split second, her limbs dangled loosely—though they reattached almost immediately, the pain halted her movements.

In that gap, a lazy, sultry voice teased the air.

“Fii. Progenitor, you’ve got a blade in you. Why is that~?”

A sinuous silhouette shimmered in the darkness.

A dancer, baring her midriff and underarms, stood barefoot atop shadows, twin curved daggers in hand.

She glanced at the dagger that had just pierced Tyrkanzyaka’s flesh and licked the blade like a lollipop.

“Muri…?”

“Something that must never happen… our very own version of Anathema. But it worked. Why can’t you punish my insolence?”

The Enforcer of Darkness.

The Assassin of Silence.

The inheritor of the forbidden shadow that only the Progenitor should have wielded.

The Phantom Dancer Under the Waning Moon: Muri.

Before her arrival could even settle, the sound of hoofbeats echoed.

It was a common sound—yet in its cadence was an unnatural precision no horse could muster.

A half-human, half-horse being—one of the centaur race—slowly revealed himself.

Long ago, horses were wealth, power, and weaponry to humankind.

In an era before Qi Arts had truly matured, a man on horseback wielded many times the strength of an ordinary man.

That “strength” encompassed combat ability, mobility, transport—every vital factor.

And then… a certain royal line, infamous for casually violating the Anathema of Splice, attempted to merge this warbeast with man—and succeeded.

The result was a beastkin: human above, horse below.

These born cavalry tore through warzones with their innate prowess.

However, as with all things twisted by the Agartha bloodline, their bodies were poor at producing offspring.

They were destined to vanish.

One centaur of noble blood, in a desperate bid to preserve what remained of his race, made a fateful choice—to become a vampire and entrust his coven to the undead.

“Clan Chief. Is this betrayal? Have you truly forsaken your own kin?”

The Bastion of Barbarism.

The Lord of the Wasteland.

The destroyer of civilizations who painted nations in blood until his fall…

Descendant of the so-called King of Savagery “Khan”.

The Watcher Rahu Khan.

He approached with a great spear slung across his back.

– Crunch. Crunch.

A sound of stone being chewed echoed nearby.

The Plenilune Castle was constructed with blood-soaked bricks.

A vampire’s power reinforced and maintained its structure.

As if the entire castle were a massive vampire, its damage repaired itself naturally.

The wall shattered by Dogo’s impact was already mending.

Except… one section wasn’t healing.

It looked like it had been devoured.

“I’m… hungry. I feel hunger. How long has it been…?”

A boy who had been chewing on rocks murmured sadly as he stood.

The jagged shards had torn through his throat and into his stomach—but he didn’t care.

If it could fill his belly, he would eat anything.

“I became a vampire to escape hunger. But now…”

The boy, who seemed unable to stomach even water, tossed aside the uneaten stone with a sorrowful sigh.

Gluttony is a primal instinct.

The starving will eat anything.

Among those who’ve failed to recognize the Anathema, some devour their own kind.

Consuming corpses is a grave sin, but killing the living to eat them is a deeper, forbidden act.

Once word spreads of cannibalism, people try to kill the offender.

If they fail, soldiers are dispatched.

If that doesn’t work, hunting parties are formed.

Eventually, the Executors of the Sanctum arrive, bearing the weight of fate.

Most are exterminated.

But those who survive become even stronger.

Or perhaps… only the strong survive.

Those who bet their lives and won become monsters who devour their enemies and grow stronger with each kill.

A cannibal who survived without knowing parents, nation, or even letters.

One who carries an entire village in his belly.

The Maw of the Deep Swamp.

The Human-Eater.

The Bloodleech Old Bakuta

Even in life, he was a monster of legend.

After becoming a vampire, he transcended time itself.

That… is what it means to be an Elder.

One thought long asleep has broken their silence—and arrived upon hearing news of the Progenitor.

Lyre is an Elder.

No matter how experienced or powerful an Ancilla may be, they stand no chance against an Elder.

That’s why these vampires had been keeping watch on me and Lyre—just in case.

But Hilde had already snuck in ahead of them and managed to find me.

“Father. I will give you my report.”

Hilde, her usual smile absent, delivered her message clearly.

“Luscynia’s Ancillae are going around waking slumbering Elders. They’re spreading the claim that the Progenitor has abandoned them.”