Chapter 449: Trial That Defies Fate (12)

A common saying compared a retainer to the limbs of their maker.

But it’s more than a metaphor.

Retainers are governed—mind, will, and obedience—by their maker.

Take a person’s right arm, for example.

When they give it a command, it moves.

They don’t consciously control each joint or muscle to grab something; it responds instinctively.

It might falter or fail if injured, but it won’t act on its own—unless they were a newborn, barely learning how to move it.

That’s what a retainer is.

A limb.

The Progenitor had thirteen such limbs, her retainers, to fight in her place when all she had was power.

Now those limbs have broken away and raised their blades against her.

So then… what becomes of the strength and wisdom those limbs acquired?

Do they vanish once severed?

In most cases, perhaps.

But not all of them do.

A maker who has experienced the world through her limbs, more than if she’d been without changes, reacts far more deeply.

Muri was thrown into disarray by the colossal, shadow-clad arm that struck her.

Not from the impact itself, but because of what it represented.

Long ago, the deadliest enemy of vampires wasn’t the Sanctum or even mankind, it was light.

That sacred force that brings transformation.

For vampires—beings whose dead bodies were locked in time—sunlight, which warped and corroded the very blood they wielded, was lethal.

Tyrkanzyaka was no exception.

She shielded herself with blood to block out the sun.

Powerful Bloodcraft erected veils to protect vampires.

Though the corrupted blood quickly blackened, she used even those crumbling remnants as shields against the light.

Darkness is not power.

It is simply the absence of light.

As long as the light is blocked, darkness will arise.

Tyrkanzyaka wielded blackened, ruined blood merely as a tool.

But humans, having seen vampires bring darkness wherever they went, grew to fear it and called it the power that defied the gods.

This collective perception twisted the essence of darkness, at least when it came to matters of humanity.

And so, Tyrkanzyaka became a wielder of darkness, separate from her Bloodcraft.

Yet Muri, familiar with darkness and carrying a fragment of its power, knew the truth.

That it was but dregs of corrupted blood, powerless even with Bloodcraft.

Though worshipped as the shadow of a false idol, its strength was negligible.

…Yet now, this darkness… if only for a moment, completely overwhelmed Muri.

“Blood Aura—? No, not even the Blood Aura-clad Dark Knight could do this—“

Muri slipped from the shadows and clung to the ceiling, eyes piercing the darkness to see Tyrkanzyaka.

“Progenitor~?”

Tyrkanzyaka was reaching out.

It was not the arm that struck Muri.

That frail limb could never reach her.

It was her shadow that struck—a shadow behind her, rising and stretching an arm in perfect mimicry.

It was the shadow that once mimicked her within the Abyss.

The only difference now was its frightening, overwhelming strength.

Tyrkanzyaka opened her mouth, and the shadow did too, black droplets dripping from both.

[Muri. Isn’t it strange?]

“Hmm? What is?”

[That those who swore eternal loyalty to me would betray me so easily overnight?]

Vampires do not feel fear.

Their hearts are still, their pain receptors dead, their bodies capable of easy regeneration.

They lack the capacity for fear.

But perhaps because the shackles had broken—or simply because it was her—Muri felt something cold drip down her spine.

A sensation like icy water trickling along her back.

This must be what fear feels like.

[I lived for over a thousand years in an unchanging world. I thought loyalty, love, and even emotion would remain eternal, just like me.]

Her shadow’s voice felt like it gripped the air, shaking the space itself.

Muri, despite the dread it inspired, was overcome by a strange impulse to sing.

[I thought my feelings for Hu, too, would never fade. Even when we shared a night, I believed every moment would last forever. Watching his sleeping face, I felt so happy.]

“The happiness you longed for… having tasted it at last, my Progenitor… tell me, how does it feel now~?”

Muri’s melodic question was met with a sludgy, rasping voice from the shadow.

[I hate him. I hate him so much, I can not bear it. I thought I would give him everything, only to learn I could never be his everything in return. Just one night, and a few words from you all… was that all it took to change a heart? Is the heart truly so frail and soft?]

“A heart is like a reed~ a heart is like a reed~ When the wind blows, it bends without pride, ever so soft and yielding~”

[You are all the same. Your thousand years of loyalty were nothing more than reins tied by my power. Now that they are broken, you raise your blades against me.]
“Who let the wind into the reed field? Oh, steadfast tree in a slanted world—did you see who let the wind into the field?”

[…And what pains me most is knowing this is the world Hu wanted.]

Tyrkanzyaka, who had poured out her emotions through Muri’s melody, let her arms hang limply and lamented.

[Perhaps, if you had not started the rebellion, maybe I could have stayed with him a little longer. This resentment has become sharp thorns, pointing in all directions. I want to stab something. I want to make a hole and let it bleed, but I know. I know that the one who let in all these desires was none other than Hu.]

As her words faded, the grand castle stirred.

Erzsebet—who could manipulate every brick of the castle crafted from blood and stone—cleared the path, opening a grand road toward Tyrkanzyaka.

At the end of that path stood the Elders, each drawn by their own desire

Erzsebet, hungry for ambition.

Rahu Khan, who longed to preserve his bloodline.

Lunken, who thirsted for endless battle.

Kavila, with her twisted loyalty.

Bakuta, driven by hunger.

And Muri, who sang.

“Progenitor.”

“Clan Chief.”

“Sister.”

They were just like Tyrkanzyaka—each driven by desire, seeking something only she could give.

As the wide corridor filled with their presence and the wind of yearning stirred, she murmured.

[…Hu. So this is what you wanted. I think… I finally understand.]

Until now, she had never needed to think too deeply.

She had limbs to act in her stead.

But now that all of her limbs had turned against her, Tyrkanzyaka gathered all of her knowledge and experience.

She may not have been a master of combat like the Elders—but Bloodcraft was hers.

Even if she couldn’t grasp the battlefield, every technique used in it originated from her power.

All her powers converged on a single point.

Darkness gathered, shaping a body.

A massive black shadow that resembled her.

[Back then, I was a living corpse… one with the Duchy, a god in my own right, the very ground that bore you.]

It looked just like her… only ten times larger.

And unlike a shadow, it had a clear, tangible form.

[You reject my presence because you do not wish for a living nation, for a land that moves of its own will… So this is your desire.]

With a surge of overwhelming will, the Blood Aura that had filled Tyrkanzyaka’s body flowed into the shadow-born giant, with her as the giant’s heart.

The shadow stretched, its crimson-stained arms raking against the walls of the castle.

– Screeeeech

The ancient stone walls were shredded without resistance.

Now imbued with form, strength, emotion, and even a heart, the shadow was no longer merely a silhouette.

It had surpassed the limits of a puppet forged from darkness.

It was Tyrkanzyaka’s true body—wrought anew.

If blood could not leave her flesh, then she would redefine the boundary of her “flesh.”

With her power and Bloodcraft, she shaped a giant.

A figure identical to her in form, only drenched in black, rose behind her.

[Then let me ask you all, not by right, but by force. Are you prepared to face a tyrant?]

Before the burning Blood Aura, a god who had regained her heart posed a question to her former subjects.

A great wave surged forth.

The Island Whale and the Cloud Manta—both Leviathans comparable to natural disasters, yet still creatures of the ocean.

“She” had once warned that the Sky Manta wouldn’t always watch the Island Whale block the currents and hoard the ships.

That someday it would shatter the seas in righteous protest.

Valdamir was momentarily at a loss.

Not because the content was strange, but because, for the first time, a prophecy had been made in favor of the vampires.

Until now, the prophecies of the Saintesses had only ever been used to oppose vampires.

Valdamir had always treated prophecies with suspicion, even going so far as to consider interrogating the Prophet.

But there were two reasons he didn’t.

One, there was no harm in taking precautions.

Asking people to temporarily leave the coast during the Night Ebb Tide was a minor inconvenience to the humans and there was no real cost.

The cost for seizing such an opportunity was a critical factor for Valdamir.

And two…

He couldn’t gauge the opponent’s power.

Every Saintess of the Sanctum possessed some bizarre ability.

The Saintess of Steel, Feruel, for example, could foresee her own future and ensure it came true, rendering her invincible.

Not even Valdamir could lay a hand on her.

If that one was also a Saintess, then she could not be underestimated.

What did she know?

How did she acquire those two blades?

There were too many unknowns—too many risks to act rashly.

And above all…

He’d heard she was wounded in a clash with Dogo—yet here she was, radiating an eerie presence, completely unharmed.

Fighting her without good reason and losing time would only hinder Valdamir, who still had many tasks ahead.

Especially…

“Ah, Valdamir.”

He still needed to meet the Black Knight, Du Rahan.

“A familiar face, how pleasant. Surely you feel the same? Though I, myself, have no face to show. Hahaha!”

Sir Du Rahan laughed at his own headless joke, his severed head tucked under one arm.

But Valdamir, true to his vampire nature, didn’t smile back.

He asked stiffly.

“Rahan. So you’ve awakened.”

Before he became an Elder, the Black Knight Du Rahan had been the greatest knight.

Now he faced his old foe—and old friend—with a warm shake of his head.