Just before the Wisdom Goddess Faith collapsed and the faith of the Holy Imperial Cathedral spread throughout the land, countless beliefs lay scattered across the world. Beliefs that sought to advance toward a brilliant future.
And amid the wars, faith turned into cynicism.
No faith saved them.
No prayer eased their suffering.
No teaching gave them an answer.
The monks, considered a sect of the Wisdom Goddess Faith yet in truth barely related to it, groaned as they looked upon the world. Some decided to turn their backs on that filthy secular realm and withdrew into seclusion, while others, unable to stand by any longer, ventured into the world to lessen its suffering. They preached their teachings and guided those exhausted by pain.
…Yet even the monks were not spared by war. Acting according to principles and doctrines unlike those of the secular world, the monks came into conflict wherever they went. Had there been no martial monks who had trained in the arts of war for many years, the monks would have been reduced to just another group of commoners swallowed by the flames.
The secular world was filthy and cruel. The martial monks who had descended from the mountains bearing lofty aspirations became disheartened and despaired. Some returned to the mountains, while others were corrupted by the secular world and built up their own forces. Two sects that had sprung from one root, yet split apart. Since the paths of the two factions differed so greatly, it was only natural that they would condemn each other.
The martial monks, who had once united under a single purpose and weathered every storm together, gradually weakened as they took one another for enemies and fought. One side condemned those tainted by the secular world as apostate monks, while the secular world dismissed the former as hypocrites who merely stood by, pretending to be noble. The friction between the two factions continued to grow.
Contrary to their united faith, ever more suffering and anguish arose.
“To treat a calamity bearing the name of Kanjaka in such a manner merely because it takes the form of a young girl is foolishness that ignores its true nature. This humble monk shall break the Buddhist precepts and speak to you.”
Dogo, once one of the apostate monks tainted by the secular world, had grown skeptical of teachings that had lost their meaning. He decided to plunge himself into even greater anguish.
“Primogenitor Tirkanjaka. This humble monk does not know what you are. Yet it is said that vampires feel neither pain nor anguish. Merely hearing of it, one might call that the state of liberation we seek.”
The nobility of the night. To devote himself to a vampire.
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“I do not know whether liberation granted without anguish and contemplation, asceticism and training, can truly possess any value. Yet perhaps that, too, shall be a form of asceticism. This humble monk wishes to subject himself to a greater trial with this very body.”
Every Elder was a servant of the Primogenitor. Yet that did not necessarily mean they shared the Primogenitor’s will.
“Make this humble monk a vampire. In return, I shall offer you this lowly body.”
Some for revenge. Some for life. Some out of curiosity. Some out of a sense of duty.
Some for ambition. Some for immortality. Some out of recklessness. Some out of a competitive spirit.
Some for faith. Some for their race. Some out of fear. Some simply by chance.
Their reasons were all different, but once they became servants of the Primogenitor, they became Elders.
What, then, had Dogo felt?
Or had he felt nothing at all?
Tirkanjaka was rendered speechless by a situation she had never experienced before. Until now, every Elder had acted as Tirkanjaka wished. They had shared Tirkanjaka’s emotions. Even Dogo, who would not exchange so much as a word with a woman, let alone a fist, would drive his fist into the chest of anyone who believed in the Heavenly God without the slightest hesitation.
The fist of a martial monk filled with rage did not discriminate between men and women, young and old. It discriminated only according to faith.
Dogo, too, had been an exceptionally faithful Elder. It was only natural, since he had placed his faith in the Primogenitor.
And now that same Dogo had rebelled against the Primogenitor.
“…Are you in your right mind? You intend to put me on trial?”
“Not only the daughter of Ruskinia, but all of us must be put to the test. Primogenitor, you are where it begins.”
His body was withered and gaunt, but his eyes shone fiercely. The Blood Monk Dogo. His clan embraced suffering of their own accord and rarely craved human blood, earning the respect of many humans. Straight-laced in the best sense and rigid in the worst, Dogo’s clan was responsible for handling matters of law and propriety in the duchy.
And now, he had stepped forward to denounce the Primogenitor.
“Primogenitor. The reverence this humble monk offers you is not something I was born with. I became a vampire in order to cast away all anguish and suffering and reach the state of liberation. Until now, we have each been faithful to our roles. However…”
Dogo gazed at Tirkanjaka with the faintest hint of pity and spoke.
“I feel no reverence for you, who have lost your dominion and spend your days lost in lust with a man in your room.”
He neither exchanged fists nor words with women. They were beings who disturbed his cultivation and clouded his mind. It was an old doctrine, but Dogo, an old-fashioned man himself, had followed that belief.
And now that the shackles had vanished, Dogo had begun to weigh the Primogenitor against his doctrines.
Tirkanjaka’s feelings toward Dogo’s rebellion and defiance of Heaven were—
“…Huh?”
More than anything else, she was bewildered.
Tirkanjaka had neither senses nor emotions. The other Elders were controlled beneath the power of blood sorcery and seemed to resonate with him, but Tirkanjaka, the sovereign of all vampires, felt no stirrings no matter what she saw, and no scent or flavor could move her heart. With only her hatred for the Holy Imperial Cathedral remaining, Tirkanjaka clung to it with ever greater obsessiveness.
Yet revenge alone could not quench the thirst in her heart. That was why Tirkanjaka wished for her heart to be revived. She wanted to blend into the world, restore her indistinct body, and become capable of feeling something once more.
She had never seriously considered what might happen in the process, or what would become of the vampires she kept as her servants.
For over a thousand years, every vampire had been Tirkanjaka’s servant and limb, a being she could manipulate at will.
Tirkanjaka had been the Primogenitor from the very beginning. No matter what circumstances they came from, those who received her blood became her servants. Tirkanjaka had felt nothing about that fact. She had merely thought that she had gained one more useful hand and foot.
Rebellion and defiance of Heaven had never entered the realm of possibilities Tirkanjaka could imagine.
“Are you serious, Dogo?”
“I am serious.”
“…Is that merely your own opinion?”
“How could this humble monk know the workings of all creation? Even with these eyes, I cannot see through the muddied hearts of others. Now that the shackles have vanished, their hearts, murky as filthy sewage, must be churning as well…”
Dogo suddenly looked around at the Elders seated beside him. Rungen, Kavila, and Erzebüt. They were watching the situation even as defiance of Heaven stood before them.
—The Elders’ rebellion was not Dogo’s idea alone.
For an instant, Tirkanjaka felt as though her heart had plummeted.
It felt as though her own limbs had detached themselves and were pointing accusing fingers at her. Faced with something that had never happened and should never have been possible, she lost her words.
She had not sensed a threat to her life. She was merely startled by the unexpected situation. To Tirkanjaka, who had never possessed a heart in the first place, both fear and bewilderment were unfamiliar emotions.
Her bewilderment soon turned into anger. Tirkanjaka glared at Dogo, who had dared to defy Heaven, with terrifying eyes.
“Your true blood originates from me. Do you think you can bear the consequences?”
“This humble monk would ask you the same.”
The Blood Monk Dogo.
A martial monk who had been more worldly and human than anyone. An apostate monk who had fallen further than anyone and killed countless humans. The ascetic, whose fists were never free of blood, looked up at the girl and muttered.
“Can the Primogenitor bear this humble monk?”
“You…!”
She understood the situation well enough. The time had come to become angry. The Primogenitor slowly walked down and stood before the gaunt, lofty monk.
“Even if I have restored my heart and drawn a boundary around myself, I am still your sovereign. Do you truly think I cannot subdue you?”
“…I believe you can.”
“Do not regret those words.”
Tirkanjaka clenched her small fist. It was a fist that could not properly wound even one person, yet it tightened all the same. Tirkanjaka faced Dogo, who stood straight and upright, and drew her fist back. Blood sorcery, the art of manipulating blood, moved Tirkanjaka’s body.
Knowing that the ascetic Dogo would not evade a single blow, Tirkanjaka threw her fist with all her strength.
Dogo did not dodge. As always.
The duchy shook for an instant.
Nothing could be seen. Neither Tirkanjaka’s fist nor Dogo’s body. The Castle of the Full Moon trembled violently, and the shattered cliff walls came crashing down a moment later. A straight passage had been carved through the ancient castle, built and reinforced with blood. The wind created by a human body shook the castle.
The power had not vanished. It had merely changed. Every vampire had understood that in their minds, but now they felt it with their own bodies.
Every vampire but one.
Tirkanjaka herself sensed some tiny deficiency.
‘…Does it hurt?’
Until now, she had known no pain, and so she could use even her own body as a tool. She could always regenerate afterward. Trusting in her powerful regenerative ability, she had devoted all her strength to smashing her enemies.
But after spending several days restoring her senses, Tirkanjaka had become sensitive not only to pleasure, but also to pain. As her overflowing strength shattered her arm and drove onward, a dull pain tugged at it. It should have been faster. More powerful.
Even after displaying overwhelming might, Tirkanjaka felt something strange.
“…Is that your full strength?”
She was not the only one who felt the discrepancy. A vampire could not be killed through a simple blow. No matter how terrifying the force behind it was. Dogo had been half-crushed by the tremendous power in an instant, yet he had been regenerating from the moment he collided with the first wall.
Hardship and Storms.
A form of qi cultivation once practiced by an ancient ascetic, now known as the Blood Demon Combat Art.
Pain and suffering were not avoided, but endured as they came. Rather than oppose the wind and waves, his swaying body was swept along by them. He did not evade blows, but endured them. It was a strange form of qi cultivation born from an ascetic’s belief that as long as one did not die, injury and pain were themselves part of the practice. After becoming a vampire, it grew even more powerful.
Though pushed back by sheer force, Dogo ultimately endured. He walked forward with steady steps and spoke.
“A child’s fistfight without mystery or power. Is this your enlightenment?”
“That insolent bastard, ignorant of his place!”
Her dominion remained intact. It simply had not extended beyond her body because she could now feel pain and distinguish her body from the world around it.
Then the method was simple.
She needed only to touch Dogo’s blood. If she touched his true blood, even for an instant, she could reclaim the power that had made Dogo an Elder.
This was likely the first time Tirkanjaka had ever devised a strategy for a fight. It seemed a waste to kill an Elder who had served her for so long over something like this, but Tirkanjaka, enraged, decided to accept that loss.
Scrape. She dragged a fingernail across her skin. She felt the pain, but she could endure this much. As she had done before, Tirkanjaka decided to scatter her own blood and attack Dogo. If the wave of blood so much as scratched Dogo’s body, the true blood mixed within it would be reclaimed by Tirkanjaka.
As Dogo approached to meet her, Tirkanjaka flicked her finger and scattered her blood. A blood wave surged forth in an instant and swept over Dogo. The corridor filled with a crimson light…
Yet an ascetic allowed himself only a single strike.
Dogo was an Elder, one who had immersed himself in power. At the same time, he was a renowned martial artist who had been formidable even in life. Sensing Tirkanjaka’s movements and the flow of her blood, he moved, leaving red footprints behind.
Adversity.
He countered the pouring force at an angle. He endured the full impact with his body. Even if his bones broke and his muscles tore, that too was asceticism. Using blood sorcery to move his own body, he drifted through the blood wave like a floating weed.
It was the pinnacle of martial arts. Dogo’s fist, having overcome the calamity, was about to strike Tirkanjaka’s chin when it hesitated.
Tirkanjaka had not tried to block. That was not the way of vampires. Instead, she attempted to seize Dogo with the hand she had withdrawn.
Peril.
Bang! A tremendous shockwave erupted and drove Dogo and Tirkanjaka apart. It was a simple application of Heaven and Earth, but joining one’s blood energy to an opponent’s force and twisting its direction outward was not something just anyone could do. All the more so when the force was immense.
Dogo was thrown a great distance away in an instant. He closed his eyes, pressed his palms together, and reached a conclusion.
“This humble monk’s business is finished.”
“How dare you decide that on your own!”
Tirkanjaka shouted, huffing angrily, but Dogo did not answer. He neither exchanged fists nor words with women. To Dogo, a woman was merely a being meant to bear children, an existence of no use whatsoever to cultivation. The kindness Dogo displayed toward women did not stem from gentleness, but from contempt.
The First Ancestor who had lost her dominion was not the being that had enabled Dogo to attain liberation. She was merely a female who had been blinded by a favorite concubine and devoted her body and soul to her. As though Tirkanjaka did not even exist, Dogo turned away.
“…You!”
Just as the enraged Tirkanjaka tried to gather the darkness, something chilling brushed past her arms and neck.
For an instant, the First Ancestor’s arms and legs dangled loosely. Of course, it lasted only a moment, and her body quickly reattached itself. But the pain she felt caused her body to flinch and halt.
Taking advantage of that opening, a voice rang out, drawn out slightly and teasingly coquettish.
“Pii—. A blade went into your body, First Ancestor—? How cooome?”
A shadow with smooth curves rippled in the darkness.
She was a dancer who left her navel and armpits fully exposed. She held a round dagger in each hand and stood lightly on bare feet atop the darkness. Gazing at the daggers that had just lightly pierced Tirkanjaka’s body, the dancer licked one of their blades like a piece of candy.
“Muri…?”
“The thing that must never happen. Our taboo. Why, now that I’ve tried it, does it seem to work—? Why can’t you punish my brazen insolence—?”
The executor of darkness. The assassin of silence. The reenactor of a false idol who had ultimately obtained the darkness that only the First Ancestor could wield.
The ghostly dancer, Muri, illuminated by Geumeum.
Before her appearance had even ended, a clattering sound rang out. It was an ordinary sound of hooves, but… the strangely orderly rhythm revealed an intelligence difficult for a horse to possess.
A half-human, half-horse man. The beastman once called a centaur slowly emerged into view.
Long ago, to humans, horses were property, power, and weapons. In an age when martial arts had not yet developed very far, a human mounted on a horse could exert several times the strength of an ordinary human. That “strength” encompassed countless factors, including physical power, combat ability, mobility, and carrying capacity. A horse was a strategic resource and a weapon in itself.
And a certain royal family that committed the taboo of interbreeding as casually as eating meals attempted to combine that weapon with humans—and succeeded. A human upper body, a horse’s lower body. Born with the tremendous power of cavalry, these beastmen displayed exceptional “strength” and swept through wars.
…However, as with everything the Agartha royal family created by mixing their own bodies, their structure made it exceedingly difficult to leave descendants, and they were destined to die out naturally.
One centaur who inherited the great blood made an extreme choice to protect the few members of his tribe who remained. He decided to entrust his body to vampires and preserve his species.
“Clan chief. Betrayal? Have you truly abandoned the tribe?”
The bulwark of savagery. The lord of the wasteland. The destroyer of civilization who stained every nation with blood, sweeping across countless countries until he finally fell… A descendant of the one called the King of Savagery, “Khan.”
The Watcher, Rahu Khan, approached with a spear slung diagonally across his back.
Crunch. Crunch.
The sound of someone putting stones into his mouth and chewing them echoed through the air.
The walls of the Castle of Full Moon were bricks packed with blood. The power of vampires reinforced and supported the walls. As though the Castle of Full Moon itself were a gigantic vampire, it possessed the property of restoring itself even after being destroyed once. The wall that had broken when Dogo was sent flying was slowly returning to its original state as well.
Yet one section did not recover, as though it had been gnawed away.
“Hungry… I’m feeling hunger. How, how long has it been?”
The boy who had been chewing stones muttered sadly as he rose. The shards of stone tore his throat as they went down into his stomach, but he did not care. So long as he could fill his empty belly, it did not matter what it was.
“I became a vampire to get rid of my hunger. Then what am I…?”
The boy, who looked as though he could barely drink even water, sadly threw away the half-eaten stone.
Gluttony is a human instinct. The starving eat and swallow anything.
Occasionally, among humans who could not recognize taboos as taboos, there were those who made their fellow humans into food. Eating a dead corpse was already a grave crime; killing and eating the living was a taboo beyond taboo.
When word spread that someone had committed cannibalism, the people around them would first try to kill them. If that failed, soldiers would come to capture them, and if even that proved impossible, an extermination force would be organized. Eventually, the executioners of the Holy Imperial Church would come bearing destiny upon their backs.
Most were hunted down and killed, but a few surviving gluttons grew even stronger. No—perhaps they survived because they were strong. In any case, the gluttons who won their wager with their lives devoured every one of their enemies and grew that much more powerful.
A glutton who survived as a savage, knowing neither parents, country, nor letters. One who carried a village in his belly. The man-eating demon of the deep swamp. The man-eater.
Bakuta Ong, the Blood Leech.
Even while alive, they had been monsters who dominated an age. After becoming vampires, they became legends who lived through every age. They were Elders.
An Elder said to be sleeping had appeared, breaking a long silence. After hearing news concerning the First Ancestor.
Rir was an Elder. No matter how experienced or powerful an ain might be, they had no chance against an Elder. That was why those vampires had intended to keep watch over Rir and me, in case something happened.
However, Hilde, who had infiltrated the place before them, had somehow managed to find me.
“Father. I’ll give my report.”
Hilde reported clearly, her face stripped of all trace of a smile.
“The ains of Luskinia are going around awakening the sleeping Elders. They’re inciting them by saying that the First Ancestor abandoned them.”