vampire are vampire.

"Ben, I should have died—there's no way I could have survived on that battlefield!" The sergeant was utterly shocked to find that he could still think—but aside from thinking, he seemed incapable of doing anything else. He couldn't even feel his own existence. It was a startling situation, yet what concerned him more was how he had managed to survive.

Back then, the captain had followed the example of a classic gesture from ancient Earth thousands of years ago. He had given the sergeant a thumbs-up before detonating his own mech, taking hundreds, if not thousands, of Zerg with him. But that had only bought the sergeant and his squad a few more minutes of survival.

They were out of ammunition, isolated, and abandoned. Their main fleet had already retreated, leaving the planet behind to defend more critical locations. Their squadron—fifty-four Aether Armors in total—had been left as sacrificial bait, a rearguard facing a Zerg swarm that outnumbered them a million to one, if not more.

One by one, his comrades fell, and their defensive line crumbled. The Gauss rifle on his Aether Armor ran out of ammo, the beam grenades had been exhausted days ago, and the psychic cannon was unusable due to his severely depleted mental energy. Firing it now would undoubtedly blow his brain apart. A few rookies had already died that way, lacking the experience to know better.

So, in the end, these elite soldiers clad in the most advanced Aether Armors, the pride of the military, were reduced to the most primitive and clumsy method of combat—drawing their ion swords or psychic blades to slash at the enemy. The sergeant, who had served for nearly eight years, had always thought those weapons were mere decorations.

Despite their desperate efforts, the Zerg they killed could fill a dozen fifty-by-fifty swimming pools. Yet, in the end, they were inevitably overwhelmed. The sergeant had wanted to follow his captain's example and go out with a bang, shouting, "This is the romance of a man!" But he didn't even have the strength left to do that...

"That cold-blooded b*st*rd..." The sergeant gritted his teeth at the thought of the fleet admiral who had abandoned them. While the admiral's decision might have been strategically sound, the sergeant would never forgive him.

So, he must have been... defeated and captured by the Zerg? What would the Zerg want with him? A specimen? Food? Transformation? Well, since he was still alive, it must be the last option. Maybe he would switch sides and join the Zerg in ravaging the universe—after all, all his comrades were dead, and he had no love for the corrupt and incompetent Federal government, the cold-blooded admiral, or the cowards who had fled and left him behind...

With a soft sigh, the sergeant thought, "The Zerg are despicable, but at least they don't betray their own." As he pondered this, he began to feel his body again—a sensation of sliding through something very tight and uncomfortable.

"What the hell is going on?! Am I hatching from a cocoon?" the sergeant wondered, trying to move his body. He felt that his body had undergone significant changes.

"Right, I've been transformed. There should be an adjustment period..." he thought, attempting to speak, to ask for help or inquire about his situation. But instead of the refined High Gothic of the Federation or the Zerg's harsh, incomprehensible screeches, what came out of his mouth was the cry of a baby.

"This voice is wrong!" the sergeant thought, struggling desperately to open his eyes. Yet no matter how hard he tried, his eyes remained shut. He heard a flurry of activity around him, people moving about, doing things he couldn't comprehend. He felt himself being wrapped in something, and then a voice spoke in a language he didn't understand.

"It's a boy."

An old but powerful voice said this, lifting the sergeant's tiny body. A surge of unfamiliar psychic energy swept through him, making him feel utterly exposed.

"What's happening?!" He struggled fiercely, trying to break free from the person holding him, even throwing a punch at the face of the one who held him. Though the force was weak, the strike landed on a vulnerable spot—the eye—causing a slight injury.

"What a strong little one," the person chuckled, unfazed. "Very healthy. And quite talented. The Carstein family has an heir."

The last sentence was directed at the pale, exhausted mother lying on the bed.

"I hope he grows up to be a true Child of the Night," the mother said with a forced smile, though the sorrow in her eyes remained.

"I believe that day will come," the old voice replied. Seeing the mother's grief, he sighed softly and asked, "What name will you give him?"

At this, the mother's sadness deepened. After a long pause, she finally spoke, "My husband told me before he died... if it was a boy, to name him Vlad, Vlad von Carstein."

"A fine name," the old man nodded in approval, then sighed and comforted her, "Vas died for our kind. He died bravely, for a worthy cause. Don't grieve too much."

"But, Father..." The mother's voice broke, and she began to cry. "No matter what, he's gone. Even if you say...""No matter how beautifully it is said, death is death. The one I loved is gone. Why should I continue to live..."

Seeing his daughter burst into tears, the old man grew flustered. His hold on the infant stiffened, and his heart ached with shared sorrow.

His son-in-law, the Count of House Carstein, had been a man of many virtues, a perfect match for his daughter. Though their union had been arranged for political reasons, they had grown up together as childhood companions, their bond strong and genuine. After their marriage, their love had only deepened, sweet as honey. A few years ago, they had welcomed a daughter, and now, a son. Yet, no one could have foreseen that a single war would claim the life of his son-in-law. The news had arrived just as his daughter was nearing her due date, and the shock had sent her into premature labor, nearly costing both her and the child their lives...

The more the old man dwelled on it, the heavier his heart grew. Unconsciously, his grip on the infant tightened, causing the child—the former sergeant—to feel discomfort. In response, the baby did what babies do: he cried.

The sound of crying snapped the old man out of his thoughts, and he hurriedly tried to soothe the child. The crying also sparked an idea, a way to console the grieving mother. "You still have the children, don't you? His children—Vlad, and Isabella. You must live for them!"

At these words, the mother seemed to awaken from her grief. Her gaze fixed on the bundle in the old man's arms. Understanding her unspoken plea, the old man stepped forward and handed the baby to her.

"Vlad, Vlad, Vlad... my child, Vlad..." The mother cradled the newly named infant as if he were her very life. Her demeanor was far from normal, but at least she had calmed. The old man let out a small sigh of relief, feeling somewhat reassured. Though he was reluctant to disturb her further, there were still matters to attend to, as tradition dictated...

In his mother's arms, the former sergeant felt exhaustion overtake him. His consciousness grew hazy, and he was on the verge of falling asleep. Just as he was drifting off, he faintly heard the murmurs of a prayer from those around him:

"May the Truth of Death, which we revere, bless our new kin. May he be hale, handsome, and fair of form; may he wield sword and staff, and ride upon a noble steed; may he hold great power, and may he reign supreme...

And may the blessings of Death be upon our kind, that we may grow stronger. In accordance with the laws of Death, we shall reshape this world with blade and magic, eradicating all chaos and strife, and establishing absolute and eternal order..."

"This can't be... some kind of cult, can it?" was the former sergeant's last thought before he drifted off to sleep.

Some time later, when he awoke again, he found that he could finally open his eyes and see the world around him. It was now completely dark, and the room had no lighting. A small, narrow window high up on the wall let in a faint sliver of moonlight, but it did little to illuminate the space.

Yet, despite the darkness, the infant named Vlad could somehow see his surroundings with perfect clarity. The soft black velvet bedding trimmed with lace, the dark red nightstand adorned with golden threads, the blood-red greatsword hanging on the wall as a decoration, and the kite shield painted with a winged bat and a chalice filled with blood—all of it was visible to him in exquisite detail.

This struck him as strange—it didn't seem like an ability of the Zerg. He didn't have compound eyes or insect-like vision. The world he saw was still from a human perspective, just far clearer, with every detail magnified.

"Perhaps I've become entangled in something even worse than being transformed by the Zerg," he thought, struggling to lift his arm and bring it before his eyes.

As expected, it was the arm of an infant, just as he had felt.