Blood is life, and life is sacred.
Fanmuir Huxwell walked confidently through Venice's central square, his golden hair shimmering in the breeze. His loyal followers and devoted wives trailed closely behind.
As he walked, Fanmuir let out a soft sigh. How many years had passed? The vibrant golden-haired youth he once was had faded. Life in Venice felt repetitive and uninspiring, and his thoughts wandered to the long-vanished Holy Roman Empire—an age when human lives were treated as insignificant as dust.
Born in Carthage in 428 AD, Fanmuir was the only son of Duke Van Dest, head of the prestigious Huxwell family. As a child, he was frail, still nursed by three wet nurses even at the age of eight. Rare herbs and the blessings of the Western Church's Archbishop were all that kept him alive.
Adored by his parents, Fanmuir grew up innocent and confident. Handsome, proud, and noble, he believed the world existed to serve him.
But his life changed forever when a mysterious woman appeared out of nowhere. The gleam of excitement in her eyes sent a chill down his spine.
Her beauty was intoxicating, her jade-like skin radiant yet eerie. Her gaze carried a sinister allure, her movements seductive and deliberate. She wasn't just beautiful—she was dangerous.
"You're stunning, such a gifted boy," she said, examining him with delight. "Right now, you're a treasure. But one day, you'll age and wither. Let me grant you the power of the gods."
Her words, bold and invasive, struck at Fanmuir's deepest insecurities. Anger surged within him. Snatching a whip from his guard, he lashed out at the woman.
It wasn't until much later that Fanmuir understood the immense price of that action.
The whip's lash left a mark on her face, but it healed instantly. Her radiant beauty returned, but this time her crimson lips revealed two razor-sharp fangs.
"A vampire!" his guards shouted in horror.
Chaos erupted as his attendants urged him to flee. But fear rooted Fanmuir to the spot. Could this truly be the creature of legend?
The seductive woman stretched out her hand, and with a mere wave, her power rippled through the air like a gentle breeze. The guards protecting Fanmuir collapsed, vomiting blood, while the rest, overwhelmed with fear, abandoned him and fled.
With the same grace, she reached for Fanmuir.
"No!" he cried, snapping out of his daze. He instinctively recoiled, desperate to evade her touch. "Please, don't kill me!"
In the darkness, her laugh rang out, soft yet chilling. Her black cloak blended seamlessly with the night, and Fanmuir couldn't follow her movements. He only heard the rush of air before realizing they were airborne.
Held tightly in her embrace, Fanmuir was paralyzed with fear.
Effortlessly, she carried him across streets, walls, and forests, her speed otherworldly. Fanmuir had no idea how far from home he was.
Finally, she set him down in an overgrown, abandoned castle, hidden deep within an estate.
"Help…" Fanmuir's voice faltered as he realized how futile it was. Her laughter echoed through the room, mocking his plea.
"Please, don't kill me," he begged again, clinging to the hope that she might spare him.
The woman crouched down, her crimson eyes glowing in the darkness.
"Let me go," he pleaded. "My father is Duke Van Dest. Whatever you want—jewels, riches—he will give it to you."
She smirked and placed a hand on his cheek, her tongue flicking out as she caressed his face.
"I'm sure he can offer you beautiful women, even strong men," Fanmuir added nervously, shivering under her touch.
"Anything you desire."
She studied him intently, as if weighing his worth.
"Please," he whispered, tears streaming down his face.
"Shh…" she murmured, brushing away his tears before leaning in to kiss his ear.
Fear tightened its grip on him.
"Let's take a closer look at you," she said, loosening his belt.
"You smell divine," she purred, running her hand across his chest. "Your skin is so smooth—exactly the kind of descendant I like."
Up close, the woman was strikingly beautiful, her alluring features sculpted with precision, her petite frame exuding an effortless grace.
But to Fanmuir, she was ice-cold and deadly—a predator cloaked in human beauty.
In the stillness of the abandoned castle, her black attire seemed to amplify the sense of foreboding as she studied him intently. Her gaze wasn't that of a woman admiring a boy but of a hunter assessing her prey—or perhaps a progeny.
With deliberate movements, she stripped away Fanmuir's robes, leaving him bare. Her scrutiny was exacting, as if appraising every inch of him. She examined his skin with care, even inspecting his nails. Fanmuir's terror was overwhelming, but his frail body could offer no resistance. Her smile seemed to hold an enchanting power, and against his will, he felt himself mesmerized.
"Not bad," she muttered with a sly chuckle, nodding in approval. Leaning in closer, she began to sniff his body, her actions slow and deliberate.
At just eight years old, Fanmuir had never experienced anything remotely like this—especially not from a creature as dangerous as a vampire. Her touch was invasive and dominating, leaving him frozen with fear. He watched helplessly as her blood-red lips, cold as death, pressed against his neck.
Cold. So unbearably cold, like the chill of polished jade. Her body seemed completely devoid of warmth.
Gasping for breath, Fanmuir trembled violently as she held him down, powerless to escape. He tilted his head back, his tear-filled eyes fixed on the cold, indifferent moon above.
In that moment, a brutal truth crystallized in his mind: in a world where the strong prey on the weak, only power could protect oneself and one's loved ones.
But it was too late. Fanmuir could feel his strength slipping away, draining rapidly through the wound at his neck. Fear overwhelmed him, eclipsing the pain entirely.
As his body weakened, his consciousness began to fade. He felt like an empty husk, his life force nearly gone. Then, unexpectedly, the woman stopped. She leaned over him, her expression unreadable.
Through the haze, Fanmuir saw the crimson droplets on her lips—each one a fragment of his life.
Exhausted and broken, he closed his eyes.
But the woman wasn't finished. She tilted his chin upward and forced an impossibly cold liquid from her mouth into his. Acting purely on instinct, Fanmuir parted his lips, allowing the icy, metallic sweetness to flood in.
"Take your time," she whispered, her fingers guiding his jaw as she coaxed him to swallow.
It was her blood.
As it reached his stomach, a surge of incomprehensible power exploded within him, racing from his core to his mind. Strange, profound images and ancient knowledge flooded his thoughts, overwhelming him with their vastness.
The origins of the vampires were tied to a fateful day that their progenitor marked as the Year of Blood Awakening, an event believed to have occurred between 17,000 and 19,000 BCE. Following this pivotal moment, the progenitor created five descendants by combining sheep's organs with their own blood. These five were known as the second-generation vampires. As foretold, they faced relentless persecution from humanity, and only two survived, forced to conceal their identities and live in secrecy.
These two second-generation vampires went on to produce thirteen offspring, later revered as the "Thirteen Bloodborn." They formed the third generation of vampires and became the very heart of the vampire lineage. Among these clans, one stood above all others, blessed with extraordinary talents, unmatched magical power, and unyielding determination. Immune to sunlight and capable of halting time itself, they were later hailed as the Bloodborn Apollo Clan.
The woman before Fanmuir was a sixth-generation descendant of this formidable clan.
The Bloodborn Apollo Clan's method of creating new descendants was unparalleled in its rigor. It required them to cultivate their blood essence over 188 years, which would then serve as the foundation for transforming a human into one of their own.
The icy liquid Fanmuir had consumed was none other than the 188-year blood essence of the woman. With this act, he inherited the clan's legacy and became a seventh-generation descendant of the Bloodborn Apollo Clan.
The uniqueness of their creation process, however, came at a cost. Over time, the Bloodborn Apollo Clan's numbers dwindled, their lineage growing increasingly rare.
Their immense power drew envy from the twelve other vampire clans, leading to millennia of conflict. Over ten thousand years of survival and warfare, the Bloodborn Apollo Clan's descendants became so scarce that many believed their bloodline had vanished entirely.
Yet the truth was far from this belief. The Bloodborn Apollo Clan had merely retreated into the shadows, hiding their existence from the world.
Overwhelmed by the chaotic torrent of information flooding his mind, Fanmuir could take in no more. But one fact was crystal clear—he was now a vampire, a member of the Bloodborn Apollo Clan.
"My sweet boy, drink. It will make you immortal," the woman cooed with a laugh, squeezing more blood into his mouth.
Salty, sweet, thick, and rich—the taste of blood overwhelmed him. Fanmuir wanted to resist, but his body betrayed him, leaning forward eagerly to drink. The metallic liquid ignited an insatiable hunger within him. He latched onto the woman's wrist, drawing deeply from the stream of dark golden blood.
The woman's amusement quickly faded as she struggled to pull away. But Fanmuir clung to her with the desperation of a parasite.