“I’m just hungry…”
Sang paused for a moment upon hearing Aisha Hodhua’s words, then understood immediately. Without a second thought, he thrust his left hand through the small window at the base of the iron door. “Here, it’s yours.”
To be honest, the True Ancestor had never drunk Sang’s blood. That said, the person last night had tasted it—just a single sip.
Still, that person was truly odd. Sang was clearly her blood servant, yet she had never once drained him… Whatever. He hated the True Ancestor with a passion and had no desire to dwell on her.
Just as Sang’s thoughts began to wander, Aisha’s weak voice drifted from inside the Reflection Chamber. “No… I can’t drink your blood. You’re the True Ancestor’s blood servant. I’m just a lowly servant—how could I possibly partake?”
“Cut the nonsense. This had nothing to do with you in the first place. If you hadn’t burst into my room in the middle of the night to plead my case, you wouldn’t be locked up like this!”
Sang wasn’t about to entertain her protests.
He was terrified of death, of course, and longed to live comfortably in this brutal otherworld, scraping by as best he could… But if he had the chance, he wanted to help those around him however he could.
Liyou from the Hunting Organization had once told Sang that he wasn’t an ordinary person—that he was born with a unique destiny, perhaps even the role of savior.
Yet Sang had turned her down. As a transmigrator, he had fantasized about his own exceptional nature, but he harbored no grand ambitions.
“No! I absolutely refuse to drink your blood!” Aisha Hodhua was still resisting.
Sang had no patience for her dithering. He sliced open his palm and shoved his hand back through the window, speaking in a thuggish tone. “I don’t care. My hand’s already cut and bleeding. If you won’t drink, then let it bleed out completely.”
It didn’t take long.
Irresistibly good.
Through the thick iron door, Sang clearly felt a warm wetness envelop his palm, accompanied by a faint sting… So this was what it felt like to be drained by a vampire.
Sang personally wasn’t a fan, but it would probably suit masochists just fine.
A bite to the neck would likely be even more intense…
Wait… What the hell was he even thinking?
“After drinking my blood, do you really feel stronger?” Sang possessed the legendary physique known as 【Abandoned Child】, after all. With someone finally testing it out, he couldn’t help his curiosity—and it was a chance to learn more about himself.
Aisha Hodhua’s voice now carried real strength. “Mm… It seems like my wounds are healing much faster… And my power has increased too.”
“So in the end, I’m some kind of exclusive special.”
“Ah… What does ‘exclusive special’ mean?”
“Nothing. Forget it if you don’t get it.”
“When I was little, I met other humans, but none were like you… Sang, you’re a strange human.”
Sang had little interest in such topics. But while she was still drinking, a peculiar notion crossed his mind. Unlike members of the anti-vampire organizations, he didn’t view all vampires as inherently evil. Raised with a modern education, he believed there were good and bad among them. The True Ancestor was definitely bad, but the Pink-Haired Little Lolita was surely good.
And so, in that moment, he felt an urge to “convert” Aisha Hodhua. “Little Lolita, do you hate the True Ancestor?”
It wasn’t just because the True Ancestor had hurt her the night before. The woman had also kept her imprisoned in this sealed-off Heavenly Key for so long. By all rights, she ought to harbor resentment.
But her answer caught Sang completely off guard.
“I don’t hate her.”
“Why!?” Sang’s voice rose with agitation.
Aisha Hodhua replied calmly, “Because she’s the True Ancestor of the Blood Race.”
“I don’t get it.”
“Then don’t worry about it.”
In the end, Aisha Hodhua borrowed Sang’s own words. He wanted to chat a bit more, but with Lusana due back soon, he decided not to linger and took his leave.
…
Lately, Sang had been mulling over a single question: To the other vampires, what exactly was the True Ancestor?
He couldn’t make sense of it. For answers like this, he’d have to dig into history—but the vast Heavenly Key held scarcely any books.
While Aisha Hodhua remained confined, Lusana had taken over as Sang’s caretaker, handling his daily needs.
In the days that followed, Sang didn’t ascend to the Heavenly Pavilion to see the True Ancestor. For one thing, the wound on his palm hadn’t fully healed; he couldn’t let her spot it, lest she fly into a murderous rage again. For another, he truly loathed her and had no wish to lay eyes on her.
Even a lapdog grew weary eventually. Time for a break.
It felt a bit like a cold war.
Sang had even toyed with the idea of playing hard to get, hoping the True Ancestor might summon him first. But she showed zero interest in him—never once called for him.
Playing hard to get required mutual feelings, at minimum. The True Ancestor had none whatsoever for her little bug.
During this time, Sang set himself a new goal: learning swordsmanship!
Back in Kaen Town, he’d hidden his abilities and avoided sword training, content never to stray far from home and live out his days as a simple country bumpkin. Even after arriving at Heavenly Key, he’d kept concealing his strength. But after that incident, there was no longer any need—and he’d come to grasp the otherworld’s brutality and his own frailty. So he cast caution aside and practiced openly.
As the True Ancestor had pointed out, his special physique lacked a channel for mana. He couldn’t wield superpowers like the top powerhouses. All he could do was relentlessly temper his body and pick up technical skills, like swordsmanship.
Of course, there was another key reason: a mental anchor. Heavenly Key was a place without any sense of time—one wrong step, and you lost yourself.
Lacking a proper instructor, Sang’s sword practice resembled a blind man groping an elephant. It relied heavily on brute force swings. Even so, the visual impact was striking.
Great Power Creates Miracles!
Roughly a week after Aisha Hodhua’s confinement began—and you might not believe this—Sang’s palm had fully healed. This body of his was no joke; its self-healing ability far surpassed that of an ordinary person.
He resolved to stop running away. Once more, he headed up to the Heavenly Pavilion in search of the True Ancestor.
He despised her utterly, but what choice did he have? To see the light of day again, he had to keep getting close to her and glean more intelligence.
Late November.
One night, Sang made his long-overdue visit to the Heavenly Pavilion. More than half a month had passed since his last trip. He’d expected to find the same unchanging sight: her lonely silhouette perched at the edge of the kilometer-wide balcony.
Instead, he beheld the True Ancestor dozing atop the black coffin in the center of the grand hall.
Yes.
That’s right.
The True Ancestor was napping—in attire as revealing and unladylike as ever: mere strips of white cloth. Her posture was utterly crude, one leg dangling naturally while the other rested on the coffin. One arm draped over her knee, her head pillowed upon it. Strands of black hair spilled across the floor, blending seamlessly with the dark coffin. Her eyes were gently shut, her lashes gleaming ethereally in the moonlight—her beauty utterly mesmerizing.
For some reason.
In that instant, a horrifying thought flashed through Sang’s mind: Could he kill her right now?
