The Primordial Bloodine

The Water Sphere Continent stretched boundless and endless. Nine-tenths of this world was submerged under vast oceans, leaving merely one-tenth as dry land. Two great continental landmasses, the Northern and Southern Lands, were split apart by an Endless Sea so wide a ship would sail a hundred years and still fail to cross it. The Northern Continent belonged to the bloodthirsty vampire kin, while the savage wolfkin ruled the Southern Lands, each holding their domain as sovereign overlords. Our tale unfolds in the Northern Continent. The wolfkin claimed the frigid northern reaches, and the vampires seized the sweltering southern territories. Humanity bore no mighty bloodlines, nor heaven-shaking combat prowess. For a thousand generations, they huddled within the narrow buffer zone between the two races, scraping out a humble, precarious existence. They labored mining ore, forging weapons, and offering regular tributes of blood to both clans, enduring a thousand years of abject subservience. For thousands of years, the vampires and wolfkin had stood divided north and south, locked in unceasing war. A river of blood and bitter hatred had been carved deep into the core of each race's bloodline, a feud they would fight to the death to uphold. At the summit of a blood-hued ancient castle, thick scarlet mist churned and roiled like a cauldron of congealed, boiling blood. The moon broke through heavy storm clouds, casting frigid silver light across the rough, cold obsidian stone of the palace terrace, painting it with a thin, eerie, sinister glow. Standing alone at the highest dome of the fortress was Dracula, supreme ruler of all vampires in this age. He wore a black silk robe embroidered with faint golden edging. Every shift of his body sent faint blood-red ripples shimmering across the fabric. To human eyes, he appeared a man in his sixties, yet his features were finely sculpted, sharp and cold. His skin bore an unnervingly sickly pallor, devoid of any trace of warmth or life. Twin blood-red irises lay hollow and apathetic, their depths heavy with a thousand years of unrelenting gloom and insatiable greed. His long, narrow aquiline nose sat stark and ill-fitting upon his face. Slender, pale fingertips stroked an ancient vampire ring set upon his finger, scarlet light swirling constantly across its metal surface. As lord of the vampire clan, he commanded an immeasurably long lifespan—but millennia had worn away much of his vitality. This truth forced him to accept his mortality: his life would not stretch on forever. He ruled countless vampires under his banner, master of all manner of soul-devouring dark arts. Even the mightiest beings across the continent shuddered at the mere mention of his name, the unrivaled night tyrant. Yet despite his overwhelming authority and battle prowess, one obsession gnawed relentlessly at his heart: to seize the Primordial Origin Blood. Only a handful of the continent's most elite figures knew the truth: a single wisp of Primordial Origin Blood existed in the world, dwelling within the body of one solitary being. This primal divine blood transcended the inherent shackles binding both vampire and wolfkin bloodlines. All races of the world traced their descent back to its pure, untainted essence, which harbored creation-tier primal power. Whoever claimed this blood would shatter the innate upper limits of their race, cast off the chains of fading lifespan, break free from the unalterable laws governing this continent, become impervious to all arts and spells, and live eternal through all ages. And the man bearing this supreme divine blood was none other than his own father, Phil Jackson. In the instant the black fog shrouding the castle erupted into violent turbulence, a shrill, thunderous crack tore open the sky overhead. Boom—! A colossal black wolf-shaped phantom shattered a thousand miles of cloud cover, bearing down wrapped in crude, tyrannical savage ferocity. It crashed heavily onto the stone plaza before the castle gates. The impact shook the thousand-year-old fortress to its foundations, splitting the solid obsidian ground into a vast web of cracks. Half the swirling scarlet mist in the air was blown apart in an instant by its murderous aura. The newcomer was Marquis, supreme sovereign of the wolfkin. He stood broad and towering, shoulders wide and powerful, every line of muscle across his frame coiled with explosive beastly strength. Dense, unbroken wolfish malevolence coiled around his body, black hair whipping wild and loose. The cold greed burning in his eyes mirrored exactly that of Dracula standing far above. His jawline and cheekbones were sharp, brutal, etched with the innate unruly ferocity of his kind. Thin threads of savage power drifted from his fingertips; the slightest twitch of his hands could rend the fabric of space itself. He was the sole ruler and primal wolf god of the wolfkin, unmatched in raw physical combat across the entire continent. When fully driven into berserk frenzy, he could crush mountains with his bare hands and tear high-ranking vampires limb from limb, the most terrifying instrument of slaughter stalking the night. Even Dracula, wielding equal tiered power, dared not close in to trade blows with him. Dracula was the elder brother, drawn inherently to shadow and gloom. His heart was patient, deep, scheming—masterful at plotting, turning forces against enemies, and leaving no loose ends to haunt him. Marquis, by contrast, was born steeped in primal savagery, his temper quick, brutal, and uncomplicated. He craved direct bloodshed, relying on overwhelming brute strength to shatter every foe and law before him, caring nothing for elaborate stratagems. The two had grown up side by side, eating and dwelling under the same roof, yet never shared an ounce of fraternal warmth. From the moment their true bloodlines awakened and they learned the secret of the Origin Blood, jealousy, resentment, and an unquenchable urge to slay one another had filled their hearts entirely. They hated the flawed nature of their own bloodlines, trapped for all eternity beneath their race's unbreakable restrictions, unable to transcend. Worse still, they seethed at their father, who held the divine primal blood and wielded creation-grade power, yet refused to share it with them—watching coldly as the two brothers wasted a thousand years clashing and draining each other's strength. Dracula turned slowly, his blood-red gaze drifting down to Marquis standing in the plaza. His tone was flat, ice-cold. "Little brother. I knew you would come. A thousand years apart, and you have aged terribly. I doubt your remaining years are many." Marquis lifted his eyes to meet Dracula's stare, a low, violent growl rumbling in his throat, his voice rough and frigid. "Spare me your empty words. You fare no better. I will not break our agreed tryst. But tell me, Dracula—are you certain the two of us united can subdue him?" "We have no other choice," Dracula said softly. "Over these years, I have led vampire raiding parties deep into his territory five times, unleashing forbidden vampire arts in ambush. We could not even breach the outer barrier shielding his dwelling." Marquis clenched his fists, savage aura surging outward. "The same for me. Three full-scale assaults, half my army dead and broken, not a single strand of his robes touched. Alone, neither of us can ever win. Together, we stand a chance. Do not disappoint me." For a thousand years, each had plotted alone—ambushes, covert strikes, political manipulation, every trick imaginable to steal the blood—and all had ended in failure. Phil Jackson was shielded by the divine origin blood; his defense and offense were seamless, his power of self-healing endless. Dracula's shadow arts could not pierce his protective divine radiance, and Marquis's primal brute force could never wound his core. Separated, they would never prevail. Only an alliance could combine the dark arts of the vampires and the primal beast strength of the wolfkin. Marshaling the full military might of both clans would grant them the power to subdue their father. He lifted a finger, pointing toward the mist-shrouded distance far beyond the clouds, his tone unyielding. "No more talk. Today we stand as one, with one single goal: seize the Origin Blood. Once our deed is done, the blood shall be split evenly, half for each of us. Our two clans shall sign a thousand-year peace treaty, each holding fast to our own borders, no more raids or warfare. Do you accept these terms?" A flicker of vicious malice crossed Dracula's blood-red eyes, and he nodded faintly. "I accept. The thousand-year truce is merely a temporary reprieve. Once we refine the Origin Blood and transcend the laws of heaven and earth, the entire Endless Night Continent will lie within our grasp. At that point, the divide between our races will cease to matter entirely." Their eyes locked. Two souls eaten hollow by insatiable lust for power swore a filthy, blood-soaked alliance. "Let us ride," Marquis roared coldly, black malevolence shooting skyward, its oppressive pressure rolling outward for a thousand miles. Dracula flicked the hem of his robe, and a tide of scarlet shadow billowed across the sky, blotting out every last trace of night sky overhead.