Winter, New Calendar Year 3137.

A terrible cold snap swept through the Vampire Kingdom. The land was frozen solid, and water turned to ice the moment it touched the ground.

Biting winds swept across the wasteland, lashing against forests and mountains. Snowflakes swirled through the air, forming spectacular snowfalls that blanketed the vast land.

Overnight, mountains and rivers froze solid, and the world was blanketed in a vast expanse of white, entirely draped in silver.

At dawn, the wind subsided slightly, and crimson clouds gathered in the sky, piling up thick and dense. The sun hid behind the clouds, barely bestowing a sliver of light that fell feebly upon the ground, revealing a sense of desolation and weakness.

Amid the swirling snow, the sound of thunderous hooves grew louder as it approached.

Several riders on swift horses came from the north, galloping through the sea of snow toward Golden Rock City, situated at the center of the wasteland. As they raced like the wind, the horses’ nostrils exhaled hot breath, creating a vast mist that spread out.

The riders wore garments sewn from gray squirrel fur, their sturdy leather boots reaching up to their knees, the uppers studded with rivets that glinted faintly against the snowy landscape. Each wore thick leather gloves, their fingers gripping the reins tightly.

Their cloaks were tied around their waists, with no regard for appearance—only for warmth. Hoods slipped back in the wind, revealing silver masks that covered half their faces.

The mask was made of a thin material, its inner layer pressed tightly against the skin, the edges hugging the bridge of the nose and the temples, firmly pressing against the hairline. The eye sockets were cut out, revealing narrow, slanted eyes; the pupils narrowed in the light, radiating a cold, eerie glow.

“Captain, the Royal Capital is just ahead!”

 “Sound the horn!”

Beneath the snowy veil, a majestic city stood towering.

The knights pulled on their reins as one of them sounded the horn in the wind.

The desolate sound of the horn pierced the wilderness, carried by the wind into the ancient city. The column began to pick up speed, transforming into a sharp arrow piercing through the sea of snow.

The warhorses galloped forward, the endless white landscape receding behind them as the majestic city grew ever closer. The stone walls soared into the clouds; each massive block weighed several tons, neatly stacked with edges fitting together so tightly not even a needle could slip through. A stone path ran along the top of the wall, wide enough for several carriages to pass side by side.

Several watchtowers stood at the four corners, along with a bell tower, its spire piercing the sky.

Fully armed soldiers patrolled the ramparts, all clad in plate armor. Their metal-soled boots crunched through the snow as they gripped their spears, their tips glinting with a chilling, intimidating light.

The sound of a bugle call echoed, and the crowd came to a halt.

Looking down from the ramparts, the captain recognized the returning knights and immediately ordered the bronze bell to be rung.

“It’s the Silver Knights! Quickly, notify the city!”

Several soldiers took their leave and sprinted toward the nearby bell tower.

A cold wind swept across their faces, freezing their eyebrows and eyelashes with white frost and blurring their vision. Unmindful of the slippery ground beneath their feet, they nearly stumbled forward. They skillfully steadied themselves, pressing down on their helmets as they ran, their pace not slowing in the slightest—if anything, they ran even faster than before.

Upon reaching the base of the bell tower, two soldiers grabbed the rope ladder and climbed upward with the agility of monkeys.

Reaching the top of the bell tower, the soldiers rolled over one after another and leaped in, joining forces to grab the long rope hanging down. Using their combined weight to pull the rope, they struck the massive bronze bell. The rope swayed, the bell swung back and forth, and its walls resonated with the sound.

A clash of deep resonance and desolate melancholy spread throughout the city, reverberating through the buildings lining the streets.

The sound cut through streets and alleys, surging into the seat of royal power—Golden Rock Fortress, situated at the city’s heart. The majestic fortress stood proudly, dominating the city center like its very heart.

The castle covered a vast area, with a long flight of stone steps leading up to the main building. Each step was carved with animal motifs, the craftsmanship simple yet ancient, derived from the ancient totems of the vampire clan.

At that moment, nearly a hundred carriages were parked at the foot of the stairs. The horses pulling the carriages were exceptionally majestic, each tall and robust.

The carriages were lavishly decorated inside and out, their roofs inlaid with gold and jade, symbolizing the most powerful families in the kingdom, many of which had been in existence for thousands of years.

The palace gates stood wide open, with imposing knights standing guard on either side, motionless for long stretches, as if they were statues.

The sound of heated arguments echoed from the council hall, and shrill shouts reverberated through the empty corridors. The meeting had been convened by the king, gathering all the nobles of the Royal Capital.

The same topic had been debated for days; the nobles held firm to their respective positions, unable to reach a consensus, and the situation was becoming increasingly tense. The sound of a bell rang out, unexpectedly interrupting the argument.

After confirming the message conveyed by the bells, the crowd’s doubts were dispelled, and they plunged back into the argument, even more fiercely than before.

“The situation in the borderlands is critical. Fallen Treants, wandering vampires, and dark orcs have joined forces to attack multiple towns. They come and go like the wind, and our soldiers are running themselves ragged, making it difficult to achieve any results.”

“They’re masters of concealment; they hide whenever they encounter a large army. Worse still, their numbers are growing. We must ally with the Snow Domain and find a way to seal off their escape routes!”

“Without sufficient leverage, those Snow Domain folk might not be swayed.”

“I suggest sending an envoy to negotiate a treaty for the borderlands and offering a prince or princess as a token of our sincerity.” 

“A political marriage?”

In an instant, the hall fell silent.

Everyone knew full well that this was merely a euphemism; in reality, it was a tribute to be offered to the ruler of the Snow Domain.

“The Queen’s child is only two years old!” 

“Your Majesty has other children…”

“Send a bastard? The Snow Domain would see it as an insult!”

In the gilded hall, the kingdom’s high officials were in an uproar, and the air was thick with tension. Numerous figures were cast upon the ceiling, warping in the light—a surreal, otherworldly scene that seemed utterly unreal.

Amid the shouting, a cold breeze swept through the corridor, accompanied by eerie sounds that seemed to come from the relief carvings on the walls, wailing mournfully—a scene so sinister and uncanny that it sent shivers down one’s spine. The doors to the council hall stood wide open, and the wind swirled around the massive crystal chandelier, causing its pendants to jingle.

Three walls were covered in murals, adorned with gold leaf, tortoiseshell, and amber, creating a dazzling display of color. The floor was polished to a mirror-like sheen, reflecting ripples of light; every detail exuded opulence.

A long table spanned half the room, its surface draped in a deep red tablecloth. Several crystal vases stood in a row, their openings adorned with clusters of red roses, blooming vibrantly in the winter air.

At one end of the table, Gorod, the King of the vampire clan, sat enthroned.

The kingdom’s high officials were seated on either side of him: on his left were the representatives of the old nobility, while on his right were the new nobles, most of whom were related by marriage to the royal family.

The assembly rose and sat frequently, slamming their palms on the table and raising their voices in an attempt to drown out their opponents and emphasize their own points. The main dispute was between Chancellor Bashir and Foreign Minister Zax.

The former advocated for continuing to increase troop deployments, insisting on clearing the borderlands at any cost; the latter believed he was being unrealistic, arguing that it was impossible to resolve all the troubles based on mere passion.

“We have sent troops time and again, yet the rebel forces always flee northward. They are like weeds—no matter how much we burn them, they never die out. To eradicate them completely, we must clear the soil in which they grow. We must secure the support of the Snow Domain, seal off the valleys where they can shelter from blizzards, and suppress the restless savage tribes— only then can we eliminate this threat once and for all!” Zax argued forcefully, standing firm on his position. He cast a furtive glance at the king, confident that he held sufficient trump cards in his hand. “I propose making appropriate concessions to secure an alliance with the Snow Domain,” he said with unwavering conviction.

“The Lord of the Snow Domain is cruel and tyrannical, with a temperament as unpredictable as the weather. Legend has it he has slaughtered millions. The Wraiths under his command are insatiably greedy—a pack of cold-blooded monsters. Negotiating with them is like bargaining with a tiger; they excel at taking advantage of chaos!” Bashir immediately stood up and loudly refuted Zax.

“You have to pay a price to get what you want,” Zax retorted with a frown.

“The snow will not stop, and the negotiations will be a long process. Are we just going to let those rebel forces come and go as they please? Have you considered how much we stand to lose—the borderlands cities, the fortresses, and lives!” Bashir would not back down an inch.

Neither could persuade the other; they traded barbs, nearly coming to blows right there.

To support them, the other nobles gradually joined in, and the situation escalated rapidly. The clamor pierced the dome, and a clash seemed imminent at any moment. King Gorod remained uninvolved throughout, leaving the ministers to argue among themselves.

He leaned lazily back in his chair, his upper body slumped, looking unwell. For a vampire clan, he was uncharacteristically pale; it was clear that a life of debauchery had drained his body, greatly diminishing his once-handsome features.

He was a tyrant through and through, yet he was by no means without a brain, and no one dared to underestimate him.

His dark red pupils narrowed steadily; he resembled a venomous snake lurking in the shadows, biding its time, sending a chill down one’s spine. Just as the ministers’ arguments reached a fever pitch, nearly spilling over the table into a physical altercation, a pale hand tapped the surface.

A ring on his index finger reflected a faint glint, and the phantom of a blood skull swept through the crowd, successfully quelling the endless bickering.

All eyes turned to the king.

Gorod slowly sat up straight, his voice low and hoarse from a night of revelry and a hangover: “Send an envoy to the Snow Domain to deliver a request for an alliance.” One faction, led by Zax, showed signs of joy, while the other wore somber expressions.

Chancellor Bashir, deeply resentful, gritted his teeth and protested, “Your Majesty, you have no suitable princes or princesses. The Snow Domain will not accept a bastard.” Gorod was by nature a womanizer, callous and unprincipled.

He had married nine wives in succession; apart from his first wife and the current queen, the rest had their titles stripped and met tragic ends. Worse still, some were sent directly to prison and met violent deaths.

From these marriages, Gorod had sired three princes and four princesses. The eldest was over a hundred years old, while the youngest was only two. In addition, he had numerous mistresses and illegitimate children, so there was certainly no shortage of candidates for a political marriage.

The problem is that he is not only heartless toward his wives but also cruelly oppresses his own children, stripping them of their titles and inheritance rights under the pretext of their mothers’ guilt, thereby reducing them from legitimate heirs to illegitimate children.

This led to one inevitable consequence: in terms of status, none of them was suitable for marriage alliances. Chancellor Bashir’s concerns were not without merit.

A brief silence fell over the hall, but murmurs soon rose again.

The noise gave Gorod a headache; his hangover had made him irritable, and he found it difficult to control his temper. “Silence!” he roared, his sharp fangs piercing his gums, his pupils bloodshot, his ferocious nature fully exposed. The arguments ceased abruptly.

Everyone quickly shut their mouths; some hadn’t had time to adjust their expressions, leaving their exaggerated emotions frozen in place, making them look quite comical. Most were terrified and dared not speak again.

Zax, however, did the opposite.

He abruptly stood up, looked around, then bowed toward Gorod and said boldly, “Your Majesty, you have another son—a legitimate son— who is also of a suitable age.”

At these words, the hall fell into a deathly silence.

Recalling the prince imprisoned in the Black Tower, who had not been seen for a century, the nobles immediately fell silent, not daring to utter a single word.

This prince held a unique status: though he was the first in line to the throne, he had become a taboo subject in Golden Rock City.

His birth mother was the king’s first wife, the most noble of queens. Strictly speaking, she was not only a queen but had once had the opportunity to claim the throne herself.

By bloodline, military achievements, and status, the throne should have been hers.

Alas, she was gravely wounded in a great battle and then poisoned. Her health remained frail for years, and she became bedridden. Gorod seized the opportunity to weave lies, using sweet talk to beguile, deceive, and mislead her, going to great lengths to seize her power and steal the Ring of Royal Authority. He also employed underhanded tactics to rally the nobles, forcing her to abdicate the throne.

There are even rumors that her death was no simple matter…

Recalling all that had transpired, the crowd fell silent, their gazes shifting uneasily toward Zax.

Ignoring the stares, Zax looked straight at Gorod and declared with conviction, “Your Majesty, I believe your eldest son is the best candidate. As the heir to noble blood, he ought to fulfill his duty to the kingdom.”

His words sounded righteous, but behind them lay a web of scheming.

Zax’s sister was the current queen, and she had borne the king a son. His eagerness to forge an alliance and his specific nomination of a candidate were undoubtedly an attempt to use the opportunity to eliminate potential rivals for the young prince.

Though the nobles found such speculation disgraceful, not a single one spoke up to expose it.

No matter how cunning Zax might be, he still needed the King’s approval; otherwise, it would all be empty talk. Aware of this, they turned their gaze toward Gorod, waiting for him to make a decision.

Time ticked by, and the hall was deathly quiet—so quiet you could hear a pin drop.

Finally, Gorod raised his head, his gaze sweeping across the room, and a deep voice echoed through the chamber: “Zax, that is a good idea.”

“It is my honor to ease your burden, Your Majesty.” Zax bowed deeply; his tousled curls fell across his forehead, and a sly, sinister, and smug smile curled at the corners of his mouth.

Chancellor Bashir witnessed everything unfold. Knowing the king’s decision was final, he shook his head and sighed, but could do nothing but remain silent. The ministers ceased their arguments, quickly adjusted their mindset, and began discussing the protocols for dispatching an envoy to the Snow Domain.

Outside the castle, several Silver Knights hurried along.

After passing through the guards’ inspection, they quickly climbed the steps, passed through the castle gates, and strode into the corridor.

They had returned from the borderlands, weary from their long journey, bearing more bad news.

The rebel forces had made contact with the savage tribes—a situation that was absolutely dire. The situation in the borderlands was deteriorating by the day, and the battle had reached a critical juncture. As the Silver Knights walked, their cloaks billowed behind them, revealing the family crest.

Beside the knight, the floor-to-ceiling windows were flung open by the wind, letting in a flurry of snowflakes. Looking out the window, one could see a distinctive structure standing in the snow: the Black Tower, where the vampire prince was imprisoned.

The tower stood nearly a hundred meters tall, its entire surface pitch black.

The tower rose straight up, resembling a vertical chimney, with a spire capping its highest point.

The weathered exterior was overgrown with thorn vines, behind which lurked dark, narrow windows, resembling a series of distorted eyeballs. The tower’s summit was supported by columns; the central void suspended a massive bronze bell.

As the cold wind swept past, the bell swayed slowly, yet remained muffled and silent. It turned out the clapper was missing, making it impossible for it to produce any sound.

The Black Tower’s gates have been sealed for a century, and the windows on every floor are also sealed shut, making it difficult to glimpse the interior from the outside. Occasionally, a shadow flashes past a window, only serving to make the tower even more eerie and mysterious.

The third floor of the tower houses the kitchen, where there is often a clamor of noise.

A wooden door at the end of the corridor swung open, and a wave of heat drifted out, carrying the aroma of flatbread and roasted meat.

A plump maid stepped out from behind the door, her hands cradling a rectangular tray laden with freshly baked flatbreads, spiced roasted meat, and a bowl of rich meat broth. Chunks of root vegetables bobbed in the broth, dotted with chopped greens; it was steaming hot and fragrant.

The maid hurried along, sweeping through the corridor like a gust of wind.

The hem of her ankle-length skirt billowed in waves, yet did not hinder her movement. Her hard wooden-soled shoes clattered against the floor, the sound echoing all the way. It wasn’t until she rounded the corner of the corridor that her footsteps faded away along with her retreating figure.

Behind the kitchen door, grease-stained fingers gripped the doorframe, and a goblin with protruding ears cautiously peeked out.

Once he was sure the maid was far enough away, he relaxed and waved his hand behind him. The goblins working there collapsed onto the floor one after another, raising their hands to wipe the sweat from their foreheads.

“Thank goodness, she’s finally satisfied.”

“She was extra picky today. Must’ve been in a terrible mood?” 

“That’s obvious.”

“We’ve got bad news.”

“That raven—I saw it fly in.” 

“The omen bird?”

“Old Buck’s divination foretells ill omens; His Highness the Prince may be in trouble.” 

“It’s all those bastards’ fault!”

The goblins’ voices were shrill, their faces green with anger. Their sparse hair stood on end, like a pile of withered cacti, giving them a rather strange appearance. The maid in question left the third floor and began climbing the spiral staircase.

As she moved, her elongated shadow slid across the wall, its tip stretching overhead and crawling over one brick after another.

The niches in the walls lit up one after another; the flickering candles cast an orange-yellow glow that dispelled the darkness, forming a ribbon of light that illuminated the stone corridor. She walked without stopping, soon reaching the middle of the tower, where she paused before a door carved with golden roses.

The maid stood at attention, her heels tapping lightly, producing a brief click. Holding the tray in her left hand, she used her right to knock gently on the door.

Her curled fingers tapped on the door—once, twice, three times. After the third tap, a voice came from inside: “Come in.”

The voice was soft, slightly hoarse, and punctuated by a few coughs; it seemed the person inside was not in good health. The maid frowned instinctively and immediately pushed the door open.

The door hinges creaked as they turned.

A warm breeze swept over her face, and white light spilled into the hallway, blurring the maid’s features.

Unlike the dim glow of candlelight, this light was soft and clear, emanating from the luminous pearls placed within the room.

Six luminous pearls were scattered throughout the room, each about the size of a fist, illuminating every corner. Mined from the deep sea, they were a rare sight in the Vampire Kingdom and were all priceless.

The interior was spacious and bright, decorated with extraordinary luxury.

The floor was covered with a thick, shaggy carpet that reached past the ankles, making it feel as though one were stepping onto a cloud. Tapestries hung from the walls, woven with exquisite patterns; the colors were vivid yet not chaotic.

A four-poster bed stood against the wall, its dark canopy half-drawn, its edges adorned with gemstone tassels that shimmered brightly, their luster interplaying with the pearlescent glow. A slender figure sat leaning against the headboard, nearly swallowed up by the fluffy quilts and blankets.

The bed curtains blocked the light, obscuring his features; only his delicate chin, pale lips, and jet-black hair draped over his shoulders— the color of the night—were visible.

On the right side of the bed stood a tree-like golden stand, upon which perched a raven.

The bird’s feathers were glossy black, its eyes lively, and a patch of white feathers adorned its chest. Its sharp beak was preening its feathers, and a ring was fitted on each claw; the inner side of the rings was engraved with ancient script—a distorted blood curse.

These characters radiated a dark aura; anyone who intercepted or harmed the bird would fall under a curse. The raven brought a secret letter.

The letter contained only a few lines, revealing the unfavorable state of the war in the borderlands and the treacherous schemes of the nobles.

“Cough… cough…” The coughing fit returned, and Cen Qing was forced to set the letter aside, covering his mouth with one hand. He hunched over, his chest trembling continuously, his hair dancing behind his shoulders, his gaunt shoulder blades protruding like those of a bird with broken wings.

“Your Highness!” The maid immediately set down the tray, hurried to the bedside, and carefully helped him up, as if handling a fragile object.

She drew a small dagger from her hair, slit her wrist with the tip, and held the bleeding wound to the young man’s lips: “Your Highness, drink this quickly!”

The slender gash cut across her wrist, crimson blood flowing freely, exuding a faint, delicate floral scent that was refreshing to the soul. Cen Qing grasped the maid’s forearm; his pale lips touched the wound, instantly staining them a shade of crimson.

The maid watched him with concern, ignoring the stinging pain in her wrist. Seeing his symptoms ease, she finally let out a long sigh of relief. The wound was beginning to close; she was about to cut it open again when another hand pressed down on hers.

“That’s enough, Moli.” Cen Qing slowly raised his head; his bangs fell away with the movement, revealing a fair forehead and jet-black brows and eyes. His eyelashes trembled slightly, casting two pale shadows beneath his eyes.

“But…”

“Don’t worry, it’s nothing serious.” Cen Qing clasped his hands together, his fingers wrapping around Moli’s wrist. A faint glow flashed, and the wound healed completely, leaving not a single trace.

“See? I was right. Don’t ever hurt yourself like that again.” His voice was gentle, like a breeze caressing the heart, inviting one to linger within it, willing to lose oneself in its embrace.

“You know I can never refuse you.” Moli’s voice held a touch of frustration, tinged with helplessness.

Cen Qing smiled faintly. He turned his head to look at the curious raven. As it flew toward him, he raised his arm to catch it, gently stroking its back feathers. It was as if he were explaining to Moli, yet also speaking to himself: “This isn’t my fault, Moli. It all stems from my mother.”

“I was born for your mother; protecting you is my mission, and serving you is my honor. It’s all only natural.” Moli turned to bring a tray, then snapped her fingers. Two thorn vines crawled out from under the bed and wove themselves into a square table at the head of the bed. Strings of small flowers hung from the corners, serving as a lovely accent that looked quite beautiful.

“You need to eat.” Moli took out the food one by one and neatly arranged it before Cen Qing. “I’ll watch over you until you’ve finished it all.”

As she spoke, she shot the raven a stern glance: “You must not feed it. Otherwise, I’ll have the goblins add a new dish to the menu.” The raven immediately spread its wings and let out a shrill cry.

A cold wind swept through the room, and wind blades attacked from all directions, only to be casually deflected by Moli, slicing through the tapestry on the wall instead. A section of the tapestry fell to the floor, the cut clean and even.

Glancing at the marks left on the wall, the maid placed her hands on her hips and uttered two words expressionlessly: “Very good.” A sense of crisis descended suddenly, and a murderous intent engulfed the room.

The raven flapped its wings and lunged toward the window, but alas, the shutters were tightly shut, leaving no escape. It was seized by Moli in a single grab.

The thorn vine maiden was astonishingly fast and possessed superhuman strength; she could easily crush its bones.

“Moli,” Cen Qing spoke up just in time to prevent the raven from being crushed. As he spoke, he picked up a spoon. “I’ll try to eat as much as I can, so please let it go.”

“You promise.” Standing with her back to the light, Moli held the raven in one hand, the edges of her pupils glowing red as if she were ready to unleash a bloodbath at any moment. “I promise.” Cen Qing raised a finger, vowing never to go back on his word.

“Fine.” Moli released her grip, not forgetting to threaten the raven, “You’re lucky this time, but there won’t be a next time.”

The raven immediately flew back to the golden perch, tucking its wings away obediently and remaining motionless, as if it were nothing more than a decorative ornament.

Cen Qing kept his word and began to focus on his meal.

He started with the thick soup, followed by the main course, saving the meat for last.

Before picking up his cutlery, he casually handed Moli the letter, gesturing for her to read its contents.

“There’s trouble in the borderlands; the rebel forces are growing stronger. Most ministers favor signing a treaty with the Snow Domain, and the debate has been raging for days.” Cen Qing tore off a piece of flatbread, dipped it in the thick soup, and put it in his mouth. “To win over the Snow Domain, we’ll have to pay a hefty price. The letter mentions that someone is plotting a political marriage, led by Zax. I expect they’ll present the proposal to the king soon. He’s always wanted to eliminate me—this is a good opportunity.”

“Do you think he’ll succeed?” After reading the letter, Moli furrowed her brow. “It’s highly likely, if the alliance is formed,” Cen Qing said.

“You are the heir to the throne—this makes no sense!”

“His Majesty has nine queens, not to mention his numerous mistresses. If their children seek the throne, I am the greatest obstacle.” Cen Qing tore off pieces of flatbread with deliberate slowness, popping one after another into his mouth. “The King has long sought to annex the lands left by my mother, and his various wives have all coveted her jewels. Only if I die, or lose my current standing, will they get their way.”

“Despicable scoundrels! Filthy greed! Utterly shameless!”

“Don’t get angry, Moli.” Compared to Moli’s indignation, Cen Qing was unusually calm—so calm it bordered on indifference. A mother who died young, a heartless father, a family bond as fleeting as a mirage, a precarious fate.

He had long since grown accustomed to it.

“Rather than getting angry, Moli, you have more important things to do.” 

“At your command, Your Highness.”

After eating the last piece of barley bread, Cen Qing picked up his spoon and said softly, “While the situation is indeed dire, it may also present an opportunity to break free from this predicament. If the king issues an order, I can leave this tower. Prepare everything needed for the journey. Also, prepare a list.”

“A list?”

“My mother’s legacy.” Cen Qing subtly pushed his plate away; finishing two-thirds of it was already his limit. A cold wind flung open the window, howling as it poured into the room, scattering the faint sounds.

The bed curtains billowed, their tassels swaying chaotically.

Cen Qing raised a hand to smooth down a strand of black hair. A faint curve formed at the corners of his pale lips—gentle and subtle, yet colder than the biting wind.

“I am powerless to resist fate, but I ought to reclaim certain things. Everything comes at a price; no one can always have their way.” Understanding his intent, Moli gently lifted the hem of her skirt with both hands and bowed deeply before him.

“As you wish, Your Highness.”