A vampire is a vampire

“I... I should have died—there was no right way I could have survived that battlefield?!” The Master Chief was astonished to strike; he could still think—but beyond thinking, he seemed incapable of anything else. He couldn't even feel his own existence. This seemed like a shocking state, yet he was more concerned with how he had managed to survive.

　　Though back then, the Captain had mimicked that classic gesture from prehistoric Earth millennia ago. He'd given the Master Chief a thumbs-up before detonating his own suit. That sacrifice had pulled hundreds of Flood away. Nevertheless, it had only bought the Master Chief and his squad a few extra minutes.

　　They ran out of ammunition and supplies, utterly isolated. Their main fleet had long since withdrawn, abandoning the planet to defend more critical locations. Their squadron—fifty-four Spirit Armor units in total—had been sacrificed as bait and rearguard, trapped in a desperate situation against a swarm of aliens numbering over a million times their own force, perhaps even more.

　　His comrades dwindled around him as the front lines steadily retreated. The Gauss machine gun mounted on his psychic armor had exhausted its ammunition, and his beam grenades had been spent days ago. His psychic cannon, weakened by excessive mental strain, was now unusable. Forcing a single shot would surely blow his private brain apart. Several greenhorns beside him had perished precisely that way, lacking the experience to manage it.

　　Thus, by the final moments, they—the elite of the elite, the pride of the military, clad in the most advanced psychic power armor—were reduced to the most clumsy, primitive method: drawing ion swords or picnic blades to hack and slash. Heaven help him, this sergeant major had served nearly eight years, always believing such weapons were mere decorations.

　　Yet despite their frantic efforts, the pile of slain Zerg they left behind could fill over a dozen fifty-by-fifty swimming pools. Still, defeat was inevitable. He'd wanted to follow his superior's example and detonate himself, declaring, “This is someone's romance!” But he didn't even have the strength left to do that...

　　“That cold-blooded b*st*rd...” The thought made the sergeant major grind his teeth in rage at the fleet admiral who had offered to sell out. Strategically, the admiral's decision might have been justifiable. Nonetheless, don't expect him to ever forgive him.

So, he must have... been defeated and seized by the bugs? What would they want to borrow from him? Specimens? Food? Modification? Hmm, since he was still alive, it must be the final option. So say we all—he'd switch allegiances and rampage across the universe with the bugs. After all, every brother under his command had died. He harbored no affection for the rotten, incompetent Federation government, the cold-blooded fleet admiral, or the other cowards who'd abandoned him and fled...

　　At this thought, the sergeant major sighed softly. “The Bugs are despicable, but at least these bastards don't betray their own kind.” As he pondered this, he began to experience his body—a sensation of sliding through an extremely tight space. It was deeply uncomfortable.

“D*mn it, what the hell is happening?! Coming out of a cocoon?” The sergeant major considered, trying to move his body. He sensed his body undergoing profound changes.

“Right. I've been modified. There should be an adjustment period...” He considered this while trying to open his mouth to say something—to call for help or ask about his situation. However, what emerged from his lips wasn't the High Gothic of the Covenant, nor the harsh, incomprehensible growls of the Flood. Instead, it was the cry of a newborn infant.

　　“That voice is wicked!” the Master Chief considered, then strained desperately to struggle and open his eyes. Yet no matter how hard he tried, his eyes wouldn't open... He only got a flurry of activity around him. He did not know they were there or what they were doing. It was like something had wrapped around most of his body. Then he heard someone speak a sentence in a language he could not understand.

　　“It's a boy.”

An aged yet authoritative voice declared, lifting the young corporal's small body. A psychic force he'd never felt before surged directly into him, leaving him feeling utterly exposed.

“What the hell?!” He struggled desperately, just trying to break free from the person holding him. He even landed a solid punch on the face of whoever was carrying him. Thud! Though the force was not sufficient, the blow landed on the vulnerable eyeball. The person holding him upside down suffered a slight injury.

“What a feisty little one,” the man chuckled lightly, seemingly unfazed. “Very healthy. And quite gifted. The Castane family has a worthy successor.”

　　The latter remark was addressed to the mother, who lay on the bed, her face a pale, unnatural hue.

“I hope he becomes a true child of the night someday,” the mother managed a faint smile, her words tinged with sorrow that the smile did little to allay.

　　“I think that day will surely come,” the aged voice replied. Noticing the sorrow on the mother's face, he sighed softly before asking, “So, what name do you want to give him?”

At this, the mother appeared to grow even more sorrowful. After a long pause, she spoke again: “My husband told me before he passed... if it was a boy, he was supposed to be named Valed. Valed van Castanien.”

　　“It's a fine name,” the elder nodded in agreement, then sighed and comforted her, “Wes died for our people. He died bravely, a worthy death. Do not cry too deeply.”

“But Father...” At this point, the mother finally broke down, weeping, "No matter what, he's gone. No matter how beautifully you say it, dead is dead. The man I loved is a party. Why should I go on living..."

Seeing his daughter weeping aloud, the old man grew flustered. Even the gesture of holding the infant stiffened. His heart ached with shared sorrow.

His son-in-law, the Count of Kastanien, had been a man of countless virtues. He and his daughter were a perfect match. Though a civil union, they had been childhood sweethearts, raised together since infancy, their bond deep and enduring. After marriage, their love grew sweeter than honey. A daughter was created a few years ago, and now a son has arrived. Yet no one could have anticipated that war would ultimately claim his life. The news arrived just as his wife neared her due date. The shock proved too much for her, triggering premature labor. Both mother and child nearly perished...

　　The more the old man thought about it, the heavier his heart grew. His arms, cradling the child, tightened unconsciously. This discomfort prompted the trivial one to protest in the only way he knew—by crying.

　　Hearing the wails, the old man snapped to attention, frantically attempting to soothe the baby. Yet it was this very crying that sparked an idea in his mind. He got the words to persuade the mother: “You still have children! Your children—Waleed and Isabella. For their sake, you must live together!”

Listening to the old man's words, the mother suddenly snapped out of her daze. She stared straight ahead, her gaze affixed to the infant in the old man's arms. The old man understood. He stepped forward and handed the child over.

　　“Valed, Valed, Valed... my child Valed...” The mother clutched the infant, now named Valed, as if holding onto her very life. She seemed almost unnatural, yet finally found calm. The old man breathed a slight sigh of relief, feeling somewhat reassured. Though reluctant to disturb her further, protocol dictated there were still duties to attend to...

　　In the mother's embrace, the sergeant major felt weariness overtake him. His consciousness grew hazy, on the verge of sleep. And in that twilight state, he faintly heard the broken prayers of those around him:

"May the truth of death we worship bless our new kin. May he be healthy, handsome, and of noble bearing; may he wield long swords and wands and ride mighty steeds; may he hold great power, may he rule over all...

May death's blessings strengthen our kin, making us mightier still. And we shall reshape this world by death's law, with blades and magic, sweeping away all chaos and strife. Establishing absolute and eternal order..."

　　“This can't be... some kind of cult...” The final thought before the Sergeant Major fell asleep was precisely this.

After an unknown span of time, when he awoke once more, he could now open his eyes and observe this world. By then, darkness had fully descended, and no lighting fixtures illuminated the surroundings. The room possessed only one pitifully small window, set three meters up on the outer wall. A faint, feeble moonlight filtered through, offering little practical illumination.

Yet under these conditions, the infant named Valed, for reasons unknown, could still perceive his surroundings. Whether it was the soft, black velvet bedding with its rolled edges, the dark red bedside table trimmed with gold thread, the blood-red great sword hanging decoratively on the wall, or the kite-shaped shield depicting a bat-winged chalice brimming with blood—everything was crystal clear.

This struck him as deeply mysterious—it didn't seem to be the ability of the alien insects—and he possessed neither compound eyes nor insect vision. The world he saw remained viewed through human eyes. Only now, it was sharper, every detail rendered with exquisite precision.

　　“Perhaps I've become entangled in something far worse than being altered by the Bugs,” he mused, striving to lift his arm. He raised it before his eyes.

As expected, it felt exactly as he suspected—the arm of an infant.

“It seems, for reasons unknown, I've been reborn in another world as an infant... This world is too medieval, or my parents in this life were insane. Further observation is needed. Beyond that, I seem to possess some night vision. My physical abilities have also been enhanced, and most importantly...”

　　He was trying to channel a thread of spiritual energy. Instantly, a faint, pallid flame appeared on the raised finger of the neonatal hand.

"My psychic energy remains undiminished, and my innate talent surpasses that of my previous artificial shell—a specially engineered construct. This world is rich in mystical energy, a high-energy realm where such power flows freely, requiring no artificial synthesis. In a way, this is a blessing in disguise. Well, no matter how bad it gets, it cannot get any worse than the world I came from. At least I get to keep living."

Though many questions lingered in his mind, the Sergeant Major, who had only just regained consciousness fo