How powerful was the storm caused by the butterfly named Adam?
Two thousand years had passed.The domino effect had long since pushed history so far off course that no one could trace its original path.
It began with Eden's fully armed tribes.
Forced into harsh wartime decisions, Eve had severed the natural path of human integration. Humanity was split—cleanly and permanently—into two entirely different civilizations.
But that was only the surface.
The deeper impact lay in thought itself.
From Adam, humanity learned one core principle: change.
To innovate.To evolve.To never remain stagnant.
Originally, this mindset should have taken thousands of years to take root. Instead, Adam's arrival dragged it into existence far too early—and burned it into humanity's bones.
Some humans turned this belief into doctrine, chasing technology at breakneck speed.
But humans weren't the only ones watching.
Other races had once lived beneath Eden's sky as well. Their ties to humanity were tangled and ancient. Though habits and forms diverged, ideas were harder to cut loose.
Humans pursued progress.
So did they.
Humans were limited by their bodies, so they learned to obey nature—and exploit it.
Other races were born with advantages. They turned inward, refining their own potential.
Two thousand years later, the change was absolute.
The age of raw muscle and crude weapons was gone.
Fallen angels no longer just flew and swung swords.Dwarves didn't rely solely on axes.Elves wielded more than arrows.
And vampires?
Among Eden's races, the Blood Clan appeared last—and suffered the harshest conditions. Scarcity bred evolution. If others advanced, how could vampires afford to stagnate?
Fangs and claws were merely instinctive tools. Like human fists.
Useful against weak humans.
Useless against true threats.
Against powerful races, vampires had developed something far deadlier.
Secret arts.
The hall was built in an Arabic style.
Firelight flickered low, shadows dancing across carved stone. A fat man in black robes trimmed with gold sat at the table, enjoying his "meal" while loudly complaining to the servant beside him.
"Smoke," he said irritably, adjusting his tall black hat. "Has the Earl finally gone senile? Scolding me over something so trivial?"
The old man beside him—thin, pale, and exhausted—bowed slightly.
"Perhaps… a misunderstanding," Smoke replied cautiously.
"A misunderstanding?" The fat man slammed the table. "He threatened to punish me if I ate human flesh again! Human flesh! I just missed the texture!"
Receiving no response, he continued, voice rising.
"Tell me—what else can we vampires even eat? He dares say I'm unworthy of being Blood Clan? Before he became Baron, I was already lord of this land! Who does he think he is?"
He speared another slice of meat with his fork and chewed loudly.
On his plate lay a neatly boneless human hand.
"I'll eat it. I'll keep eating it. Let's see what he can do about it!"
Smoke remained silent. He was used to this.
A soft creak.
The side door opened. A lean man entered, leaned close, and whispered into Smoke's ear.
Smoke's expression changed instantly.
"Viscount," he said quickly, bowing. "I must attend to something urgent."
"Go." The fat man waved without looking up, still gnawing on his meal.
In a concealed room within the manor, an elderly man examined Gu Dian's ruined face with care. Vine stood quietly nearby.
Smoke rushed in.
"What happened?" he asked. "Werewolves?"
"No," Vine replied. "The vampire himself."
Smoke frowned.
"He wasn't captured. He subdued the Lizard Lord deliberately—to lure us out."
Smoke stroked his beard. "Who is he?"
"I don't know."
Smoke's eyes narrowed.
"I tried asking," Vine sighed. "He dodged every question. But he demanded the Lord personally visit the Lizard Castle."
"His generation?"
"Unknown. He didn't even enter combat state. One move. Gu Dian was done."
Smoke went silent.
If this was true, then defeating a 150-year-old thirteenth-generation vampire in one blow meant—
At least tenth generation. Possibly higher.
Then why appear in such a place?Why hide his identity?Why provoke them?
The old man finished his examination and stood up.
"He's fine," he said. "No killing intent. A few days' rest will do."
Smoke turned to him. "Withered Wood. Can you estimate his strength?"
"Raw force suggests a mature tenth-generation. Reaction speed—possibly ninth. One strike incapacitation."
Vampire power came from curse-blood—the condensed essence within them.
Creating offspring diluted it. Recovery took time.
That was why older vampires rarely created new progeny.
Earlier generations were rarer, purer, and far more dangerous.
The Lord of this land—Pisa—was only an eighth-generation vampire. A noble among nobles.
Smoke himself had once been a twelfth-generation nobody, until service earned him elevation and a gift of blood—what vampires called Second Rebirth.
The first turning was First Rebirth.
Growth among vampires wasn't measured solely by time. Control mattered.
Most reached adulthood around one hundred years.Peak condition came after a thousand.
Even a weak fifteenth-generation vampire at peak could be terrifying.
That said, fifteenth was usually the limit.
Beyond that, blood became too thin. Sunlight meant instant annihilation. Desire ran wild.
Such vampires were liabilities.
They were erased.
"Baron," Vine asked carefully, "should we inform the Lord?"
Smoke shook his head.
"Not yet. I'll go myself."
Better to confirm first.
Pisa was a fool. Smoke had known that for two centuries. Serving him offered no future.
That was why Smoke had always been cautious.
Sometimes too cautious.
The following night, two bats left the manor.
They flew south.
Toward the Lizard Castle.