"I should be dead—there's no way anyone could survive that battlefield!" The sergeant was stunned to find that he could still think—though thinking was all he could do. He couldn't feel his own existence. It was a bizarre situation, but what troubled him more was how he had survived.
Back then, the captain had mimicked a classic gesture from ancient Earth thousands of years ago—giving the sergeant a thumbs-up before detonating his own mech, taking hundreds, if not thousands, of alien insects with him. But that had only bought the sergeant and his squad a few more minutes of life.
They were out of ammunition, isolated, and abandoned. The main fleet had long since withdrawn, leaving their squadron of fifty-four psychic-armored soldiers as bait and the rearguard against a swarm of insects outnumbering them by a million to one, if not more.
One by one, his comrades fell, and the line retreated. The Gauss cannons on his psychic armor ran dry, the laser beams had been exhausted days ago, and the psychic artillery was too drained to use. Firing it now would've blown his brain apart. A few rookies had already died that way.
So, in the end, the elite of the elite, clad in the most advanced psychic mechs, resorted to the most primitive method—drawing their ion or psychic swords to slash and hack. The sergeant had served for nearly eight years, and he'd always thought those blades were just decorations.
Despite their desperate efforts, they'd killed enough insects to fill a dozen swimming pools, but it wasn't enough. He'd wanted to follow his captain's example, to go out with a dramatic line like, "This is the romance of a man!" But he didn't even have the strength for that…
"That cold-blooded bastard…" The sergeant gritted his teeth, thinking of the fleet admiral who'd abandoned them. Strategically, the admiral's decision might've been justified, but the sergeant would never forgive him.
So, he must've… been captured by the insects? What would they want with him? A specimen? Food? Or… transformation? He was still alive, so it must've been the latter. Maybe he'd switch sides, join the insects, and wreak havoc across the universe. After all, his squad was gone, and he had no love for the corrupt, incompetent government or the cold-blooded admiral who'd left them to die…
The sergeant sighed softly. "The insects are vile, but at least they don't abandon their comrades." As he thought this, he began to feel his body again—a strange, tight sensation, as if sliding through something uncomfortably narrow.
"What the hell's happening? Am I… hatching?" He tried to move, but his body felt drastically different.
"Right. I've been transformed. There must be an adjustment period…" He wanted to speak, to ask for help or understand his situation, but what came out wasn't the refined Gothic speech of the Federation or the guttural, alien growl of the insects—it was the cry of a baby.
"This voice—this isn't right!" He struggled to open his eyes, but no matter how hard he tried, they stayed shut. Around him, he heard hurried movements and indistinct voices. Something wrapped around most of his body, and then a voice spoke in a language he didn't understand.
"It's a boy."
The voice was old but strong. Someone lifted his tiny body, and a psychic energy he'd never felt before scanned him, leaving him feeling utterly exposed.
"What's going on?!" He thrashed, trying to break free, and even managed to land a weak punch on the person holding him—right in the eye. It wasn't much, but it was enough to make the old man wince.
"Quite the strong little one," the old man chuckled, unfazed. "Healthy, with excellent potential. The Carstein family has its heir."
The last sentence was directed at the pale, exhausted woman lying in bed.
"I hope he grows into a true Child of the Night," the woman said with a faint, sorrowful smile.
"I believe that day will come," the old man replied softly. Seeing her distress, he sighed and asked, "What will you name him?"
The woman seemed to grow even sadder. After a long pause, she whispered, "My husband told me… if it was a boy, we'd name him Vlad. Vlad von Carstein."
"A good name," the old man nodded, then sighed again. "Wes died for our people, my dear. He died honorably. Try not to grieve too much."
"But, Father…" the woman's voice broke, and she began to cry. "He's still gone. No matter how you put it, he's dead. The man I loved is gone. Why should I keep living?"
The old man, clearly flustered by his daughter's tears, tightened his grip on the baby without realizing it, which only made the child—now named Vlad—start crying as well.
"There, there," the old man murmured, hastily soothing the infant. Then, struck by inspiration, he turned back to his daughter. "But you still have his children—little Vlad and Isabella. You must live for them!"
The woman seemed to snap out of her despair, her eyes locking onto the baby in the old man's arms. He stepped forward and gently placed the infant in her arms.
"Vlad… Vlad… my baby Vlad…" The mother clung to her child as if he were her very life, her sobs slowly subsiding. The old man let out a relieved sigh, though he knew there were still formalities to attend to.
In the arms of his mother, Vlad felt exhaustion creeping over him. His consciousness blurred, and just before he drifted off, he caught fragments of a murmured prayer:
"May the Truth of Death bless our new kin. May he be healthy, handsome, and noble. May he wield sword and staff, ride mighty steeds, and command power. May he rise to rule…
And may Death's blessing strengthen our people, that we may bring order to this world, erasing all chaos and strife, and ushering in an eternal, unyielding order…"
"This… this can't be some kind of cult, can it?" That was Vlad's last thought before sleep claimed him.
When he awoke again, he could finally open his eyes. The room was dark, illuminated only by a sliver of moonlight filtering through a small, high window. Despite the lack of light, Vlad could see everything clearly—the soft, black velvet bedding; the dark red, gold-trimmed nightstand; the crimson greatsword hanging on the wall as a decoration; and the kite shield emblazoned with a bat-winged chalice filled with blood.
This unnatural clarity wasn't the vision of an insect—he had no compound eyes or insectoid sight. He still saw the world through human eyes, only sharper, more detailed.
"Maybe I've stumbled into something even worse than being transformed by the aliens," he thought with a grimace. Struggling, he lifted a small, chubby arm to his face.
As expected, it was the arm of a baby.