Most vampire lords preferred human candidates for transformation, but the results were always mixed. Some died before the change could even finish. Some survived but lost their minds in the process, reduced to feral thralls.
Others lived, kept their minds, yet showed little improvement. Very few emerged useful. That was why conversions were often done in batches—to offset the inevitable failures.
It was almost unthinkable, then, that all the villagers had volunteered to become lesser vampires. Especially considering how elves were often portrayed—virtuous, wise, and close to nature—while vampires were reviled as corrupt and monstrous. The two races rarely coexisted, and the idea of one serving the other bordered on absurdity.
Yet the absurd had happened. And as a result, I had created a superior breed of lesser vampires.
Not only did every one of them survive the process, but none suffered the violent spasms or the bone-cracking agony Lysandra had endured. Instead of convulsing, they only went rigid for a few seconds before their skin paled and the transformation quietly settled in.
It was likely because the ritual had been done during the day, when my vampiric power was partially suppressed, and because they entered it in good health. Their bodies had been able to adapt rather than collapse.
Even in those early moments, the results were extraordinary. Like Lysandra, none of them recoiled from sunlight. Their elven affinity for nature persisted, and their connection to magic remained unbroken. The runes etched across their dwellings still glowed faintly in their presence, responding to them instead of rejecting them as it did me.
But it was only in the days that followed that I truly began to grasp how special they were.
"I want you to understand that I mean to build a kingdom," I told the village chieftain the following night, "—here, in the Dark Forest."
The words rolled out with a weight that wasn't entirely mine. Frans' will still lurked beneath my skin, sharpening my thoughts and amplifying the desire to rule. Since all of them were now my underlings, the murderous impulses were gone. But the hunger for power—to be obeyed and feared—remained as potent as ever.
We sat across from each other in front of the hearth inside his home. The fire crackled, casting light against the rough stone walls and the simple wooden furniture. It was more for ambience than warmth—neither of us felt the cold anymore.
"A difficult task," Maelor—the chieftain—said after a pause. "For anyone else, impossible. But with your power, Highness… it is more than possible. Still, I think the best path is to unite the dark elves under your banner."
"And how do you propose we do that?" I asked.
He leaned back, thinking. The sound of the fire filled the brief silence. "We build a settlement," he said finally. "A place that will draw the dark elves in—a sanctuary offering both safety and opportunity. But not here."
I frowned. "Not here?"
"No," Maelor replied. "We move south, nearer the main river. The soil there is rich, and the current is deep enough for trade barges. There's an open plain beside a ruined stone fort held by beast-men. With your strength, Highness, taking it would be simple."
I nodded slowly, impressed. The transformation hadn't dulled his wit. If anything, it had refined it. The reputation of elves for intellect was clearly deserved.
Maelor's lips curved into a small grin. "But not before we strip the serpent you killed, my lord. Its scales are prized among human alchemists and dwarven smiths. We could sell them for enough gold to start our work."
I smiled faintly. "Then I'll leave those matters to you, Maelor. From now on, I trust your judgment. You are their chief—and from this night onward, my right hand."
He froze for a heartbeat, then rose abruptly from his chair and knelt before me. His devotion was almost instinctive—typical of lesser vampires, who were easily moved by recognition from their master.
"It would be my greatest honor, High Prince!" he said fervently.
The following morning, Maelor gave the order for the harvesting to begin. The villagers—newly turned, yet full of energy—moved through the forest with quiet purpose. I accompanied them, partly to oversee, partly to ensure no surviving serpents lurked nearby.
The worksite was a grim scene: charred soil, blood-soaked grass, and massive serpentine corpses sprawled across the clearing like fallen logs. The elves carried with them crude iron hooks, hand-forged chisels, and mallets—but quickly found they didn't need them.
They gripped the scales directly with their bare hands and peeled them free, the hardened plates cracking loose with sharp metallic sounds. The air filled with the thick, bitter odor of blood and bile. What should have been backbreaking labor turned into something effortless.
Their newfound strength astonished even them. Tasks that should require a team could be done by one or two. They loaded the gleaming scales onto wheelbarrows, though there were only two. The rest carried them in thick bundles across their shoulders, moving swiftly through the uneven forest paths. Their bare feet made soft thuds against the dirt, steadier than wheels could ever manage on the rough terrain.
By midday, they noticed something else.
"I don't know how to explain it," one of the elves said, pausing only briefly. "But do you feel it? The sunlight—it's… nourishing. Like food and drink at once."
I overheard and couldn't help but chuckle. Even without a visible system, they seemed to have developed something akin to my [Photosurge] skill. In a sense, I had turned them into photosynthetic beings—feeding not just on blood, but on light itself.
Yet the surprises didn't end there.
They worked straight into the night. When the sun dipped below the horizon, I expected fatigue to finally take them—but they only grew quicker, lighter. Their eyes glowed faintly red, and their movements became sharper. The vampiric affinity for the night had awakened.
The implications were staggering. The system hadn't only overpowered me—it had done so to my subordinates as well. I now had a labor force that was stronger and faster than any mortal, needing neither food, rest, nor water, able to work under both sun and moon.
What Maelor had estimated would take a full week of hard labor was finished in two days.