Vampire Progenitor System

Underground Chamber

Calen lay crumpled against the wall, a twitching mess of broken bones and drying blood. His mouth trembled as he tried to breathe. One eye was swollen shut, the other barely able to focus. His shattered body made no sound beyond ragged gasps.

And yet, he was alive.

That fact alone should’ve been a miracle.

It wasn’t.

It was a mistake.

Footsteps echoed.

Slow. Precise. Unrushed.

Then came the voice—sharp and polished like a knife dressed in velvet.

”Pathetic,” Malakov said, stepping into the light with his tailored coat still spotless. His gloves were on, boots polished, not a hair out of place.

He stared at Calen with the kind of cold that wasn’t anger.

It was disappointment.

”I gave you one job,” Malakov said, standing over him now. ”One. And somehow, you still managed to fail. That... is talent.”

Calen coughed, blood leaking from the corner of his mouth. ”H-He was... faster... stronger than the data—”

”I don’t care.”

Malakov knelt beside him slowly.

”I funded your little obsession. Gave you tools, protection, resources beyond your comprehension. And you let that monster walk through you like smoke.”

Calen winced. ”He’s... not just a vampire... he’s—”

”Silence.”

Malakov’s tone didn’t rise. It didn’t need to.

He stood again.

”Well,” he continued, ”if you can’t serve a purpose as a man...”

He raised his hand.

”Then maybe you’ll serve one as a monster.”

A thick leather-bound book appeared with a whisper of wind and a sudden drop in temperature. Its cover was cracked, red like dried blood. The pages pulsed faintly beneath etched runic symbols that twisted when you looked too long.

The Crimson Grimoire.

One of the lost relics of the Vampire Progenitor.

Malakov didn’t know that.

To him, it was just another artifact dug up by the occult teams—something he assumed was another tool for power. Another trick to add to his collection.

He opened the book.

The pages writhed like they were alive.

He didn’t flinch.

”Let’s test this little gift of mine...”

His fingers ran along a page lined with black ink and blood. The text twisted into legible form, like it was speaking directly to him.

He read the incantation aloud.

The room darkened.

Not the lights. The air itself.

Everything dimmed.

A low hum trembled through the floor.

Calen groaned again, his body jerking once.

Malakov held one hand over him as the grimoire hovered beside him on its own—turning pages violently, stopping at one that bled down the spine of the book.

”Let flesh die... and hunger rise...”

The floor beneath Calen cracked slightly. Black veins spread out like roots from where he lay. His eyes widened as his chest convulsed, his breath hitched.

”Let man forget, and beast awaken...”

Calen screamed.

Loud.

Unholy.

Malakov didn’t move, only watched with a glint of amusement in his eyes.

”Rise, obedient shadow of ruin... Ghoulus Primari.”

The scream stopped.

Dead still.

Then—thump.

Calen’s back arched unnaturally. Bones snapped and reformed. His fingers elongated, nails turning black, jagged. Skin paled to a grayish blue. Muscles stitched themselves back together under torn flesh. His jaw unhinged slightly, teeth reshaping into razor hooks.

His eyes—

Gone.

Replaced by empty sockets glowing faint red.

The body fell still again.

Malakov lowered his hand, the grimoire closing shut mid-air before vanishing back into ash.

”...Fascinating,” he said softly, walking around what was no longer Calen.

The thing twitched.

Then moved.

Fast.

It stood—not stumbled—stood. And stared at him. No breath. No words. Just readiness.

Malakov smiled for the first time.

”Still obedient. Good.”

He circled it once more, inspecting the sharp ridges along its spine, the unnatural stitching along its chest, the aura—raw and foul like rotten ether.

”A living corpse... imbued with supernatural durability, strength... and perhaps... something else.”

The ghoul didn’t blink. It didn’t need to.

Malakov stopped in front of it.

”Do you understand me?”

The creature nodded once. Jerky. Mechanical.

”Excellent.”

He reached into his coat, pulling out a small earpiece and inserted it into his own ear.

”Subject One has been stabilized,” he spoke into the line. ”Ready combat testing. Prepare the others for phase two. The Crimson Grimoire... works.”

On the other end, silence. Then—

”Yes, Prime Minister Malakov.”

He ended the call.

Then looked back at the creature.

Calen’s body.

Something in him still enjoyed that.

”You failed as a man, Calen. But as a weapon... you might just be perfect.”

The ghoul growled low in its throat. Not from rage.

From hunger.

Malakov stepped back.

”Go feed. The city below is full of trash. Show me what you can do.”

The ghoul leapt toward the exit—tearing through the sealed door with a burst of speed far beyond any human. Screams echoed faintly from the corridors above as it ascended into the surface world.

Malakov watched it disappear into darkness.

The grin never left his face.

”Let’s see if Lucifer Origin notices this one.”

Then he walked away—coat fluttering behind him, already thinking about the next page in the book he didn’t understand.

And the shadow he’d just unleashed.

In Another Part of New York

The streets were quiet. Rain had passed not long ago, and the sidewalk still glistened under the streetlamps. A faint wind tugged at coats and skirts, but the night itself was calm.

Outside a modest apartment complex, Luna stood near the curb, bruised but breathing. Her hair was a mess, her coat torn, but her eyes... her eyes still had fire.

Lucifer stood a few feet away. The crimson glow in his eyes was faint now, fading. The blood on his gloves had already dried.

”Thanks,” Luna said softly. ”For coming to my rescue. For a minute there... I thought you weren’t gonna show.”

Lucifer didn’t look at her at first.

He exhaled once, slow. Then turned his head slightly.

”I wasn’t coming for you,” he said, voice low. ”I just wanted to deal with that hypocrite.”

He paused, then added without a hint of sarcasm, ”Still, your abduction made that easier. So, in a way... we both got what we wanted.”

A dry smirk touched his lips. Then it was gone.

He turned fully and started walking down the dim street, the echo of his boots soft but steady against the wet concrete.

Luna watched him go, shoulders lowering. ”Figures,” she whispered to herself.

But she smiled—just a little.

She knew better now.

He wasn’t the type to admit anything. Not directly.

Still... he came.

That was enough.

She walked up the steps to her building and disappeared behind the glass door, leaving the night behind her.

Lucifer kept walking.

He didn’t look back.

He had other things waiting for him.

Important things.

Like a quiet promise made to someone else under a different moon.

A girl with blades.

A girl he owed more than just words.