As more undead funneled in from the cemetery's far reaches, some came bearing offerings—ranging from scrawny squirrels and mangled rats to half-eaten wolves with blood still dripping from their jaws.
The graveyard stirred with a strange, swelling energy. The undead presence grew not only in numbers but in sheer size—shambling corpses swollen with undeath, some towering over the rest like grotesque monuments to rot.
Low moans and guttural groans echoed through the night like a choir of the damned, rattling through broken tombstones and twisted trees.
"That should be all of them, right?" Corven muttered under his breath, narrowing his glowing crimson eyes.
He quickly tallied a rough estimate—at least two hundred undead. All clawed from the soil of the very town's graveyard.
A realization struck him.
This village must have existed for a very long time to have buried this many bodies. Centuries, perhaps. A legacy of the dead, all now standing before him like unwilling soldiers.
Eventually, the undead began to form a square-shaped gathering in the center of the graveyard. A primitive show of order. In front of Corven, the creatures deposited their prizes—a collection of corpses, most barely recognizable as animals. Squirrels with snapped necks, rats bloated with rot, wolves whose eyes still twitched.
An offering.
It looked more like a compost heap than a tribute.
Corven let out a half-laugh, half-sigh. Disbelief curled across his face.
While the idea of commanding an army sounded appealing in theory…
Two hundred of them?
That was far too much.
"Tsk… What am I gonna do with them," he grumbled, crouching before the pile. He grabbed a limp squirrel from the top—its neck twisted at an unnatural angle—and sank his fangs into it.
- Blood (15 Units)
"There's too many… and most of them are useless," Corven muttered as he tossed the desiccated husk aside like trash.
He scanned the blank-eyed horde once more, unimpressed.
"Guess I'll thin them out. Ten should be fine…" he said coldly.
Then, without hesitation, he pulsed his will through the Codex. A single bloodborne command rippled through his veins—then out through the air like a silent scream.
The scent was invisible, inaudible—but undeniable to those bound to him.
The reaction was immediate.
The idiot vampire spawns began to turn on one another—eyes flaring, jaws snapping. Clawed hands reached for former allies. The graveyard turned into a bloodbath in seconds.
Corven watched, expression unreadable.
"Judging by how I killed at least five of them earlier, they're all fairly weak," he said calmly, stepping back toward the pile.
He reached for a wolf carcass this time, dragging it forward with one hand. Its fur was matted, its throat slit. Corven bit down deep.
- Blood (16 Units)
More strength surged into him. He continued feeding with clinical efficiency, watching the horde tear itself apart like rabid animals competing for scraps.
Only the strongest would survive.
"So menial tasks won't work due to how weak they are individually…" he mumbled mid-bite. "But those who remain after this little… culling, should be far more capable."
He grabbed a rat next, not even flinching as its cold body squished between his fingers. His fangs pierced it easily.
The minutes ticked by.
All the while, the graveyard transformed into a twisted theater of death and decay. Limbs flew. Bones shattered. Blood splashed against cracked tombstones. Screams mixed with snarls. It was a grotesque ballet performed by corpses—one only Corven could direct.
Part of him winced. Another part—older, darker—watched in silence, counting survivors.
And finally… the curtain fell.
The carnage ceased.
Corven took the last bite from the final carcass in the pile.
- Blood (20 Units)
The graveyard now lay drenched in silence and gore. Of the original two hundred vampire spawns, only one remained standing.
Just one.
Far fewer than the ten—or even five—he had hoped for.
"So only one…?" he muttered, licking the blood from his lips. "Shouldn't be too bad. At least it means this one's far more capable…"
He turned his gaze to the lone survivor.
It was a female vampire spawn, barely more than bones and pale flesh. Her form was hunched and grotesque, her skin a mottled gray. She wore nothing but tattered rags that hung from her frame like faded funeral shrouds.
Corven's eyes narrowed thoughtfully.
Based on the condition of the remains… she had been buried for at least thirty years.
He could tell.
He'd studied corpses in his past life.
As an archaeologist.
"Now then…" Corven stretched his limbs, bones popping audibly beneath his coat as he took slow steps toward her.
"I'm not even sure if this will work," he admitted with a chuckle. "I'm just basing this off… vampire movies I used to watch."
He stopped a few feet in front of her.
Then, with deliberate motion, he tilted his head—revealing the side of his neck. His pulse quickened, if only slightly. A rare flash of unease danced across his face.
"I hope this doesn't hurt too much…" he said with a dry, nervous laugh.
And with a single command through their bond, he ordered the vampire spawn to bite him—to drink his blood. To feed on his essence.
In hopes of turning it into something more.
Something useful.
Something loyal.
And the reason why he had wanted only a few to survive?
Because if this did work… the last thing he wanted was two hundred ravenous undead biting down on his neck all at once just to make them stronger.
One test subject was enough.
For now.