I Became The Vampire Progenitor

Although Li De’s plan was thorough, in the presence of six beings above level 15 from the Dark Pact, he had no opportunity to speak as Emi’s subordinate.

Emi seemed to sense that Li De wanted to acquire the Northern Valkyrie, but he could only shake his head helplessly in the end.

Because the necromancer Witherbone named a price that he simply couldn’t afford.

“I need the horn of a Transcendent-rank Northern Dragon Rhino,” Witherbone’s dim eyes glowed fervently as he looked at Grote, the greed in his gaze beyond doubt.

The Northern Dragon Rhino—a draconic-blooded lifeform native to the Northern Highlands—only lived at the snowy summits 8000 blades high.

A Transcendent-rank horn of such a creature was as precious as dragon blood. Its horn could be forged into a legendary-tier weapon. Incredibly rare and valuable.

Hunting such a powerful draconic beast in that frigid environment was as hard as helping a mage apprentice break through into Transcendence.

Thus, the horn of a Northern Dragon Rhino had always been a coveted treasure of the nobility. And as it happened, Grote had one.

“Witherbone, won’t you consider another item? I also have a divine gift from my god—”

Before he finished, Witherbone shook his head. Under the gray hood, his dim gaze became even more chilling.

“No, I only want the horn of the Northern Dragon Rhino. It’s one of the components my little darling needs to reach Transcendence. There are many alternatives, but the Northern Dragon Rhino’s horn holds more value to me than even a divine gift.”

Apparently oblivious to the principles of negotiation, Witherbone bluntly laid bare his intent.

Everyone present turned to look at Grote with amused expressions.

None of them were fools—they instantly understood that Witherbone, that damn necromancer, had targeted Grote from the beginning.

His whole earlier act was just to raise the value of his bargaining chip.

Grote’s expression turned ugly.

The horn of the Northern Dragon Rhino was a sacred relic to his lineage of Northern warriors, bestowed upon them by the first King of the North after he slew a Transcendent Northern Dragon Rhino.

Countless generations had passed, and this horn was no longer just a symbol of glory—it was the vessel of their ancestral faith.

If he had any choice, Grote would rather lose his life than trade this sacred relic to the necromancer.

It would mean he severed a legacy of hundreds of thousands of years of Northern belief with his own hands.

He, Grote, would become the sinner of the North.

But if he didn’t trade it?

The North had already fallen. The woman before them might be their last remaining royalty. Without her, could the North ever reclaim their homeland?

Witherbone’s eyes glinted as he watched Grote’s pained struggle, savoring it with perverse delight.

‘Struggle, rage, ignorant Northerner—how wonderful. Your pain makes my very soul sing.’

Necromancers, twisted by long life and deathly aura, often found joy in chaos and evil.

Witherbone had chosen Grote because he’d once tried to trade for the horn, only to be harshly rejected and publicly humiliated by Grote. Although the matter ended with Viscount Berna’s intervention, Witherbone never forgot.

Now he wanted to see—faced with something just as important—what would Grote choose?

The pleasure twisted through him like a rising tide, driving him to the brink of ecstasy.

“Esteemed Grote, why don’t you speak? Will you choose the Northern Dragon Rhino horn, or your Northern royal bloodline—the admirable Northern Valkyrie?”

The room fell into dead silence. Everyone watched Grote with keen interest.

Grote, pained, turned to Viscount Berna and asked hoarsely, “Viscount Berna… has the Northern Highlands truly fallen to the Nolan and Radiant Empires? Is the royal family really all dead?”

Viscount Berna’s lips moved as if speaking to someone else. After a long silence, under Grote’s despairing gaze, he nodded.

“The North has been occupied by the Nolan Empire. As for the royal family… most have been hunted down by Radiant Empire’s Transcendents.

“There are rumors that even Legendary powers were involved. So I cannot confirm if any royalty escaped.”

Grote turned to the Northern Valkyrie lying unconscious on the ground, her body covered in ancient scars like the bark of an old tree. The towering Northern warrior dropped to one knee, tears in his eyes.

Thud—his hand smashed the wooden floor through the thick carpet, sending splinters flying.

The proud head of the Northern warrior, once held high, now bowed like that of a defeated slave.

“Your Highness… perhaps you will forgive my decision. Everything… is for the North.”

Witherbone’s eyes shimmered as he mocked, his voice sharp.

“So your choice is the Northern Dragon Rhino horn? Such a noble Northern warrior—sacrificing your royalty. Gahaha! What a beautiful scene!”

Grote stood. His towering two-blade-tall frame radiated pressure, his aura regaining the Northern warrior’s unique intensity and resilience.

He reached to his neck and tore off a black cord made of unknown material.

A sharp object resembling a fang hung from the string. He stepped toward Witherbone, eyes sharp like a hawk’s.

Thud, thud, thud—

His black boots made soft but thunderous steps on the velvet carpet.

“I’ll trade with you.”

Witherbone eyed the pendant in his hand with contempt.

“That? A wild dog’s fang?”

“No. This is the horn of the Northern Dragon Rhino!” Grote’s voice quivered with rage.

“Our ancestors once begged a Legendary spatial mage to seal this relic, transforming the massive horn into a pendant worn by heroes.

“Break the seal, and you’ll have the Transcendent-grade horn.”

Grote’s eyes burned with agony. He was about to hand the sacred Northern relic to a necromancer. The guilt crushed him.

Witherbone’s eyes gleamed. He reached out and received the pendant.

After sensing it for a moment, he exclaimed excitedly, “Indeed, a seal left by a Legendary mage! Brave Northern warrior, you did not lie.”

“How delightful. With Viscount Berna as witness, I accept this trade with Grote.”

Witherbone returned to his seat, hungrily studying the thumb-sized gray pendant.

As for the Valkyrie on the ground, she naturally went to Grote—torn by pain but also faintly relieved.

Though he lost Northern honor, he preserved Northern hope.

Grote took a deep breath. The North could not lose its king.

“Grote,” Witherbone added smugly, “I swear upon the God of Death that you should find some Golden Race blood quickly. Your royalty… only has three months left to live.”

Though spoken as advice, his gloating tone left everyone speechless.

That damn necromancer!

Grote gave Witherbone a cold glance and said nothing, but the frigid light in his eyes made it clear—he’d remember this grudge.

Being hated by a level-16 Northern warrior would terrify most. But Witherbone, a necromancer, didn’t care in the slightest. On the contrary, he seemed quite pleased, as if the man were a mere level-3 rogue.

“Your Highness, let us leave.”

Grote bent down and carried the scarred Northern Valkyrie, giving Witherbone one last look before departing.

And at that moment—just as Grote disappeared through the doorway—Li De’s heart stirred.

His mind raced, turning over countless thoughts. A few moments later, hidden in shadow, a sharp grin curved on his lips.

In that instant, he scrapped his previous plans.

A bold new idea had formed.

His eyes burned as he stared at the open doorway.

This time… he would go big.

He would—

Hunt down that level-16 Northern warrior.

At all costs.