I Became The Vampire Progenitor

"Viscount Berna, I need the blood of a Golden Race. Please, you must help me."

Grote knelt on one knee before Viscount Berna. This Northern warrior—who would charge into battle against enemies ten or even a hundred times stronger without flinching—was now utterly humbled.

For the future of the Northern Highlands, the same man who would never bow even with a broadsword through his chest now lowered his proud head once more.

Viscount Berna looked deeply at his guard captain and shook his head.

"Grote, you should know what kind of existence the Golden Race is. If you had the power to hunt down a Transcendent-level dragon, I could perhaps tell you the whereabouts of a fire dragon.

But right now, you can’t even defeat me.

I can’t help you."

Grote opened his mouth to speak, then let out a dispirited sigh.

A Transcendent-level dragon...

He had the courage to face one—but not the strength to defeat it.

Though unafraid of danger, he wasn’t some brainless barbarian.

"I will mobilize the Dark Pact’s resources to search for the Golden Race on your behalf. But for now, our focus should be on the Twelve Magic Scrolls.

Grote, artifacts possess unimaginable power. Perhaps they can resolve the crisis you face."

Hearing this, Grote’s expression turned complicated, then he sighed again.

"Thank you for your help. The Northern Highlands will remember this always."

He rose to his feet and struck his chest with a powerful fist.

After leaving Berna’s residence, Grote's face remained clouded with heaviness.

Though artifacts were powerful beyond imagination, he didn’t believe the Twelve Magic Scrolls could restore a depleted life force.

At present, only the blood of the Golden Race could heal the Valkyrie of the North.

Which meant—he had just three months to acquire it.

And doing so might be even harder than slaying a Transcendent.

Was there really no hope?

He had traded the Northern Highlands’ symbol of honor—the horn of the Northern Dragon Rhino—to retrieve a royal of the Northern bloodline. Was that noble lineage now destined to fade, just like their ancient glory?

His dark eyes were filled with confusion.

The Northern warrior could no longer see the road ahead.

"Good day, Lord Grote," came a voice beside him, cheerful and calm.

Grote turned his head, surprised to see who it was.

"Good day, Lord Emi."

He had barely interacted with Emi before. In fact, he used to hold disdain for Emi’s class—Shadow Priest.

To him, true courage was facing dragons head-on. Hiding in the shadows was the work of vile rats.

But now, Emi was a level 15 Shadow High Priest, worthy of speaking on equal footing.

So when he saw Emi smiling warmly at him, he had no idea what to expect.

"Lord Grote, I might have what you need."

Grote frowned at the fiery gleam in Emi’s eyes.

"Are you sure, Lord Emi? I need the blood of a Golden Race. Can you really provide it?"

His tone carried clear scorn. Not even Viscount Berna had such a thing—how could a rat who was recently being chased through the streets by some low-ranking bishop from the Temple of the Knight God possibly possess it?

But to his shock, the Shadow High Priest showed no anger. Instead, Emi pulled out a tiny crystal vial the size of a pinky finger. Inside were a few drops of blood-red liquid laced with faint golden strands.

Grote’s eyes flew wide open, staring at the vial in disbelief.

Even at a glance, the life force radiating from the golden liquid was overwhelming. He swore—this was the most vibrant and life-filled blood he had ever seen. Even blood from a Transcendent being couldn’t compare.

Not even holy water blessed by the Goddess of Life could rival this!

A name surfaced in Grote’s mind—one that sent chills down his spine.

Golden Race!!

From the edge of despair, he was suddenly drowning in unimaginable hope.

The Golden Race—he had actually found it!

These were high-tier beings on par with dragons!

"Lord Emi, please forgive my rudeness and ignorance. I swear by the God of War—I meant no offense!" Grote’s voice trembled with urgency and joy, his earlier arrogance completely gone.

"Respected Lord Grote, I’ve come to make a deal," Emi said with a mild, almost amused tone, clearly unbothered by Grote’s earlier rudeness.

Grote immediately pressed forward.

"Lord Emi, do you truly have blood from the Golden Race? I am willing to make a trade."

"This blood was obtained just this morning from a Golden Race being," Emi replied, handing the vial over.

Feeling the explosive vitality at such close range, Grote was nearly trembling with excitement.

"What must I pay to acquire it?" he asked.

He meant the blood—though clearly, he also meant the being it came from.

Emi shook his head. "Apologies, Lord Grote. The Golden Race is not for sale."

Grote’s expression darkened—but Emi’s next words eased his heart.

"This hatchling of the Golden Race was something I stumbled upon near the Beastmen border. I believe you of all people understand its value.

So no matter the price, I would never sell it. But… a little blood isn’t a problem."

Emi smiled widely.

"And I would very much like to earn your friendship, Lord Grote. As for the price of this blood—

I want the Northern treasure: the Mithril Armor."

Grote’s face tightened at the request. He hadn’t expected a spellcaster like Emi to ask for this specific item.

The Mithril Armor wasn’t quite as valuable as the horn of the Northern Dragon Rhino, but it was Grote’s most vital protective equipment.

Crafted by a master dwarven smith from Mithril, Adamantine, Deepiron, the Heart of Lava, and other rare materials, the armor was a true treasure. It had saved his life at least thirty times during two decades of war in the North.

Losing it would lower his overall power significantly.

"Of course, if you’re unwilling, forget it. I swear to the Goddess of Magic, I—"

“I’ll do it,” Grote interrupted, his voice laced with sorrow but resolute.

The Northern royal bloodline could not be allowed to perish. The North needed a king for its future.

He had already given up the horn—what was one more treasure if it meant saving the bloodline?

Even if it was his most cherished piece.

When Emi took the lightweight, ten-pound armor that shimmered with a unique silvery glow, a deep smile lit his face.

"Lord Grote, you should go summon your men and bring the noble Northern royal with you—outside the city."

"Outside the city?"

Grote frowned.

"Of course. You didn’t think I kept a Golden Race hatchling penned up in Green City, did you?" Emi replied, feigning surprise.

I don’t mind if you bring a few more of your men. In fact, once this transaction is complete, I’ll be leaving Green City myself to explore an ancient ruin.

Perhaps I won’t return for ten or twenty years. By then, I may attempt to break into the Transcendent tier."

Grote looked at the fire in Emi’s eyes and felt a trace of disdain.

These damn spellcasters—always trying to shortcut their way to Transcendence through ancient ruins.

But Emi seemed not to notice his contempt and continued, "If that ruin weren’t so dangerous—and if I didn’t need armor capable of withstanding powerful attacks—I would never have revealed the existence of the Golden Race.

You understand how important it is—I don’t need to explain."

There was even a touch of regret in his voice, as if he were getting the worse end of the deal.

That eased Grote’s wariness somewhat.

Much of his earlier caution dissipated.

"No, I trust you, Lord Emi. We've known each other for twenty years. I’ll bring just one squad of Northern warriors."

Emi waved his hand nonchalantly. "No, I think you should bring a few more squads."

Grote’s guard dropped completely. He smiled and nodded.

"As you wish."

In truth, he had already planned to bring more men—this question was just a test.

And Emi’s answer reassured him. Clearly, this man bore him no ill will. Otherwise, he would’ve tried to limit Grote’s reinforcements.

Watching Grote’s relaxed expression, Emi cheered inwardly.

By the Goddess of Night! His Majesty’s brilliance could outshine the sun.