But the change did not end there.

From their drying skin seeped blood, not dripping, but lifting from their bodies as though gravity no longer claimed it. Ribbons of blood peeled away, rising into the air in writhing red streams. One by one, thousands of these crimson serpents snaked upward, converging above the town.

The sky filled with blood.

It drifted, pulsing, twisting like a storm of red mist. And then the blood began to flow, drawn rapidly toward the floating bowl. The runes along its rim flared as it drank the blood, its interior swirling faster and faster. The bowl swelled grotesquely, expanding as it consumed the life of the entire town…before shrinking back down as if nothing had happened, it's appearance unchanged.

The cloaked figure lowered their hand, looking down at the thousands of waiting thralls.

Another gesture.

The army of dried husks bowed, spines cracking, limbs twitching in submission. Then their bodies rippled. Their forms lengthened, growing lithe and sleek, their limbs sharpening for speed. Without a single sound, they turned and sprinted out of the town, scattering in every direction. They ran like hunting beasts unleashed, guided purely by instinct, seeking their next source of blood.

Behind them followed another group, second-generation godlings. They moved gracefully, easily keeping up to continue their watch. Their role, to keep the first generation in line, to track, to report, to ensure the spread continues in a contained manner.

Back at the wall, several more second-generation who were acting as part of the town emerged from the shadows, appearing before the cloaked figures. Their eyelids fluttered as they gazed at the blood-filled bowl with hunger twisting their faces. One licked its lips, fangs glinting but the moment they remembered the figures standing before them, the craving halted.

They bowed, trembling, forcing their instincts into submission.

The cloaked figure did not speak. Did not move. Only his eyes, faintly visible beneath the heavy folds of his dark hood shifted toward the bowl. Hunger flickered there, a sharp, primal glint not much different from those behind him.

He, too, felt the temptation, the call of the gathered blood.

But indulgence would do him no good, not here, not now. Not with the Court's gaze upon him.

"Continue your good works. The Court appreciates it."

His voice was calm, as the second-generation vampire godlings bowed deeply, understanding the weight behind those words. They stepped closer to the robed figure, fangs faintly exposed in subtle pride.

"Now," one spoke up, eyes never leaving the faintly pulsing bowl, "we wait for the Empire to respond. Hopefully they act quickly."

A faint smile tugged at the corner of one godling's mouth.

"If not," he murmured, "then by the time they do… they will have a handful to deal with."

The cloaked figure did not reply, but his silence carried agreement.

Below them, the last traces of blood mist faded from the sky. The town, once filled with life was now an empty carcass.

The experiment was complete and the harvest successful. The first town erased and the next stage would begin once this rising sun falls back down.

Help from the county arrived at late, a whole day fater the town fell. Riding in at dusk with wagons, torches, and soldiers prepared for a minor crisis, a disease outbreak, perhaps, or a bandit raid.

They were not prepared for this.

The moment they rode through the gate, a heavy, suffocating stillness settled over their ranks. No lights. No movement. No sounds of life. Only the faint smell of dried iron lingering in the air.

Houses stood open like empty shells, shops abandoned mid-task. tools lay scattered in the streets and not a single body, living or dead could be found.

The commander dismounted, stepping cautiously into the dead town. His torch flickered, casting long shadows across the hollow streets.

"What… happened here?" one soldier whispered.

No one answered, there was nothing to answer with. No signs of struggle, no corpses and no bloodstains large enough to indicate a massacre, only absence.

Scouts searched from one end of the town to the other, but found nothing, except for deep claw marks on stone walls, scorch marks where torches had been ripped out, and strange dried stains where moisture had once been violently stripped away.

By nightfall, fear of the unknown began creeping into the soldier's voices.

The commander stood in the center of the dead town, torchlight reflecting off the hollow windows around him. The unease among his men had grown thick enough to feel. Even the horses pawed nervously at the ground, ears flicking at every faint sound.

"We camp here for the night," he ordered at last, though his voice carried a tension he tried and failed to hide. "Set up a perimeter. Double watch. No one walks alone."

The soldiers moved quickly, grateful for orders, even if the orders did nothing to ease their dread. Tents were pitched between abandoned homes. Fires were lit but burned low, as though even flame was reluctant to stay in this place.

Once camp was established, the commander called his captains.

"I want scouts outside the town limits," he said. "Spread out. Check the roads, the woods, the river. Anything that might tell us what happened here. Move carefully. Report back before sunrise."

The captains saluted and dispersed. Soon, pairs of scouts moved into the dark, their lanterns bobbing like fireflies in the emptiness.

The commander remained awake long after the camp quieted. He stared down the main road, lit faintly by dying torches, and felt the wrongness of this place claw at his spine. Whatever had happened here, it hadn't ended.

It had simply moved on.

The pale light of dawn crept over the dead rooftops, washing everything in a cold, washed-out grey. The commander was already awake, jaw tight, waiting for reports from the scouts.

Before any man returned, he heard the faint flutter of wings.

A raven descended from the sky, black as obsidian, landing on the edge of a broken fence near the commander's tent. Something small was tied to its leg, a rolled scroll sealed hastily with wax.

The commander felt his stomach tighten. He moved quickly and removed the letter. The raven hopped back once, its beady red-tinged eyes watching him too intently.

Breaking the seal, he unrolled the message.

The moment he saw the first lines, his breath caught.

It was a plea for help.

The same desperate plea that was received from this town two days before it died.

And this message…This one came from a town not far from here.

He read the lines again, feeling his pulse quicken.

The details matched too closely, Lights dying at night. People vanishing.Shadows moving. Something hunting in the dark.

He lowered the scroll, eyes widening. It was happening again.

One of his captains approached, returning from the early patrol. "Sir, we found no survivors. No bodies. Nothing. It's as if..."

"I know," the commander cut in quietly.

He looked toward the northeast, the direction of the second town.

His men followed his gaze.

"Inform the battalion," he said, voice firming with urgency. "We march immediately. We may still have time."

But deep down, beneath the commander's resolve, a terrible fear pulsed "What if they were already too late?"

The plea had been written the morning before yesterday. The message had taken more than a full day to reach him.

Meaning whatever danger this town described…had already arrived.

His jaw tightened.

"Ready the men," he ordered sharply. "We leave within the hour. No matter what we find."

The captain hesitated. "Sir… if the timeline matches what we've seen here, then by the time we arrive"

"I know," the commander cut in. "But we go regardless."

The sun dipped behind distant hills as the commander's forces approached the second town. The sky glowed orange and purple, a peaceful twilight that contrasted horribly with the dread twisting in every soldier's gut.

At first glance, the town seemed intact.

The walls were unbroken, the gate stood open. No smoke, no bodies and no signs of battle.

Just like the first town too much like the first town.

"Hold!" the commander raised his hand.

The soldiers halted in tense silence.

A breeze rolled through the open gate, carrying with it the acrid scent of dried iron. The commander's expression darkened. He motioned for torches.

They stepped inside.

Not a sound greeted them, no dogs barked, no children cried and no doors opened in curiosity.

Emptiness.

Row after row of homes lay still, every window a hollow, watching eye. The fires in the hearths had long gone out. Meals had been left half-prepared. Tools were dropped mid-task.

Just like before.

"Sir…" a scout whispered, pointing at the cobblestones.

Dark stains marked the ground, faint, patchy, as though something had drained into them and dried instantly. Claw marks etched the stone near a well. Doors were cracked at the edges, forced inward with unnatural strength.

The commander said nothing, there was nothing left to say.