Ren sat cross-legged atop the mountain. The wind didn't touch him. The cold didn't reach him. Only the sound of his flute moved. Each note was deliberate— not mournful, not triumphant, but waiting. He breathed in the air. It was clean. It was kind. He opened his eyes, then stepped off the cliff— landing on the lake, walking across its surface. He watched the beasts that roamed here, their movements slow, their instincts pure. He drew the sword his master, Fairy Jin, had given him. "I should name this," he thought. Then he summoned the other blade. This one wasn't from here. He had forged it himself, long ago. Its hilt hung heavy with memory. Twin dragons curled along each side, their heads meeting at the top, as if whispering secrets only he could hear. Ren looked at the gifted sword, then at the one he had made. He merged them— and split them again. Now there were three. Each refined. Each reborn. He stood with twin dragon swords in hand. One black. One white. He slashed the lake, splitting it with each strike. Not in rage. Not in pride. In remembrance. He advanced, imagining a battlefield— one he had stood on long ago, on Earth, while conquering Asia.So many bodies. So much silence. He had killed them all himself, wrapped in black flame, his sword in hand. He remembered how he'd picked up a broken blade from the ground and fought with both. He was reliving it now, as he trained. He wiped out forests, mountains, rivers— with a single slash. Then he clicked his fingers and brought them back. Perfect. Untouched. As if he had never been there.
He stopped. The river was changing— its clear surface darkening, thickening, turning to blood. Ren lowered his swords. The wind paused. Even the beasts stilled. She stood at the river's edge. Talia. His wife. Eternal Blood. Not cloaked and not disguised. But revealed— her proper form, the one the world wasn't meant to see. Ren looked at her, his voice quiet, not accusatory, but knowing. "You're in your true form," he said. "Aren't you afraid?" He stepped closer. "If they see you like this… if they don't recognise what you are… won't they question who you've ever been?"
"Who cares?" Her voice cut through the blood-thick air. "I've come to see my husband." She stepped forward, the river parting around her feet. "Right now, I have time." Her eyes didn't plead. They burned. "I wish you'd make time for us." "You're so cruel," she said, not loudly, but like a wound that never closed. "To your wives. To your lovers. While you play here— we wait for you, up in Heaven, on the path of Mìngjiè Xiānlù."
She bit into his neck without a second thought. No hesitation. No restraint. She claimed her food—her husband—his blood, deliriously divine. He didn't stop her. He never did. She was the True Immortal Vampire— the progenitor of her kind. The first. The origin. Ren had turned her, just as he had turned the others. Each one took a different shape— not chosen, but revealed. Their immortal forms reflected who they truly were. Not masks. Mirrors. Talia's form was this. Not a beast. Not a shadow. But a sovereign hunger wrapped in restraint. This was her truth. This was her species. This was the True Immortal Vampire.
She kissed his lips. Blood still stained hers—his blood. She had drunk from his neck, and now she wanted more. Her mouth pressed harder. She bit his lower lip. Not to hurt. But to taste. To claim. To remember. His blood welled again, warm between them. She licked it. Slowly. Deliberately. As if each drop carried a memory he'd tried to forget. She didn't speak. Her silence was heavier than speech. Her breath was blood-sweet—her gaze, unflinching. And Ren—he didn't pull away. He let her taste him. Let her mark him. Let her remind him what he was to her. What he still is.
"I am drinking," she whispered, lips slick with red. "Until I'm satisfied, my dear, lovable husband." Her voice trembled—not with weakness, but with longing. "I haven't drunk your blood in nearly three years." She leaned closer. "I've waited long enough." Then she offered her neck. Exposed. Unyielding. Sacred. He bit. Not gently. Not cruelly. Just truthfully. Her blood flowed into him. He's into her. They drank from each other, standing in the lake of blood— its surface pulsing like veins, like memory, like the rhythm of a vow too long denied.
She moaned— soft, breathless, pleasure blooming through her throat like flame. Then she looked at Ren. Eyes bright. Not just with hunger— but with happiness. "I can still smell my mother on you," she said. Quiet. Certain. As if it were the most natural thing in the world.
"Really?" Ren said, tilting his head. "Why don't you just cover her scent with yours, then?" Talia smiled at that. Soft. Wry. Unbothered. "Our relationship is strange, isn't it?" Then again— "I am her daughter." She stepped closer, voice steady. "I'm the one who allows my mother to be with the man she loves." A pause. "She did marry three husbands before." Her gaze didn't waver. "The second one was my father."
"Poor Dad," she said, voice low. "My mother didn't love him." Then again— "Neither did he love her." "All three of her husbands used her." She paused. "And she used them." Even so— "She had them all under her strings." Her smile didn't reach her eyes. "They were such loyal dogs to her." She looked away. "I pity my father for ever loving a woman like her."
"You're lucky," she said, smiling softly. "You have her true heart. And she had yours." She paused, eyes bright. "We have such a strange relationship with each other." Then she laughed. Light. Unburdened. A giggle blooming from somewhere deep— not from joy, but from recognition.
She stepped closer. Slow. Deliberate. Then she reached beneath her robes, unfastened the final barrier between them, and held it out— not as a tease, but as a token. A relic of waiting. Of longing. Of years spent remembering him in silence. She placed the cloth gently against his face. Not to mock. Not to seduce. But to say: This is how much I missed you. The scent was hers. But layered— with memory, with grief, with the ache of three years apart. Ren didn't speak. He breathed in. And she bit his neck again— not to feed, but to seal the moment.
She stepped closer. Slow. Deliberate. Then she reached beneath her robes, unfastened the final barrier between them, and held it out— not as a tease, but as a token. A relic of waiting. Of longing. Of years spent remembering him in silence. She placed the cloth gently against his face. "Have a good sniff," she said, voice low. "Tell me how much you've missed me… just from the smell." The scent was hers. But layered— with memory, with grief, with the ache of three years apart. Ren didn't speak. He breathed in. She kissed his neck. Then bit down again. Not to feed. But to seal the moment. To mark him. To say: You are mine again.
"Let's try for a baby, Ren. We've waited long enough."
She touched his chest, voice steady.
"You got my mother pregnant. After this, you'll have to do the same for my elder sister… and my younger one."
Her gaze didn't waver.
"And for your other lovers—Sakura, Stella, and Yuki."
"Okay."
He pushed her back into the blood-pulsing river.
His fingers found the belt of his robe, unbuckling it with slow intent.
He began to shift—bones stretching, skin shimmering, the first signs of his true form emerging.
But she stopped him.
"I don't care what form you take," she whispered, pressing a hand to his chest.
"As long as I know, it's you. No one else."
Then she kissed him—deep, deliberate.
"I'm ready," she said, grinning. Her fangs caught the moonlight.
As they made love, the blood river began to tremble—its surface rippling with ancestral memory.
Then it burst.
Crimson arcs shot into the air, raining down in slow, sacred waves.
Blood covered them, consecrating their union.
They moved together in the river itself, bodies submerged in warmth and legacy.
Each touch stirred echoes. Each breath rewrote fate.
Princess Lianhua Tianchen and her younger brother, Prince Mingyu, walked side by side through the crimson gardens, heading toward their master's chamber for guidance. But then— A sound broke through the air. Wet. Rhythmic. Unmistakable. Lianhua froze. She heard a woman cry out—"Ren!"—and then her master's voice, calling a name she didn't recognise. She turned quickly. "Let's go somewhere else, little brother. Master seems… busy at the moment." Mingyu blinked, confused. "What was that noise?" he asked, tugging at her sleeve. "I heard it once before—when Father was with his new concubine. I still don't get it."
"You did that on purpose, Talia," Ren said, voice low.
"You let those two hear it. You should behave."
Talia stretched, blood still glistening on her skin.
"You should've stopped me."
She grinned, fangs flashing.
"I couldn't help myself—teasing that little girl, and that boy… he's so innocent."