The lesson ended only after dawn broke.
Addict Belial, whose abilities weakened when the sun rose, left some feedback and sent Sarka out.
By the time he changed out of his blood-splattered clothes, climbed the stairs, and looked at the sunlight, he was completely exhausted.
Vampires originally don’t care much about physical damage, but Addict Belial was even more indifferent to physical damage than ordinary vampires.
Addicted to blood and possessing endlessly gushing regenerative and healing power, he was an immortal who could regenerate even if his neck was cut off.
Even if Sarka suffered serious injuries during lessons by mistake, Belial’s healing power could restore Sarka’s body to its original state within a few minutes.
He was an educator who guaranteed the utmost safety, while simultaneously being an educator who cared least about safety.
Respecting Sarka’s will to catch up on the progress from last month’s skipped lesson, he pushed Sarka as if to half-kill him.
Although he desperately fought and barely managed to catch up to the targeted progress, by the end of the lesson, Sarka was so exhausted that he had to rest once while climbing the stairs.
When he got off the carriage, the servants who had been moving diligently to greet the morning bowed to him.
Sarka roughly accepted their greetings and climbed to his room with tired steps. Ember, whose feet and fur had been cleaned by the servants’ hands, lightly followed Sarka’s slow steps up.
When he drew the blackout curtains he had changed long ago, the room that had been full of morning sunlight became as dark as night. It had been a year and a half since he started receiving night lessons. The reversed day and night every external visit day was familiar.
Sarka, who had barely washed and changed clothes, collapsed onto the bed. Even though he was so tired his body seemed about to sink below the bed, strangely sleep wouldn’t come. It seemed his nerves had become sensitive due to the extreme tension maintained throughout the lesson.
Sarka, who sighed at the familiar insomnia symptoms, turned his head and called quietly.
“Ember, come.”
Ember, who had been sprawled resting in the corner after finishing the outing, got up and walked over leisurely. The jaguar that had jumped out along with her excitedly leaped onto the bed.
Sarka petted and held the jaguar burrowing excitedly into his arms, and buried his body in the embrace of Ember, who was lying stretched out on the bed.
Letting familiars sleep in bed was something done only in childhood. If the Leogrante nanny had seen it, she would have scolded him asking what the grown young master was doing.
But that nanny had also been dead for a long time. Sarka, exhausted by the insomnia that had continued for two full years, no longer had the strength to care about dignity.
Half-buried in Ember’s fur, he felt a faint pulse. Lily’s body heat, rustling in his arms, warmed his body.
Listening to the beasts’ slow breathing, Sarka finally felt his body slowly relax. His mind, intoxicated by their body heat, gradually blurred.
Sarka barely fell asleep with his body buried among the beasts.
When he woke up, it was around lunchtime. Perhaps because his sleep cycle had changed, his body felt stiff even after sleeping. Sarka slowly got up, washed, put on a robe, and pulled the cord.
A meal that could have been breakfast or lunch came up. He still had no appetite whatsoever, but Sarka sat at the table and began eating expressionlessly.
His body was still drooping limply and there was a bitter taste in his mouth. However, to avoid disappointing Belial like yesterday tonight as well, he needed to eat well and recover his stamina.
If he carelessly skipped meals and acted lazy according to his mood, his body wouldn’t endure and would collapse.
In his first year, Sarka had learned that fact harshly in Esteban School’s dormitory.
There was a time when, burdened by the pressure and tension of having to adapt while hiding his identity in an unfamiliar environment, stressed, he repeatedly couldn’t sleep properly for several days and vomited up even what he ate.
He poured healing power only into places visible to others like his face, and left invisible places to weaken.
Healing power in a non-blood-drinking state didn’t fix the body like magic. It was merely a technique of artificially redistributing the bioenergy within the body.
For visible places to become intact, somewhere had to develop holes. Even knowing that mouth sores were forming, his digestive system was weakening, and his immunity was dropping, he had no other choice and just tried to endure.
But it was only his mind that could endure.
One day, Sarka, who had vomited up his insides again as soon as he returned from a late-night party, barely washed and came out, then collapsed before even reaching his bedroom.
Losing consciousness for a moment and falling to the floor, he hit his head on a chair, breaking the armrest, and blood flowed profusely, staining the carpet.
By Sarka’s estimate, about six hours. He seemed to have been left abandoned while unconscious.
Sarka, who barely came to his senses at dawn and realized the situation, hastily erased the wounds on his body and cleaned up the bloodstains.
He put the remains of the broken chair and the blood-stained carpet straight into the fireplace and burned them.
By the time he barely washed his body again and changed out of his blood-stained clothes, Baigarten opened the door as soon as morning came.
Saying he was worried because Sarka looked unwell last night so he came to check, that human pushed his way in—the thought that if he had come just an hour earlier, he might have seen the unrecovered wretched state as it was, sent chills down Sarka’s spine.
Sarka snarled and drove that human out, venting all the irritation he had.
When he made excuses that he was in the middle of smashing and burning furniture and carpets because he didn’t like them, Baigarten had an expression wondering what kind of crazy thing this was again, but fortunately didn’t suspect further.
Throughout the time that human walked around the room, Sarka’s entire body tensed up, wondering if he might discover bloodstains he hadn’t managed to wipe away.
Thinking that he might have shown that human such a state—left abandoned like a dead dog on the blood-stained carpet while naked—made Sarka break out in cold sweat.
Ever since then, whenever that human came to look into his room, his nerves would stand on edge.
Tension about when and how he might show a defenseless weakened state rose, making him irritated and sharp.
To prevent such a situation from happening again, he had to force himself to eat and maintain his stamina.
The thought of collapsing like that in this house and showing his weakened state to family or servants, and by any chance receiving sympathy, was horrifying.
Sarka, who barely finished his meal, called the servants to clear the table and commanded quietly.
“Adam, prepare riding clothes.”
Adam diligently opened the wardrobe and began taking out riding clothes to serve him.
Normally, Adam, as head servant, wouldn’t need to step forward himself but would direct other monkeys to serve, but trying to handle everything alone, Adam looked quite busy.
Feeling uncomfortable making him move strenuously despite his age, Sarka just handled some things with his own hands.
After Adam, who had tied his riding boot laces, withdrew, Sarka pressed down his hat, put on gloves, and headed to the stables.
When he rode his horse across Hütivras’s private property, the autumn air hitting his cheeks was cool.
Sarka, who had been riding for a while, suddenly frowned when tinnitus began again.
He tried ignoring it and continuing to ride, but the tinnitus didn’t disappear and persistently circled his ears. A little later, a faint headache followed.
Giving up and slightly slowing down, Sarka rested for a few minutes, then started riding again.
The tinnitus stopped, but the dull headache pressed down on his head and wandered around. The feeling of fatigue had now attached itself chronically, feeling like clothes he always wore.
There were still three and a half years left to spend at Esteban School. While conducting duel lessons from time to time, he couldn’t neglect the duties the family had imposed either. Thinking that he had to continue enduring like this for the remaining three and a half years, the headache seemed to worsen.
Thinking it was just a psychological effect and stubbornly riding, when the headache gradually became sharper and tinnitus bored into his ears again, Sarka eventually slowed down again.
Giving up on fast riding, Sarka walked his horse slowly.
His head continued to throb.
Sarka thought he was quite exhausted.
How long could he endure?
Walking slowly, Sarka recalled himself on a certain night when he couldn’t endure.
The night when, driven mad by pain and resentment, he finally tried to give up on life.
His father, Belial, and no one in this city knew yet, but
Sarka had that day truly decided to die.
To kill all those disgusting humans and end his own life here too.
Every time he recalled that fact, he felt shame.
If it became known that he had coveted such a meaningless death, Sarka would never be able to hold his head up again.
My mother wouldn’t have done that.
She wouldn’t have committed the dishonor of giving up <survival>, swept away by emotions, unable to endure mere physical pain.
<Death> was a vampire’s only shame and dishonor. It was a fruit Sarka must absolutely never swallow.
Sarka recalled the night when he realized the price of trying to swallow that fruit just because of anger.
When he accepted that, like his mother, he would be shot to death at the muzzles of human Exorcists’ guns.
It was a miserable ending where not even a speck of dignity could be found.
Kneeling in an exhausted and shabby state like a sick dog, Sarka had lost even the will to struggle anymore and resigned himself.
So this is how I die.
Having lost everything I wanted to protect, slaughtered like cheap livestock in a human cattle pen.
If such a death became known, it would have become a laughingstock for all vampires.
Thinking of the children who had looked up to or competed with Sarka during his school days hearing the news that he had died like that, Sarka shuddered.
How much would they mock him?
Thinking that he might perhaps receive sympathy, his heart seemed to melt from shame.
The classmates at Basic School had always been competitors.
Before becoming an adult and obtaining succession rights, things like <friends> were meaningless.
Half of the children in the class would succeed in inheriting their families, and half would disappear as their Helpers.
Some would completely forget all the memories shared during school days and even forget my existence. Perhaps I might become like that too.
What meaning was there in becoming friends with such people?
<Friends> were only possible in equal relationships.
Only <Successors> who had obtained succession rights could finally have <friends> and have the right to equal exchanges.
Until then, classmates in the class were either each other’s competitors or prey.
It was natural.
Suddenly, as if a blunt instrument was pressing down on his chest, some voice pressed down heavily on his chest.
[Just because that’s possible doesn’t mean one side has to kill or dominate the other.
Each other… might not become enemies.]
[If we can share the same language and emotions…
There’s no reason we couldn’t become friends or… family.]
Foolish words.
<Friends> were a relationship only possible between people of equal strength.
<Family> were a successor’s possessions.
What else besides <strength> could one judge people by?
Even family members were trampled like this if their strength was weak.
To become friends, one first had to become a <Successor> who wouldn’t be owned by anyone,
And to do that, one had to gain strength.
And to gain strength, one had to trample and defeat someone.
[There are moments when anyone becomes weak.
Without other people’s help… situations arise that can’t be overcome.]
The moment I become weak, I’m attacked.
All my schoolmates were either thinking of me as prey, or had excluded me as a competitor and become indifferent.
Being eaten the moment you weaken is a law of nature that never changes.
[I think I… received help from you.
So I’m going to try believing.
That we… can become friends.]
I never helped that human.
It was just an imitation that had become a habit.
It was a meaningless performance I’d always done to maintain my position in the class, to avoid unnecessarily attracting resentment.
Even when sending the black dog to that human, I had no interest whatsoever in that human. I wasn’t even curious who they were.
It was just an idle prank—both to remove those annoying fellows from my sight and to practice using my abilities. A brief distraction in a boring daily life.
The circumstances of an insignificant human like an insect were none of my concern.
[I also have nothing to do with your circumstances.
Since you said it was okay for me to become your <friend>, to do as I please,
I’ll protect you in any situation.
Whatever you do to me… I’m on your side.]
…What on earth are they thinking?
Sarka rode for a long while in a disturbed mood.
Only when his breathing became labored and his back was soaked through did Sarka turn his horse and return home.
After washing, dinner was brought up to his room.
His appetite still sank to the ground, but since he had exercised, he needed to eat.
After forcing down dinner, his body locked up languidly.
Sarka, who checked the clock, hesitated for a moment, then went to bed. It seemed closing his eyes even briefly before going to the lesson would help recover his stamina.
“Adam. If I don’t wake up even an hour later, wake me.”
When Sarka pointed to the numbers on the table clock with sign language, Adam nodded.
Sarka curled up on the pillow and pulled the blanket over himself.
In less than 15 minutes, Sarka woke up shuddering from a nightmare.
Hastily bending his upper body out of the bed, Sarka covered his mouth.
When Sarka curled up and contorted his face, Adam quickly got up and brought the jar that had been placed under the bed.
As soon as the jar was held up, Sarka vomited up all the dinner he had barely eaten.
It was disgusting.
When Sarka groaned and clutched his stomach opening, Adam made restless squeaking sounds.
Seeing Adam look back at the cord, Sarka hastily stopped Adam.
“…Don’t call anyone.”
Adam blinked with a worried expression, not knowing what to do. Sarka barely cleared his throat and soothed quietly.
“…It’s fine.”
While trying to calm Adam down, straightening his back and consciously trying not to contort his face, Sarka was doubtful whether he was really fine.
He was definitely weakened.
As his ability usage suddenly increased and his mind became sensitive from tension, the nightmares seemed to have returned too.
The dream’s content was familiar. They were memories repeated disgustingly for two years.
Sarka, who had struggled to restore his mad mother to sanity, half-miraculously succeeded in penetrating his mother’s mind.
In a normal situation, accessing each other’s minds between the same rank would have been impossible, but his mother’s intelligence, having lost reason to blood addiction, had lowered to almost beast level.
His mother, a physical type, had weak mental defenses, and Sarka was a complete pureblood psychic type whose specialty was mental attacks.
Sarka’s sharply raised mind tore through his mother’s mind, and after desperate attempts, succeeded in forcibly prying it open.
And he was swept into his mother’s overflowing memories.
Memories he absolutely didn’t want to see, and that his mother probably absolutely didn’t want to show either, were messily stripped naked before Sarka’s eyes.
His mother’s numerous secrets, most intimate memories, most private recollections—Sarka read them all unavoidably as they were.
Among them, one particular memory persistently followed him, transformed into Sarka’s nightmare.
It was the memory of the day Sarka was born.
His mother was holding him, smaller than her forearm, in her arms, gently coaxing.
Looking into the eyes of the baby crying with blood not yet dry, his mother thought:
If this child isn’t a <Complete Pureblood>,
I should kill it, then use that grief as an excuse to obtain one more.
Sarka bent his upper body at the nausea rising from his stomach again and coughed.
Every time he had this dream, his stomach particularly turned over.
There was a fishy taste in his breath.
Sarka panted and looked down at his vomit pooled in the jar.
If he could excise memories from inside his head, Sarka would have excised this memory first.
