Chapter 2: Chapter 2 — Someone Begging to Be Bitten

After being taken back to the Vampire Dominion, Chloé refused to let her guard down.

Inside the specially prepared nursery, no one was allowed to come near her.

Anyone who tried was rewarded with torn flesh and bloodied skin, courtesy of the tiny vampire fledgling.

It wasn’t until nearly a week later that the situation began to ease—slightly.

Curled up inside the medical pod, Chloé observed everything beyond the transparent shell with cautious, unblinking eyes.

In her past life, she had fought tooth and nail to survive the apocalypse, where vigilance was carved into her very bones. That instinct hadn’t faded—it had only sharpened.

After days of silent scrutiny, she had come to understand this world well enough.

This was the territory of vampires—and she herself was one of the rarest and most exalted among them: a pureblood vampire.

Pureblood fledglings were said to be fragile by nature, yet once grown, their power rivaled that of gods. The current Vampire King—the Fourth Progenitor—was proof of that.

And apparently, that Progenitor was… her father?

As Chloé pondered this, a light tapping echoed from the pod’s glass door.

She lifted her head and saw Corvin standing there—immaculately dressed as always in a tailored suit, his hair artfully tousled, holding a tray of small cakes. He gave her a charming smile and waved the treat before her.

Chloé fixed him with a frosty stare and spat out two crisp words:

“Idiot.”

At five years old, she already spoke with clarity and precision; the words were sharp and scornful, each syllable laced with disdain.

Corvin sighed, feigning a wounded expression.

“Hey now, little one, that’s awfully rude of you. I’m the one who saved you—and I come here every day to check on you—and this is the thanks I get?”

He exaggerated his hurt feelings with theatrical flair.

Chloé regarded him quietly, wondering if perhaps she’d gone too far.

He didn’t seem all that bad, actually.

After a moment’s thought, she stretched out her chubby little hand and knocked lightly on the pod’s door in response.

Corvin blinked in surprise, then his eyes lit up. Delighted, he carefully opened the pod and cautiously offered the plate of cake to the fierce little vampire.

It had been so long since Chloé had tasted anything that smelled this heavenly. In the wastelands of her former world, food was scarce; a single piece of cake was enough to tempt her resolve.

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But before the treat reached her hands, a shrill voice pierced the air from the doorway.

“Corvin! Good heavens, put that cake down at once!”

The head nurse stormed in, eyes wide. “A delicate pureblood fledgling cannot be eating that kind of junk food!”

Before he could protest, a sharp thwack landed on Corvin’s back.

He winced, dodging away as he muttered in protest, “Delicate? She’s nearly bitten me into a walking blood bag—how delicate can she be?”

At that, Chloé lowered her gaze and brushed a finger across her small, blunt fangs.

Soft. Not even that sharp.

Her crimson eyes flicked toward Corvin’s arm, wrapped thickly in bandages, and she blinked, confused.

The nurse ignored him entirely, muttering under her breath,

“Strange. Vampire fledglings are usually frail—especially purebloods—but she…”

When the caretakers finally tested Chloé’s physiology, they discovered her fangs were ten times stronger than the average fledgling’s.

In other words, while others were still nibbling on pureed fruits, Chloé could probably tear a wild bull apart with her teeth.

Terrifying, indeed. The head nurse still shuddered whenever she remembered the data.

She placed a bottle of synthetic blood in Chloé’s tiny hands.

“Here, my lady. Drink up.”

Chloé hesitated for a moment, then took a sip.

Though she found the act of drinking blood unsettling, her instincts betrayed her. The warm, rich taste of the artificial blood was far sweeter than any cake.

“Be good and get dressed, little miss,” said the nurse with a kind smile, patting Chloé’s head. “The King will be coming to see you soon.”

Chloé froze mid-sip. The bottle hung from her lips as she stared blankly, then turned toward Corvin.

“The King?”

As soon as the nurse left, Corvin perched himself on a nearby table, grinning.

“That’s right—your daddy dearest is coming. Excited?”

His sing-song tone made her skin crawl. She ducked her head and gnawed irritably on the bottle’s nipple.

If her so-called father had truly cared, he would’ve come the moment she was taken. Not now, after all this time.

He was probably just another disappointment.

Corvin watched her serious little face and chuckled.

“What’s on that tiny mind of yours?”

Chloé answered without hesitation.

“Thinking about my deadbeat father.”

At that exact moment, a deep, cold voice sounded from the doorway.

“What did you just say?”

Clink.

The bottle slipped from Chloé’s hands and hit the floor.

Corvin’s expression tightened. He scrambled off the table and bowed low.

“My lord—the Progenitor.”

Chloé emerged from the pod, picked up the fallen bottle, then lifted her gaze to meet the man who was, supposedly, her father.

He was breathtaking—black hair, crimson eyes, the same features mirrored in her own. His expression was cool and distant, a faint trace of divinity in his presence.

The Progenitor looked down at the small child before him—barely reaching his knees—and his voice, deep and resonant, carried easily through the room.

“What did you say just now? Say it again.”

Chloé could feel the suffocating weight of his aura pressing down on her.

She despised it.

She despised anything stronger than herself—anything that made her feel small or threatened.

And this man was no exception.

Instinctively, she clutched her bottle and took a wary step back.

“Why are you retreating?” he asked, moving toward her.

The pressure intensified. Chloé’s tiny body bristled with tension, every instinct screaming danger.

“Stay away!” she hissed.

“Lord Progenitor!” Corvin exclaimed. “The fledgling can’t withstand your aura!”

The man halted, and instantly, the crushing energy around him faded, dissolving like mist.

Chloé kept her wary gaze fixed on him, still clutching the bottle tightly against her chest.

Five years old, round and soft, even her fiercest glare only made her look more endearing—large eyes gleaming like polished garnets.

No threat at all.

Xavier—the Progenitor—had always believed fledglings to be the dullest, weakest creatures alive, fragile enough to crush between his fingers.

But now...

His gaze fell upon the child’s slightly bared fangs, glinting with defiance.

A low chuckle escaped him.

Without warning, he reached out, scooped her effortlessly into his arms, and extended his forearm toward her lips.

“Bite,” he ordered, his tone calm but commanding.

Chloé blinked, utterly stunned.

“...What?”