Chapter 37

In the dimly lit chamber, Atlas moved with purpose, his every movement deliberate as he arranged an assortment of mystical objects upon the floor. The room was bathed in an ethereal glow, casting elongated shadows that danced across the walls, lending an air of otherworldly solemnity to the scene.

With meticulous care, Atlas placed each object within the intricate runes he had meticulously painted with blood, the crimson lines shimmering with arcane energy that pulsed with a life of its own. The objects themselves were a testament to the esoteric knowledge that Atlas wielded, each one imbued with its own potent magic and significance in the unfolding ritual.

Beside him, Strickler watched with a mixture of fascination and trepidation, his brow furrowed in concentration as he attempted to comprehend the complexities of the ritual before him. Though he was well-versed in the arcane arts, the magnitude of what Atlas sought to achieve left him awestruck, his mind racing with possibilities and uncertainties.

Across the room, Anabelle stood silently, her presence a poignant reminder of the delicate balance between necessity and consequence. Despite his reluctance to involve her in such affairs, Atlas knew that her assistance was indispensable, her connections to source rare ingredients were invaluable in the execution of the ritual; even if she was overly needy.

As the final preparations fell into place, a palpable tension hung in the air, the weight of expectation and anticipation bearing down upon them all. With a silent nod to his companions, Atlas took his place at the centre of the ritual circle, his gaze steely and resolute as he prepared to harness the primal forces that lay dormant within the depths of his being.

"Atlas, I... I still don't understand," Strickler stammered nervously, his gaze darting between the array of arcane objects and the intricate runes painted in blood upon the floor.

Turning to face Strickler, Atlas met his gaze with a reassuring nod before beginning to elucidate the intricacies of the ritual. "We are going to use this ritual to refine my vampiric blood," he explained, his tone measured and authoritative. "By removing the taint of Nagash and breaking the limits on my bloodline, I will be able to ascend to greater heights of power without being shackled to an undying God. This will then free you, my first progeny, and give you limitless potential."

As he spoke, Atlas gestured toward the various magical objects scattered around the room, each imbued with its own significance in the arcane workings of the ritual. "These objects will serve as conduits for the energy we require," he continued, his voice tinged with a sense of urgency. "And your role, Strickler, will be crucial in providing the necessary mortal blood to fuel the transformation."

Beside Strickler, Anabelle watched with a mixture of envy and longing, her eyes betraying a hunger for the transformation that stirred within her. Despite her jealousy of Strickler, being the gift she desired above all – to spend eternity with Atlas, she remained resolute in aiding Atlas in his endeavours. She believed with all of her heart that Atlas loved her and would soon gift her the same immortal life, yet a pang of envy still wounded her pride.

With everything in place, Atlas turned his attention back to the ritual, his focus unyielding as he prepared to harness the arcane energies that would shape his, and his bloodline's destiny.

As the ritual commenced, a surge of magical energy filled the room, crackling with power as Atlas began to drink from Strickler's veins. The taste of his blood was potent, infused with the essence of magic that flowed through Strickler's very being. With each gulp, Atlas felt the raw energy coursing through him, fuelling his determination to break free from the chains of Nagash's control.

With the guidance of the AI Chip, Atlas meticulously deconstructed the spell that had bound him to his vampiric existence, unravelling the intricate web of magic that had held him captive for so long. Each step of the process was accompanied by searing pain as if his very essence was being torn asunder, but Atlas persevered, his resolve unyielding in the face of agony.

Finally, with a surge of power that seemed to shake the very foundations of the room, Atlas severed the last tether that bound him to Nagash's influence. A sense of liberation washed over him, filling him with a newfound sense of strength and purpose. A part of suddenly glad he was born as 4th generational vampire, as the bonds of Nagash had been weakened by each transmission down the bloodline.

Feeling his power within his blood surging, he felt for the first time the bottleneck he needed to break to become a Marques. Now he felt more confident in his ambitious journey beyond the Empire and to the Dark Lands.

Turning his attention to Strickler, who lay weakened and dying, Atlas carefully fed him the refined blood, infusing him with the essence of his own transformation. As the life-giving fluid coursed through Strickler's veins, a subtle change began to take hold, the faint spark of newfound vitality flickering to life within him. The transformation to become a fledging vampire would take some time.

Exhausted and drained, Atlas sank into the plush confines of a nearby chair, his body still trembling from the exertion of the ritual. Anabelle, who had borne witness to the ceremony, approached him with a bottle of blood wine, her eyes filled with a mix of awe and anticipation.

"Here, Atlas," she said softly, offering him the bottle. "You need to regain your strength."

Atlas accepted the offering with a grateful nod, taking a long sip from the ruby-red liquid as its warmth spread through his weary limbs. Anabelle settled beside him, her gaze alight with eagerness as she broached the topic that had been weighing heavily on her mind.

"When will it be my turn, Atlas?" she asked, her voice tinged with longing. "When will I become your vampire bride?"

Atlas sighed, his brow furrowing with concern. "Anabelle, please," he began, attempting to brush off her inquiry. "I need time to—"

But Anabelle was not to be dissuaded, her determination shining through as she pressed him further. "No, Atlas," she insisted, her tone unwavering. "It's time. I have done everything you asked, I deserve to be like you, immortal and powerful."

Feeling the weight of her expectations bearing down on him, Atlas felt a twinge of regret for how he had treated her; perhaps a remnant of his humanity. "I know," he admitted, his voice heavy with sincerity. "But things have changed. I have to focus on preparing to leave."

Anabelle's frustration simmered beneath the surface, her hurt evident as she struggled to comprehend his words. "Leave? What do you mean?" she demanded, her tone tinged with betrayal. "Are you going without me? Am I to be left behind like some common whore?"

Atlas reached out to her, his touch gentle as he sought to calm her rising emotions. "Anabelle, that's not how it is," he insisted, his voice filled with regret. "I haven't decided yet. But you need to understand, this journey is dangerous. Not something for you to undertake."

Her anger melted into hurt, Anabelle's gaze softened, her eyes searching his for some semblance of reassurance. "I thought... I thought we were in this together, Atlas," she murmured, her voice laced with disappointment. "I thought you loved me."

"Don't be a child!" Atlas's voice turned hard. She was rapidly using up his goodwill. Anabelle had been an essential asset for him in Nuln, giving him personal power by consuming her bloodline and taking advantage of her connections. Now however, he was leaving and therefore she served little purpose.

Anabelle's anger flared, her eyes flashing with a fierce determination as she levelled a pointed gaze at Atlas. "If you won't take me with you," she declared, her voice tinged with fury, "then I'll have no choice but to expose you for what you truly are."

Atlas recoiled slightly, taken aback by the intensity of her words. "Anabelle, you can't be serious," he protested, his voice tinged with concern. "You wouldn't—"

But Anabelle cut him off with a sharp gesture, her resolve unyielding. "I will," she insisted, her tone unwavering. "I'll tell my father, the city—everyone. They'll know the truth about you, Atlas."

Feeling a surge of anger rise within him, Atlas struggled to find the right words. "Anabelle, that would be a dangerous mistake to make," he threatened, his voice laced with venom. "Think about what you're saying. You could put yourself in danger, too."

But Anabelle remained resolute, her gaze unwavering as she met his pleading eyes. "I don't care," she declared, her voice firm. "I won't let you leave me behind like some forgotten memory. Take me with you, Atlas, or face the consequences."

Atlas's mind raced, he needed to leave his name intact in Nuln otherwise the effort of constructing his business would have been for nothing. He could no longer risk leaving her behind, he wouldn't have any guarantee that she would stay quiet.

Suddenly interrupted, the pair heard a groaning sound. The air crackled with tension as Atlas and Anabelle watched in astonishment, their eyes fixed on the newly risen form of Strickler. Slowly, almost hesitantly, the vampire's eyes flickered open, taking in his surroundings with a mixture of bewilderment and awe. His gaze roamed over the room, drinking in every detail as if seeing it all for the first time.

A sense of wonder washed over Strickler as he flexed his newly acquired vampiric strength, his muscles rippling beneath his skin with a newfound power. With a reverent touch, he reached out to touch his hands, marvelling at the raw potential coursing through his veins.

But as Strickler's fingers brushed against the sharp points of his elongated fangs, a primal hunger stirred within him, gnawing at his insides with insatiable desire. His gaze darkened with an intensity that sent shivers down Atlas's spine, the hunger for blood pulsing through every fibre of his being.

Anabelle watched, a mixture of fascination and trepidation dancing in her eyes, as Strickler's transformation unfolded before her. She could see the primal instincts awakening within him, the hunger for blood driving him to the brink of madness.

As Strickler took his first unsteady steps as a vampire, the weight of his newfound existence settled upon him like a shroud.

With a calculated gaze, Atlas saw an opportunity to address two pressing concerns in one decisive move. As Anabelle stood frozen in shock, he propelled her forward, her body stumbling toward Strickler with a mixture of fear and uncertainty etched upon her features.

In the dim light of the chamber, Atlas's voice rang out with commanding authority as he issued his first directive as Strickler's maker. "Feed," he commanded, the word carrying a weight of power and inevitability that brooked no dissent.

Strickler's eyes gleamed with hunger as he beheld Anabelle's form, his instincts as a newly risen vampire driving him toward the source of sustenance before him. With a predatory grace, he closed the distance between them, his fangs bared in anticipation of the nourishment that awaited him.

Anabelle's eyes widened in terror as the realization of her fate dawned upon her, her mind reeling with the suddenness of Atlas's betrayal. Yet she found herself unable to resist the inexorable pull of Strickler's gaze, her fate sealed in the crimson hunger that burned within his eyes.

At that moment, as Strickler's fangs sank into her flesh and the taste of her blood flooded his senses, Atlas knew that he had secured both Strickler's loyalty and Anabelle's silence in one fell swoop. It was a cold and ruthless manoeuvre, born of necessity in a world where power and survival were the only currencies that mattered.

Blood had been taken and given.

It reminded him of his own transformation. Blood is life.