Chapter One – The Birth of the Blood Machine

The night had swallowed the world whole. Beneath the moonless sky, Rothur lurked in the darkness, his body a skeletal wretch, a mockery of the immortal vampire he had once been. Hunger gnawed at him, a ravenous beast tearing away at the very marrow of his bones. His flesh had withered, his once powerful muscles now little more than fragile, withered tendons beneath translucent skin. He was dying. But worse still—he was starving.

For decades he had hidden, haunted by the relentless machines that were immune to his bloodlust. The robots, unfeeling and cold, were the only creatures capable of withstanding his need for life—the only creatures who could never succumb to his bite. Their metallic bodies were impervious to his hunger, and they hunted him without mercy, relentlessly tracking him through the desolate lands, never relenting, never allowing him peace.

His bones scraped against his skin, jagged edges pushing through like claws. He could barely stand, each step an agonizing effort as his body trembled with weakness. His once-mighty form was a hollow shell, a relic of a creature long past his prime. He needed to feed—or he would be nothing.

The decision had been made. He would no longer hide. The Starfall Stronghold, a place he had avoided for so long, a place filled with his most dangerous enemies, was now his only hope. He had learned its secrets. He knew that the heart of the stronghold, the very singularity that powered it, lay hidden beneath its core. There was a legend—whispered only in the darkest corners—that a single spark within the stronghold could bring about its annihilation. If he could just release that spark, it would obliterate the heart of the fortress and consume its entire island home. He would finally rid himself of the mechanical blight that had pursued him for so long. And he would feed.

He had waited too long. His body, a once-proud vessel of supernatural power, was a shriveling husk. But Rothur’s mastery of the shadows was still strong. He could bend them to his will, could slip into places unseen, could strike without being noticed. The Starfall Stronghold—a fortress built from the bones of long-dead gods, a monument to the cold logic of a race from a different world—was now his prison and his salvation.

Rothur moved through the stronghold like a shadow. His once graceful steps were now frail, yet they held a terrible purpose. He crept through the halls, his hollow eyes glinting with a madness born of desperation. He was close now—so close. There. Before him stood the hidden vault, where the spark was said to be locked away. A vial of the purest energy, a flame capable of razing the stronghold to the ground.

But he had miscalculated.

As his hand gripped the cold, twisted metal of the vault's lock, a deep, unnerving hum vibrated through the walls. His breath quickened, his heart rattling like a cage of broken bones. He was too late. The singularity he had sought was not in this vault.

Instead, as he opened the compartment, a stream of liquid shot out, dripping from the vial and splattering over his flesh. Rothur’s body recoiled as the nano-bots poured over him, tiny serpents of metal and flesh that slithered into his veins and crept beneath his skin. His body burned.

The pain was unbearable.

It began with a tingling—something slight and almost comforting, like the kiss of a lover’s breath. But that comfort soon turned to searing agony. Metal merged with flesh, gears fused with bone, and wires dug into the marrow of his limbs, replacing muscle and sinew with cold, unfeeling machinery. His skin crackled and popped as it dissolved under the relentless advance of the tiny machines, sparks flying from his body as the nano-bots ravaged him, consuming him alive.

His flesh burned, his bones twisted, his very being came apart.

Rothur screamed—but it was not a scream of pain. It was a scream of existence, the sound of identity slipping through his fingertips like sand. He could feel his soul fracturing under the weight of the transformation. He was no longer Rothur, the immortal vampire, the ruler of shadow and blood. He was something new. Something horrible. His body was becoming a machine—a Blood Machine.

A mechanical heart began to pulse inside his chest, the sound of gears grinding and whirring replacing the rhythm of his own heartbeats. His blood, once dark and rich, became thick and metallic, laced with the very fluids of the machines that consumed him. His eyes—once glowing red with the fire of his cursed blood—flickered, now dimmed by the cold, blue light of technology.

The stronghold's ancient defenses kicked into gear as the contamination spread. Gas poured from the vents, filling the room with a choking, metallic scent. The alarms blared, but Rothur could no longer hear them. He could no longer hear anything except the roar of wires and flesh melding into one grotesque entity.

A sphere of shimmering, liquid metal erupted from the walls, surrounding him like a giant, molten cage. It moved with purpose, wrapping around his twisted form, sealing him within its metallic embrace. Rothur thrashed, but his body—his new body—was now part of the stronghold’s very machinery. His limbs moved like the parts of a great, broken engine. The sphere began to solidify, and Rothur’s screams were swallowed up by the deafening hiss of carbonization. The liquid metal cooled, hardening around him, freezing him in place. His body was trapped—an abomination of flesh and machine, suspended in the dark, suffocating silence of the stronghold’s vault.

The doors sealed with a finality. The lights flickered, then dimmed, plunging the stronghold into darkness. Time seemed to freeze. The world outside continued on, oblivious to the monster now contained within. The great robot migration began, and the stronghold flourished, its secrets buried deep within the rock.

Centuries passed. The story of Rothur, the Blood Machine, faded into myth. Forgotten.

And then, one day, something—something—began to stir. A ripple in the static, a flicker in the dark. The process had begun.

The Blood Machine was waking.

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