The Sanctified Cross's headquarters had been arranged by Evans to exude an ominous sense of devotion.
A deep crimson carpet ran from the hallway straight into the assembly hall. The walls were dimly lit by antique oil lamps, no electric lights in sight. Black inverted crosses and obscure symbols adorned the dark-stained walls. The entire building had a suffocating, reverent atmosphere—one that demanded silence the moment you stepped inside.
Had it not been for budget limitations, Evans would've decked every inch of the place with massive oil paintings to honor the majesty of their Vampire King.
Michelle led Chief Missionary Banson down the corridor. Banson cradled the prototype of the "Holy Testament," a thick, grotesquely designed tome bound in metal corners and adorned with skulls and flame-shaped sigils.
"High Priest," Michelle called out as they entered the assembly hall.
The ritual of blood-bestowal had concluded not long ago, and now only Evans remained inside. The rest of the rank-and-file, having just had their worldview thoroughly rewritten, had been ushered elsewhere for urgent, focused training.
Evans gave a faint nod. "Go watch over the initiates. I'll handle things here."
Though Michelle had now ascended to the rank of Third-Generation Vampire, Evans, as the original Blood Priest and one of the organization's founders, still held greater authority. Michelle obeyed and silently retreated from the hall.
Banson stepped forward and handed over the "Holy Testament."
"This is the rough draft. Take a look. I've also got some thoughts about forming a Night Preacher Corps, though I'm not sold on the name yet."
Evans ran his hand along the spine, brushing his fingers over the cold steel corners. He looked genuinely pleased.
"Banson, you were made for this. Practicing law was a waste of your talents."
"Really?" Banson gave an awkward smile.
"But…" Evans weighed the book in his hands. "The design needs more… gravitas."
He held it up. "As the sacred book of our order, the Testament's look is solid, but it's still too light. It doesn't project the authority of our Lord. What if we made all the pages out of metal? Maybe wrap the cover in wrought iron thorns—something to reflect the dogma of suffering and blood."
"All metal pages?" Banson furrowed his brow. "It's doable, but we're talking fifty to sixty pounds. Even a grown man will need both hands to carry it. Not to mention, the cost…"
"A true preacher of the Sanctified Cross must be able to bear the weight of his beliefs," Evans said sternly. "How else are we to crush the endless tide of heresy? We'll select only the most devout for training and build them up accordingly."
They continued walking as Evans added, "The metal type and finishing details can be worked out later. We have more urgent matters."
Banson blinked, remembering Michelle's earlier message. "So what exactly is this 'true bestowal of blood'?"
Evans stopped walking and gave Banson a serious look.
"You will receive Lord Arnold's gift—power and status beyond what you've ever imagined."
At this point, he didn't bother hiding Arnold's name. Banson was about to be turned into a Second-Generation Vampire, after all.
"Power and status…" Banson's expression shifted. "So basically, I'm getting promoted from 'contractor' to 'management'?"
"… That's one way to put it."
"And what about my salary?"
Evans blinked. "What?"
Banson clarified, "You know, the exorcist guy promised me one enchanted potion per month. If I'm management now, do I have to pay myself?"
It took a moment, but Evans caught on. "Once you've received Lord Arnold's gift, you won't need those potions anymore. You'll have your own power to share. Your idea for the Night Preacher Corps? You'll be able to grant others a portion of your strength—just like Arnold has done with the Sons of Jacob."
He briefly wondered how the blood transfer would work with Banson's ghostly form. The guy wasn't exactly "alive." Would the recipients be affected differently?
But Banson wasn't worried. All he could think about was the fact that his schedule just got a lot busier—and that made him oddly happy.
"So, where's Lord Arnold?"
Before Evans could answer, the shadows behind the velvet curtains stirred.
"I am here."
From the darkness, Jack Arnold emerged—cold, silent, composed. Shadows gathered into a human form, his expression unreadable.
"Lord Arnold." Evans bowed low and gently nudged Banson to do the same.
"No need for empty ceremony," Arnold said as he strode to the center of the high platform. "Time is short. Follow me."
Evans stayed behind, and Banson, after a beat of hesitation, followed his master's silhouette.
"Here is fine," Arnold said, turning to face him. He reached into his long coat and retrieved a sealed vial of rich crimson blood.
"This is your master's direct command. Don't disappoint him."
The solemnity of the moment weighed heavy, and Banson's expression turned resolute.
"I won't. I'll do my best."
Arnold gave no reply, only handed over the vial.
Banson stared at it—thicker than the so-called "magic potion" he'd received before, darker, more potent. It pulsed faintly in his palm like it had a heartbeat.
He swallowed hard.
Then, under his master's gaze, he uncorked the vial and drank.
The taste hit instantly—like rust and thunder and shadow—coating his tongue, sliding down his throat. A burning chill erupted within his incorporeal body. The gift of vampiric blood invaded every inch of him.
His ghostly soul surged into painful solidity, reality itself seeming to twist and shift around him. He wasn't alive, and he wasn't dead. He was something else now—something in between.
A whispering shadow curled lovingly around him, clothed him in midnight black. It obeyed his will, solidifying into a high-collared robe, long and solemn like a cardinal's vestments.
Banson looked down at his hands. They shimmered faintly with an ominous glow. Waves of ancient memory and knowledge flooded his mind, imparted by the blood now coursing through his form.
"…Second-Generation Vampire?"
He blinked, stunned, then slowly, very slowly, a grin began to form on his face.