"It seems," thought Vlad, "that for reasons unknown, I've been reborn as a baby in another world. Either this is a medieval era, or my parents are completely insane. Further observation will be necessary. On top of that, I seem to have some form of night vision, enhanced physical abilities, and most importantly…"
He focused his mind, summoning a faint, pale flame to the tip of his newborn finger.
"My psychic abilities haven't diminished. In fact, this body's potential is even greater than my artificially enhanced one from before. This world is rich in psychic energy—no need for synthetic aids to use it. In a way, this is a stroke of luck amid misfortune. No matter how bad this world is, it can't be worse than the one I left. At least I'm alive."
Despite his lingering questions, Vlad's newborn body quickly grew tired. Like any infant, he spent most of his time sleeping—even the former sergeant of the Galactic Federation was no exception. Or perhaps, now, he should be called Vlad von Carstein.
When he woke again, it was daytime. The woman he presumed to be his mother was gone. The castle was dim and cold, with little natural light filtering in, making it feel like night still.
But sleep was far from his mind—he was hungry. Without hesitation, he did what any baby would do: he cried.
The noise quickly roused the maids, who hurried to his bedside. Experienced as they were, they soon understood his need and fetched warm rice porridge, milk, and mashed meat, preparing to feed him.
Just then, the door opened. A girl no older than six entered, dressed in a black gothic gown with ivory skin, shining black hair, and emerald-green eyes. Her features were delicate, though her lips were slightly thin.
"Miss Isabella," the maids greeted her respectfully. The girl ignored them, walking straight to the maid holding Vlad. Her eyes lit up as she saw him, now quieted down.
Under her stern gaze, the maid hesitated only slightly before handing Vlad over. The girl took him carefully, though her inexperience showed. Vlad, uncomfortable, began to cry again.
"Why are you crying, my sweet brother?" Isabella asked, trying to mimic the maids' soothing gestures. But her clumsiness only made him hungrier.
"He's probably hungry, miss," came a timid voice from behind her. Vlad glanced over to see a young maid with chestnut hair and brown eyes, dressed in a frilly uniform.
"Is that so?" Isabella said with a hint of annoyance. "Then hurry up and feed him. Isn't that your job?"
"Yes, but—even for a newborn vampire, this isn't—"
"Isn't what?" Isabella interrupted sharply, her brows furrowing. "Are you questioning me?"
"N-no, of course not!" the young maid stammered, her face pale.
Isabella gave a disdainful sniff and handed Vlad back to the maid. Then, she drew a small knife from her pocket and addressed the young maid. "Give me your hand."
Trembling, the maid extended her arm. Without hesitation, Isabella made a shallow cut on her wrist and brought it to Vlad's lips.
"Drink, my sweet brother," she said with a smile.
Vlad was shocked, his earlier suspicions about this family's cult-like behavior deepening. Yet, as the scent of blood reached him, an overpowering craving surged through him. It was far more enticing than the porridge, milk, or meat. Without resistance, he latched onto the wound, his small mouth greedily drawing the blood.
As the blood flowed, Vlad felt his mind sharpen, his hunger subsiding. His strength and psychic energy, though still a fraction of his former self, grew noticeably. The sensation was intoxicating, and he couldn't stop.
The young maid grew paler, though the loss was minimal—newborn vampires didn't need much. Vlad's saliva numbed her pain, making the process bearable.
Finally, with a small burp, Vlad had his fill and drifted back to sleep. Save for a faint streak of blood at the corner of his mouth, he looked every bit the cherubic infant.
"You may leave," Isabella said dismissively, her attention fully on Vlad. The young maid, clutching her wrist, bowed and exited quickly, followed by the others.
Left alone with her brother, Isabella watched him with fascination. She caressed his cheek, tugged gently at his tiny hand, and planted a soft kiss on his forehead. She couldn't tear her eyes away.
Isabella von Carstein, the eldest daughter of House von Carstein, was six years old, already a striking beauty with her mother's features. Her potential was equally impressive—she showed remarkable talent with weapons, alchemy, and magic, her progress astounding her tutors. Her lineage, beauty, and intellect made her proud and aloof, even among her own kind.
Yet, beneath her arrogance, Isabella yearned for companionship. She had often wished for a sibling, and when her mother's second pregnancy was announced, Isabella's joy knew no bounds. The moment Vlad was born, she adored him.
Now, as she watched him sleep, Isabella whispered, "You're perfect, my little brother."