Vampire Progenitor System-Chapter 174: Son of Michael

The Origin HQ felt colder than usual.

The once-pristine marble floors were littered with cracked tiles and scattered debris from the earthquake tremors. Shadows flickered along the high walls as emergency lights struggled to stay alive, buzzing faintly before dimming again. Every corner carried the scent of blood, steel, and dying magic.

Lucifer stood silent near the broken window, holding Francisca’s cold body close to his chest. Her silver hair brushed against his forearm with each trembling breath he took. Outside, the sky was a swirling grey, streaked with faint red cracks as the planet’s core continued its slow death under Adam’s consuming hand.

Footsteps echoed down the ruined hall.

Greta arrived first, her iron chains rattling behind her as she walked, shoulders stiff under her torn coat. Behind her came Vina, supporting Rey as they moved across the cracked floor. His breaths were ragged, and blood still stained his lips, but his eyes burned with silent focus. Vel entered soon after, carrying two injured witches over his broad shoulders, his red lightning flickering faintly in his hair.

They gathered near Lucifer, their quiet conversation fading as they watched him stand there with Francisca in his arms. None dared interrupt the stillness in his eyes. The Origin witches began to arrive, some leaning on each other, others carrying satchels of chalk, blood vials, and rolled parchment tied with spirit silk.

Serah moved to the centre of the hall, her long black hair pulled into a tight braid streaked with dried blood. Her crimson robes swirled around her as she knelt, unrolling thick parchment across the cracked marble. Greta stepped beside her, iron chains floating behind her shoulders like silent spectres.

"Start with the base glyphs," Greta said softly.

Serah nodded, her fingers moving deftly as she began sketching angular runes across the stone floor. Two witches moved to her side, opening blood vials and dipping long black brushes into them, painting lines of deep crimson across the marble with trembling precision. The smell of copper filled the hall instantly, mingling with the old scent of dust and ozone.

Lucifer watched them for a long moment. His eyes flicked across the runes, reading each line and mark with quiet understanding. Then he turned, walking away from Francisca’s makeshift resting place and moving deeper into the hall. His footsteps were silent on the cold floor.

He found her sitting alone near the broken pillars at the hall’s edge. Vulpina. Her kimono was torn, stained with blood and ash. Her tails lay limp behind her, their tips flickering faintly with dying spirit light. Her fox ears drooped low against her long silver hair, and her hands trembled in her lap as she stared at nothing.

"Mother," Lucifer said softly.

She didn’t look up. Tears slipped down her pale cheeks, trailing silent lines through the soot and blood. Her lips moved with words she couldn’t push into sound.

He knelt in front of her, his white hair falling over his face as he lowered his gaze to hers. Slowly, he reached out, brushing his fingers against her trembling hands. Her skin was cold. Not the chill of death. The chill of grief. A grief that ran too deep to ever warm again.

"She was... all I had left," Vulpina whispered finally, her voice breaking like thin glass underfoot. "My little girl... my Francisca... she was... everything."

Lucifer closed his eyes. He moved closer, wrapping his arms around her shoulders and pulling her into his chest. She didn’t resist. Her tears soaked into the bloodstained fabric of his coat as her shoulders shook with silent sobs.

"I will bring her back," he whispered, his voice low and quiet against her ear.

She clung to him tighter, her claws digging faintly into his arms. Her tails wrapped around his waist, trembling with each broken breath she took. For a moment, she wasn’t a fox spirit. Wasn’t a cunning sorceress. Wasn’t the adoptive mother of the Vampire Progenitor.

She was just a mother. Holding onto anything left.

The witches continued their work around them. Serah’s voice carried softly through the hall as she called out glyph sequences. Greta answered her in curt, quiet tones, directing witches to expand the circle’s radius. Thin trails of black smoke curled up from the blood runes as they activated, flickering with faint purple light that pulsed in rhythm with the dying world’s slowing heartbeat.

Vel approached Lucifer silently. His red lightning flickered between his fingers as he spoke in a low, tired voice.

"The outer guards have returned," he said. "Most of the family heads are gathering at the gates now. Fowler and Boris are carrying the wounded up from the basements."

Lucifer nodded once, still holding Vulpina against his chest. She had stopped sobbing now, her breaths slowing into trembling silence. He brushed his fingers through her long silver hair before letting her go gently. She remained curled forward, tails wrapped around her legs, silent and unmoving.

He rose, his white hair drifting softly around his shoulders as he turned to Serah and Greta.

"How long until it’s ready?" he asked.

Greta glanced up, her iron chains rattling faintly against her back.

"Fifteen minutes," she said. "Maybe less if the blood flow remains steady."

Lucifer turned away, his red eyes flickering with silent focus as he walked toward the wide, broken glass doors of the HQ. Outside, the dying dawn flickered in streaks of red and gold. The earth trembled underfoot, sending faint vibrations up his legs as he stepped onto the cracked marble steps.

Then—

A beam of pure white light pierced the dark clouds above.

It descended in silent grace, cutting through the ash-choked sky like a blade of perfect moonlight. The air rippled around it, pushing dust outward in silent gusts. It landed in the courtyard just beyond the marble steps, bathing the broken ground in blinding white radiance.

Mob stood there, clutching his sword against his chest. His wings burned faint silver in the dying dawn, feathers trembling in the cold wind as he looked up at the descending light. His golden eyes widened slightly, glowing with reflected brilliance.

The light twisted. Folded. Formed into a shape—a tall figure clad in pure white robes, its face hidden behind a veil of flickering silver glyphs. Massive wings spread from its back, each feather burning with quiet, unbreakable radiance. Its voice carried across the silent courtyard, calm and deep, vibrating through the stone and into the bones of everyone watching.

"Time to come home," it said softly. "Son of Michael."

Mob’s breath caught in his throat. His sword fell from his trembling fingers, clattering onto the cracked ground as his wings folded inward, feathers curling against his back. Tears welled in his golden eyes, blurring the radiant figure standing before him.

"Father...?" he whispered.

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