Vampire Progenitor System

Bloom Mansion – Remu’s Burial Ceremony

Late afternoon. Sky pale. Clouds slow. Wind light.

The van rolled to a gentle stop outside the ancient gates of the Bloom Mansion.

What once stood as a private estate, hidden deep within the woods of Ostarius, was now something else. A stage. A symbol. A scar.

High iron gates had been pushed open hours before. Now dozens of vehicles were parked along the gravel path. Some were black limos. Others armored trucks. Some had no license plates at all.

But it wasn’t just supernatural clans that had gathered.

There were cameras.

Reporters.

Lights.

Boom mics.

Drones hovered overhead like flies around a corpse.

The human world had shown up—whether they were invited or not.

Security spells were placed along the mansion perimeter, cast by witches in long dark robes. Every clan had sent someone. From the Spirit realm. From the Witches’ Circle. From the Vampire Courts. Even demons stood in quiet mourning under the shade of black trees that had only recently started growing again—Regrowth Spirits must’ve been summoned days earlier.

And the air buzzed.

Not with energy.

But with tension.

The moment the van door opened, every lens turned.

Click.

Click. Click.

Flashbulbs burst.

A female reporter in a dark navy jacket rushed forward, trying to squeeze past the velvet-rope barrier. Her cameraman barely kept up.

”Lucifer Origin! Lucifer Origin! Is it true you’re the one who led the final assault against the Fogwalkers?! Is it true you’re now leading the Vampire—?!”

She barely got the words out.

Lucifer had only stepped one foot out of the van.

His eyes flicked toward her. Not cruel. Not even cold. Just... sharp.

Too sharp.

Like looking directly into a moment you’d regret.

The reporter—young, maybe twenty-five—stopped mid-breath. Her voice caught in her throat. She froze. Her mic lowered slightly, and a chill ran through her.

Her name tag read Luna Rae, badge for NetGlobal 7. Her heart pounded. Not because he had threatened her.

Because he hadn’t said a word at all.

Lucifer simply looked at her.

And she saw something behind those eyes that wasn’t meant for public broadcast.

She stepped back.

Quickly.

Someone behind her grabbed her arm and pulled her back toward the press barricade. The crowd murmured, hushed, unsure.

Francisca stepped out behind him next, her gaze sweeping the people, emotion buried deep but present. Her all-black dress moved softly with the breeze. Beside her, Angel adjusted the sleeves of his suit, calm as ever. Ken looked pissed the moment they stepped into the flash zone. Mob was the last to step out—hands in pockets, annoyed from the get-go.

Ella walked around the van and stood on the other side of Lucifer, her hands clenched around the bouquet.

”Nothing’s changed,” Mob muttered.

”Oh, it has,” Ken replied quietly. ”But not in the way they think.”

Francisca gave Lucifer a nod.

They began walking.

Step by step through the gravel path that led to the inner courtyard of the Bloom Mansion.

The humans didn’t follow. Not past the barrier. The silence they left behind was louder than any question.

Inside the courtyard, the atmosphere was completely different.

Rows of chairs filled the garden space, all facing a large ceremonial altar made of white stone. It was surrounded by hanging purple flowers and spirit lanterns. Wind chimes made of crystal swayed gently, creating soft echoes through the trees.

The guardians of the mansion—those who had survived—stood to the side in ceremonial robes. The air held the scent of salt, petals, and quiet mourning.

People turned.

Heads bowed.

They saw him.

Lucifer Origin.

And the ones who walked beside him.

They didn’t cheer. Didn’t applaud. This wasn’t that kind of gathering.

But the gravity in the space shifted.

As they passed, a few nodded. Some simply lowered their eyes.

A powerful witch from the Eastern Seers stepped back as he passed, clutching her staff just a little tighter. A vampire duke whispered to his scribe to update the records—Lucifer’s appearance was no longer what they had archived.

Even the demons in the far corner stopped talking.

At the front row, already seated, were members of the Bloom Family. What was left of them. They did not rise. They didn’t need to.

Lucifer and the others took their seats quietly in the section reserved for the Origin clan.

A hush spread.

Then the ceremonial bell rang—three soft tolls—followed by a shimmering projection of Remu’s spirit flame hovering above the altar.

It was small. Steady. Blue like moonlight.

Ella looked down at her flowers, then stood and walked forward without a word. Her steps were slow. Intentional. She laid the bouquet beneath the flame and whispered something no one else could hear.

When she turned and came back, her eyes were red—but not a single tear fell.

Francisca’s hand gently touched her shoulder as she passed.

The ceremony began in full.

Eulogies.

Old tales.

Memories shared in multiple tongues.

The sky above remained still, like the world was listening. And the press, for once, stayed silent.

The supernatural were here to mourn.

Not as monsters.

Not as saviors.

But as people.

And Remu, in the end... was still one of them.

No matter how her story ended.

And as Lucifer sat there, still, quiet—he finally understood:

This was more than a goodbye.

It was the beginning of everything after.

A few minutes later...

The garden was quiet. The wind had stilled. The flame above the altar flickered once, then steadied. All eyes turned as Greta stepped forward.

She wore no cloak. No ceremonial jewelry. Just a simple black gown that brushed the ground as she moved. Her eyes were sharp—but they were tired. She stood in front of the crowd, hands folded, gaze sweeping across the many faces gathered for her daughter’s burial.

Her voice came low. Clear. Real.

”Remu was a good girl... even with her flaws.”

She paused. Looked down at the stone under her feet.

”She was just a girl... obsessed with the wrong person.”

Greta raised her eyes again—this time toward Lucifer. He didn’t look away.

”She loved someone who didn’t love her back. And at first, she was okay with that. She accepted it. But then... her best friend hated him for it. Hated what he meant. And Remu, like always, stood by the people she cared about—even if it meant breaking herself.”

Ella lowered her head, fingers curling tightly on her lap. Mob glanced at her, but said nothing.

”A love that turns to hate,” Greta said, her voice thinning, ”is the kind that leaves holes in people.”

She let the words hang there for a moment before continuing.

”Her old flame became a vampire. The best friend who hated him... changed. And suddenly, everyone started looking at him. Talking about him. Following him. And Remu?”

Greta’s lips trembled.

”She disappeared. Little by little. Until all that was left... was her shadow.”

She turned her gaze upward, toward the flickering flame.

”She was just a girl. A girl who wanted to be seen. Who wanted someone—anyone—to choose her.”

The flame swayed gently in the breeze.

”And I failed her too. I was too focused on my coven. My duty. I thought strength meant sacrifice. That she’d understand. That she’d wait.”

Her eyes closed for a second. Just one.

”She turned to the darkness to find something we should’ve given her from the beginning—recognition.”

”And that’s what killed her.”

A hush settled across the courtyard.

”But...” Greta said softly, looking back at the crowd, ”that’s not who I want us to remember.”

”Not the girl who broke. Not the girl who turned. But the girl who made weird soup with too many spices. The one who used to hide frogs in the garden just to hear the witches scream. The one who danced when no music was playing.”

Her voice cracked slightly, but she caught herself.

”She wasn’t perfect. She wasn’t always right. But she was mine.”

Greta stepped back from the altar.

”Let’s not hold onto the things that broke her. Let’s carry the things she gave us, even when she was hurting.”

She turned and walked back toward her seat.

No applause. No tears from her.

Just silence.

And somewhere in that stillness—

Lucifer lowered his eyes. Ella didn’t look up. Francisca reached out and gently placed her hand over hers.

The flame above the altar burned a little brighter. Just for a second.