"I should be dead... There was no way to survive on a battlefield like that!" The sergeant major was astounded to realize that he could still think. However, beyond that, he seemed unable to do anything else. He couldn't even feel his own existence. It was an astonishing situation, yet he was more concerned with how he had managed to survive.

At the time, the captain had emulated a classic gesture from ancient Earth, giving the sergeant major a thumbs-up before detonating his own mech. The explosion took out hundreds of alien bugs, buying the sergeant major and his squad a few extra minutes.

They were out of ammunition, isolated, and their main fleet had long since retreated, abandoning the planet to defend more critical locations. Their squadron, consisting of fifty-four spirit armor units, was left as sacrificial pawns, bait, and rearguard, facing a swarm of bugs that outnumbered them a million to one.

His comrades were falling one by one, their line of defense retreating step by step. The gauss gun on his spirit armor was out of ammo, and his beam grenades had been spent the day before. The psionic cannon couldn't be used either, as his mental strength was too depleted to fire another round without exploding his own brain. The rookies beside him had died from trying to push themselves beyond their limits.

In the end, they, the elite of the elite, clad in the most advanced spirit armors, resorted to the most primitive methods: drawing ion blades or psionic swords for close combat—methods that the sergeant major had always thought of as ornamental.

Despite their efforts, the bugs they had slain could fill dozens of swimming pools, but in the end, they were doomed. He had hoped to follow his superior's lead and self-destruct with a dramatic "This is a man’s romance!" but he didn't even have the strength for that.

"That cold-blooded bastard..." The sergeant major clenched his teeth in anger at the fleet commander who had abandoned them. Strategically, the commander's actions were understandable, but the sergeant major would never forgive him.

So, he must have been defeated and captured by the bugs? What would they do with him? Turn him into a specimen? Food? Modify him? Since he was still alive, it seemed modification was the likeliest option. Perhaps he'd join the bugs in their galactic rampage—he had no love left for the corrupt and incompetent Federation, the cold-hearted fleet commander, or the cowardly deserters who had fled.

He sighed quietly, "As vile as the bugs are, at least they won't betray their own." As he thought this, he began to feel his body—a sensation like sliding through a tight space, which was quite uncomfortable.

"Damn it, what's happening? Am I breaking out of a cocoon?" He wondered, attempting to move. His body felt drastically different.

"Right. I’ve been altered. I should expect a period of adjustment..." He tried to speak, to ask for help or clarity. But instead of the high Gothic of the Federation or the incomprehensible screeches of the bugs, what came out was a baby's cry.

"This voice isn't right!" he thought, struggling to open his eyes. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn't. He heard a commotion around him, people doing something he couldn't discern. It felt like he was wrapped in a blanket, and then he heard someone say a sentence in a language he didn't understand.

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"It's a boy."

An old but powerful voice declared as the sergeant major's small body was lifted. A penetrating psychic force swept through him, leaving him feeling exposed and vulnerable.

"What is going on?!" He struggled, trying to break free, even landing a punch on the eye of the person holding him. While it wasn't strong, it was enough to cause some discomfort.

"Quite a strong little guy," the person chuckled lightly, unfazed. "Healthy, with great potential. The Castain family has an heir."

This was said to his mother, who lay on the bed, pale and exhausted.

"I hope he becomes a true scion of the night," she smiled weakly, her sadness not dispelled by the smile.

"I believe that day will come," the old voice reassured her, noting her sorrow. He sighed softly and asked, "What will you name him?"

At this mention, the mother became even more sorrowful. After a long pause, she spoke again, "My husband told me before he died... If it's a boy, he should be called Norton, Norton von Castain."

"A fine name," the old man nodded, accepting it. He sighed, trying to console her, "Wes died for our people, bravely and honorably. Don’t be too sad."

"But, Father..." she finally broke down, crying, "He’s dead, no matter how you put it, dead is dead. The one I loved is gone. Why should I continue living..."

Seeing his daughter cry so bitterly, the old man became flustered, his grip on the baby becoming awkward and stiff as he shared her grief.

His son-in-law, the count of the Castain family, had been an excellent match for his daughter. Although it was a political marriage, they had been childhood sweethearts, growing up together with a deep bond. After marrying, they were like sugar and honey, having a daughter a few years ago and now a son. But the war claimed his son-in-law's life, and the news came right as his daughter was nearing her due date, nearly costing both her and the baby their lives.

The more he thought about it, the more upset he became, unknowingly tightening his hold on the baby. The sergeant major, finding this uncomfortable, protested in the only way an infant could—by crying.

The old man snapped back to reality, hurriedly soothing the baby. The crying sparked an idea, prompting him to urge his daughter, "Don't you still have the children? You have Norton's and Juana's children. Live for them!"

His daughter seemed to awaken at these words, staring at the baby in his arms. Understanding her need, he stepped forward, handing Norton to her.

"Norton, Norton, my child Norton..." She cradled the newly named baby as if holding her own life. Though not like a normal person, she calmed down. The old man sighed in relief, though he hated to disturb her further, there were still traditions to observe...

In his mother’s arms, the sergeant major felt fatigue set in, his consciousness dimming as he drifted toward sleep. In this haze, he vaguely heard scattered prayers around him:

"May the truth of death we believe in bless our new kin, granting him health, beauty, and grace; may he wield sword and wand and ride noble steeds; may he hold power and rule over all...

And may death’s blessing strengthen our kin, reshaping the world with sword and magic under the law of death, sweeping away chaos and strife, establishing absolute and eternal order..."

"This sounds like... some kind of cult..." was the sergeant major’s last thought before sleep overtook him.

Time passed, and when he awoke again, he could finally open his eyes and see the world. It was completely dark, and there were no lights in the room. Only a small, pitiful window high on the wall allowed in dim moonlight, providing minimal visibility.

Oddly, despite these conditions, the baby named Norton could see his surroundings for reasons unknown. He could clearly make out the soft, edged black velvet bedding, the dark red and gold lacquered nightstand, the blood-red greatsword on the wall, and the kite shield adorned with a chalice with bat wings, filled with blood.

This struck him as very strange—these were not the abilities of a bug, nor did he possess compound eyes or insect vision. He saw the world still through human eyes, only much sharper and more detailed.

"Perhaps I've been dragged into something worse than being altered by the bugs," he thought, raising his arm with effort to see it.

As expected, it was the arm of an infant.