As for God creating death and hanging it in the sky—well, that was about the sun.

  Sure enough, this world really did believe the sun was what made things die. Every book Norton had read—The Bible, Eden, Baptism—all spelled this out in detail.

  Even the Church's clothes were designed with this in mind. Full-body robes with hoods, meant to minimize sun exposure. And the reason they never let priests look up? So they wouldn't stare directly at the sun or let sunlight hit their faces.

  Did this actually make people live longer? Apparently, yes.

  The last priest had died at a hundred and ninety-three. Even back in Norton's old world, you just didn't see people living that long. At first, he'd thought it was a fluke. But every time he helped clean the church cemetery, he'd check the tombstones. The ages carved into the stone were all ridiculous. Usually people lived past a hundred. The last priest was just the oldest so far. The youngest anyone died? A hundred and twenty-six.

  And he'd noticed something else—people seemed to be living longer and longer over time.

  The early graves were mostly a hundred twenty, hundred thirty. Then it crept up to hundred forty, hundred fifty. Eventually it hit hundred seventy, hundred eighty. And then the last priest, hundred ninety-three.

  But here's what didn't make sense. In all those years, Norton had seen no improvement in medicine. Living standards were flat. Hell, they still wiped their asses with leaves or sticks. So why were people living longer? Were they\... evolving?

  If you bought into the whole \"sun equals death\" theory, though, it actually fit.

  In twenty years, the sun really did seem weaker. Norton remembered as a kid, standing in the courtyard at noon meant squinting against the brightness. Not anymore. Hard to say if his eyes had just adjusted or if the sun was genuinely fading.

  But the sun had this orange-red tint to it more and more often now. It turned the whole sky that color, like permanent sunset. Beautiful, really.

  Norton was starting to think he'd underestimated this world.

  If he ever got out as a real missionary, he'd have to study it carefully. See if supernatural stuff really existed.

  If vampires were real\... would he want to become one? Would he want immortality?

  Tough choice!

  And hey—were there any stunning, ice-cold vampire princesses out there? Or maybe some well-endowed, charming vampire mothers-in-law?

  Damn. He'd been an adventurer once, until he took an arrow to the knee.

  Norton drifted off, as he often did, into his own little world.

  Twenty years locked up had given him this habit. He'd daydream just to keep from going completely insane.

  Finally, he snapped out of it and picked up the third book.

  This one was even weirder. Page after page of rules and regulations—Church prohibitions, rules for going outside. And it made vampires sound even more real.

  Rule one: No missionary or missionary-in-training could have physical contact with ordinary people. Vampires were good at hiding in crowds.

  Rule two: All corpses had to be purified with holy water, staked through the heart, dismembered, and buried in separate locations far apart. This prevented them from turning into vampires. (Burning took too much wood, cost too much, took too long. Wood was valuable in this era.)

  Rule three: Anyone killed by a vampire had to be soaked in holy water\...

  There were over a dozen rules in the third book, and every single one circled back to one word: vampire.

  Put it all together, and yeah. Vampires were real in this world. They weren't common, but they existed. Otherwise, why have such detailed procedures for dealing with them?

  This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

  According to the book, vampires here weren't created by some \"turning\" ritual. No vampire kings or counts, no hypnotic powers, no invincible strength.

  The book painted a different picture. Vampires were just dead people who came back wrong. Fresh ones had pale, bloodless faces. Maybe some lividity stains from blood pooling after death. They were weak. No healing. Teeth and nails normal. Good at hiding in crowds.

  After about a year, or after drinking enough blood, things changed. Their teeth sharpened into serrated edges. All the blood left their bodies, skin going even paler. They developed a fear of light—not deadly, just uncomfortable. They'd hide in caves, hunt animals. Their bodies healed faster. They got quicker, stronger. Their eyes turned reddish-brown.

  And they seemed to keep evolving. The book didn't say what came next. Either the Church didn't know, or it was a secret. But given how seriously they took vampire prevention, there had to be more. Maybe they developed real powers. Otherwise, armored knights could just beat them down.

  Norton felt a chill, like needles pricking his skin.

  These books only scratched the surface. The Church had been around for centuries. They had to know more. And from how scared they acted, vampires were probably way worse than the books let on.

  How did vampires even happen in the first place? The book didn't say. Maybe they were afraid people would read it and try to become one.

  Norton set the book down and picked up the fourth.

  This one, and the fifth, were more like monster manuals. They described all kinds of creatures.

  The ones from The Covenant—Yindan, Epoch. Plus classics Norton knew from Earth legends.

  Werewolves. Sea serpents. Harpies.

  These probably weren't common. The books didn't spend much time on them.

  But here's what stood out: every single one of these monsters was alive. Living, breathing things with life in them.

  Except vampires. Vampires were the weird ones. Not alive. Not dead.

  Living things answered to Shenyin. Dead things answered to Yona. But vampires? Stuck in between. Outside anyone's control. Maybe that's why the Church hated them so much.

  Norton spread all five books on the table and sighed.

  He'd thought this was just a normal medieval world. Being a missionary wouldn't be so bad. But now\* supernatural medieval? That was a whole different problem.

  The church bell rang.

  \"Bong\... bong\... bong\...\"

  Norton shook himself awake, blew out the lamp, and went to bed.

  Another bright, sunny day for Norton, the priest-in-waiting. He was roused early by someone knocking on his door.

  A missionary in white robes led him toward the church's central hall.

  Monday's Mass would be Norton's first. He needed to learn the process, the etiquette, the rules—follow the other initiates and figure out how this whole thing worked.

  The church Norton called home was named St. Peter's Cathedral. He had no idea if this was some backwater town or a proper city, but the place was massive. The architecture reminded him of medieval European palaces. Enough people lived within these walls to fill a small town—maybe ten thousand souls.

  And just like the real Middle Ages, hygiene was a foreign concept here.

  Feces and urine decorated every corner you could find. The whole damn cathedral didn't have a single latrine. You either found a corner or used the fireplace.

  The air permanently stank of shit and piss. When winter came and they lit those hearths, the half-year-old stench would ride the warm drafts through every corridor. Hell on earth, basically.

  Twenty years in this place, and Norton still hadn't gotten used to the smell.

  Honestly? This was one of the biggest reasons he wanted out. Not the freedom or whatever—just the chance to breathe air that didn't make him gag.

  He was pretty sure that if Yona, the original Death God, ever visited this church in winter, he'd immediately rename hell and declare it the nicer option. After learning about vampires yesterday, Norton seriously wondered if the reason they never attacked churches wasn't because they couldn't win, but because they had no desire to enter these literal shit-houses.

  Norton followed the robed figures into the main sanctuary, still in his white robes. The grand hall hit him first—all gilded splendor and gold leaf. And dominating the space, that massive painting of God.

  God Caesar's eldest son Shenyin wasn't nailed to any cross here, but crosses were everywhere as symbols. Some even had carved figures on them. The books never explained this—who was on the cross, what the story meant. Probably kept secret. Norton figured it must be God himself up there. Why else treat it so reverently?

  The painting showed God as shepherd.

  There he was, Caesar, bare-ass naked with his back to the viewer, cradling a pure white lamb. A couple more lambs lay at his feet.

  Classic medieval art style—you could see every detail, including the genitalia. Nothing subtle about it.

  On these walls, that meant one thing: sex and procreation.

  These Church people couldn't paint anything straightforward. Everything had hidden meaning if you looked close enough.

  Shenyin stood nearby, also naked, holding a whip he didn't dare use. Yona crouched by a stream in the distance, head down. And where that stream ended, a blood-stained head lay among the rocks.

  If you looked carefully at the lamb in Caesar's arms, you could spot two tiny red dots on its neck. And on the side of Shenyin's whip, more red stains.

  Twenty years Norton had stared at this painting without understanding it. After last night's reading, it finally clicked.

  That severed head? Had to be Kuba, the vampire progenitor, caught and executed.

  But Kuba's eyes were still open in the painting. Not the look of someone resigned to death—more like a warning that he wasn't truly gone.

  And God's back showed half a wing. Just the left one. No idea what that meant. Maybe that's all he had.

  Norton was lost in the painting when Father Mia's voice cut through.

  "Norton."

  "Father." Norton snapped to attention, bowing respectfully.

  Father Mia nodded, then swept his gaze across all five initiates standing before him.

  "You've all read the books?"

  "Yes, Father." Five voices in unison.

  "Good. Then I won't waste time explaining what happens when you break rules. You know the consequences. Now I'll walk you through the Mass."

  Father Mia held a Bible, striking a suitably solemn pose.

  He walked them through every detail. When to follow the missionaries ahead. When to stop. When to hand out the black bread to the poor below. How to file out afterward in proper formation.

  They practiced and listened until three in the afternoon.

  Norton grabbed his ration from the refectory—a chunk of black bread and thin porridge—ate fast, and hurried toward the rear hall.

  Afternoon prayers were mandatory.

  He found his spot among the kneeling priests already murmuring scripture, dropped to his knees, and joined the drone.

  The Church's approach to life was simple: crush all desire. No companionship. No conversation. If you weren't doing group prayers, you were in your room studying scripture, absorbing God's thoughts.

  Twenty years here, and Norton barely knew the men he'd grown up beside. They recognized each other's faces. They might never have spoken a single word.

  As a kid, Norton had tried. The church knights had flayed him with spiked branches. He never tried again.

  They were being molded into machines. No wants. No self. Just obedient parts keeping the Church running, their loyalty absolute.

  "Caesar opened his eyes, and chaos became clarity. God said: Let there be universe, and the universe appeared. God said: Let there be life, and all things were born\..."

  The murmured prayers buzzed through the foul-smelling hall like flies. Psychologically unbearable.

  The Church didn't let just anyone come worship. You had to donate heavily for that privilege. So days here were just prayer, prayer, more prayer.

  Time crawled through the drone of scripture.

  Finally, the day of his Mass arrived.