Chapter 5

Perhaps it stems from the bloodline.

Aomo, despite having an extremely poor impression of his biological parents and avoiding talking about them unless necessary, his father's bloodline could be traced back to a major clan of otherworldly demons, though that clan had never paid him any attention.

Or perhaps it's because of the bloodline.

Half-demon, half-human, with the demonic part recessive, so Aomo looks completely human—black hair, brown eyes, no pointed ears, no sharp horns, no thick tail; only his height of 1.78 meters at nineteen suggests he may become tall and upright in a couple of years, a trait he inherited from his father.

After all, according to those in the know, his mother was only 1.6 meters tall.

The couple were both mercenaries, free cosmic mercenaries, so free that they abandoned their one‑year‑old son in a nursery welfare institute in the demon realm.

Thanks to the Holy Terra Federation's excellent child‑welfare policies, otherwise who knows—there might have been a classic orphanage‑bullying scenario.

Even so, among a group of children with horns, claws, and tails, Aomo was the one who obviously didn't fit in—until a vampire youth took him out of the demon realm did he finally meet peers who truly resembled him.

Speaking of cosmic mercenaries, life and death are highly random—one could die on any planet at any moment.

A two‑person team that doesn't join other squads makes the couple's unit more flexible, but also means that if they die, no one will be around to report it.

Aomo had always considered those two as good as dead, but that couldn't make them vanish from his world entirely—at the very least he had to confront his own race, especially since his future plans were aimed at the Operations Division of the Two Worlds Safety Bureau.

This is an armed division that handles affairs related to transmigrants, and it often cooperates with the company where his foster father works.

For that he needs to apply for a major in Origin Energy Martial Arts, then obtain a few certificates, so he can submit his résumé.

In plain terms understandable to any transmigrant: one must achieve something in either sorcery or martial arts.

Only when one's combat power is sufficient does it become convenient to apply for a job.

To that end, his foster father pointed out a shortcut: the bloodline awakening ritual.

Awakening the demonic portion of his bloodline would directly raise his talent by several levels; as for the impression demons give people—his foster father himself is a vampire, and both are creatures of Hei'an, so what's there to complain about?. jpg

Unfortunately, these days mixed blood is so common that it's more a majority than a minority; everyone seeking bloodline awakening needs to reserve a number, and with the tag Aomo received, the wait could be half a year.

Adding money would be easy enough, but Aomo feels it's unnecessary—after all, he's not in a hurry, and his foster father is still a "useless adult" who needs to be kept in check to save up; those savings are hard‑won, and even if his foster father were willing to spend money on him, Aomo wouldn't allow it.

"Can't I still buy new gear this month?"

"As long as you guarantee you won't oversleep or be late by month‑end, that's fine."

"Ha… you brat."

It's as if their roles were reversed—just like a child begging for a toy that an adult refuses—yet the actual scene shows the foster father meekly asking his foster son, and upon being refused he reveals his true colors.

Aomo and his foster father Morrison Linton have never had a proper father‑son atmosphere.

"What about my meal!"

Gold hair, red pupils, sharp teeth, youthful handsome looks; if one swapped the suit for a cloak, it would fit the image vampire romance literature should have. Right now, lying upside down, he's indeed tugging at his tie, preparing to take off his coat.

After all, he's home; there's no need to pretend to be stern and rigid anymore.

"Put it on the table," Aomo pointed to the blood bag on the nearby table, "and there's another bag of pig's blood I plan to make into a dish of Mao Xue Wang."

"Wow!" That was uplifting news for the man; he flung his tie and coat onto the sofa in one go, then quickly walked to the table to eye the big and small bags of vegetables and meat, asking, "Do you have minced garlic?"

The man lifted his gaze, looking at the youth who was tying on an apron; his blood-red pupils flickered with light.

Perhaps even his ascent had never enjoyed such anticipation.

"Yes!" the youth replied testily, then glanced at the bag in his hand, "What are you carrying in your hand?"

"A gift from visiting the neighbor," Mo Lisen shook the bag, "It's from Fu La De old brother, who moved into the vacant house next door last week; he's a legal transmigrator, not only a vampire but also a heroic spirit, and he plans to settle down—maybe he'll become a colleague in the future."

Last week he moved... Aomo thought for a moment, recalling that the morning before yesterday when he went out he indeed saw that bearded stubble, the melancholy-eyed white-haired old man; his whole appearance was that of an empty-nest elder, looking rather lonely.

Thinking of that, the youth's gaze toward the man gained a bit more sympathy, and the steps he was about to take toward the kitchen halted.

"How long have you been pulling someone aside to chat?"

"What do you mean 'pulling'! We hit it off at first sight, alright! That old brother belongs to the Clock Tower, but the Clock Tower doesn't have many acquaintances for him; he's completely unfamiliar with this place, and even his transmigration permit was only just processed three days ago. I had a good chat with him about this world, spent three hours and we were almost sworn brothers! From now on, when you meet him, remember to call him 'uncle'!"

I beg you, don't use that face from an otome game to strike a pose like a street-side skewer vendor while saying these things, okay?

Aomo sighed in his heart.

He's really nice, too bad he just has a mouth; Aomo has always thought the reason he doesn't have a foster mother is precisely this.

When he comes home, he either strikes a pose to chat idly, or he shows a demeanor of career troubles and nagging; this vampire truly lacks any of the bearing that vampire romance literature should have.

In fact, when Aomo was still young, this guy, aside from having a appearance like a vampire in a sub-healthy state, was nowhere near resembling a vampire.

This appearance lasted over thirty years, until the arrival of Little Aomo the Savior (x

Little Aomo thought you were a useless adult, lacking even the ability to care for yourself, so he took charge of buying groceries, cooking, and laundry, even taking on a part-time job as an alarm clock.

Quickly say thank you to Little Aomo!

"... Alright, let's not talk about that; I have a question for you."

Aomo, who no longer wants to complain about the other's lifestyle, can fully accept calling a weathered vampire with a bearded stubble 'uncle'.

"Go on," Mo Lisen, who had just picked up the remote, looked over, noticing Aomo's serious and slightly restrained posture.

"If I awaken my bloodline, will the demonic side affect my train of thought?"

"Again with this question," Mo Lisen's posture slumped again into a Ge You slump, he opened a big screen, "Which number is this?"

"I've said not to obsess over the demonic nature issue; look, as a vampire I'm this stable, and it's not that I don't know your father—I originally took you in because I couldn't stand your parents' behavior."

"Your father isn't really a psycho; he's just simply lacking in virtue."

Indeed, it's a scene of a child cursing his father, but the child doesn't care about it.

"But I heard that the archaeology department's demonic senior at the Source Energy Engineering School made a wall painting from over two thousand years ago for his own bloodline awakening; his whole temperament changed drastically, and he was even shot full of holes by the counter-terrorism rapid response team."

"Are you sure it's not his wall painting that's the problem?" Mo Lisen wielded the remote like a short stick, poking Aomo's forehead in midair, "You guys have no idea how shady the Archaeology and History Departments are."

One sigh, pissed off.

The Archaeology and History Departments produce so many cyber lunatics and ordinary nutcases that they rank top among all departments; they can always dig up some spooky stuff that summons the counter-terrorism rapid response team, even the Divine Blessings Gospel Class, or even the Two Worlds Safety Bureau to come and handle it.

"Well," Aomo was tentatively persuaded, but after a moment's thought he added, "However, I keep feeling that monster Mewtwo's mental state is a bit off, and I'm somewhat suspicious that I might be a potential pleasure offender like that priest from FZ."

"Still happy? You little brat, you can't even pull off tax evasion," Mo Lisen reached out, two blood-colored finger outlines appearing several meters away and flicking Aomo's forehead, then stood up and headed toward Aomo's bedroom, "Let me take a look at Mewtwo, kid, you should still watch some wholesome stuff—like the youthful vigor that the Gaoyue Prize athletes ought to have."

"Go on, who do you want me to pay attention to?" Upon hearing that, Aomo turned his head to look at the playback on the screen; the match had already begun, and the viewers on the screen were fully invested, cheering nonstop for the runners racing on the Saichang.

Speak plainly, even though these two's racial stance is quite Hei'an, but Morrison still spoke frankly:

「East Sea Emperor. I bet on her in this match, help me see whether to keep betting on her. 」

The family's economic authority is in Aomo's hands, but as for discretionary spending like pocket money, it's still up to me to decide; Aomo knows that his foster father cares deeply about the horse girl races—those fusions of human and otherworldly horse spirit, possessing the instinct for running competition, the elf races.

From this one could guess he isn't experiencing the youthful stirrings of a hundred-something-year-old, but rather wants to touch upon a hotbed of sin.

Besides, ordinary gambling is mostly an abyssal Shen yuan, but the horse girl races are arranged by the supreme ruler of the Holy Terra Federation—the strong AI Heart of Terra, not like usual horse races shrouded in darkness.

For the Heart of Terra, which views all civilization as components for self‑evolution and comparative observation, this kind of competitive entertainment event has both observational value and aligns with its vigorous development of the entertainment industry to maintain stable rule——

——So far, within the Holy Terra Federation there have been groups dissatisfied with AI rule, and the Heart of Terra's view of such rebellious behavior is to undermine their roots by dividing interests.

That is, spend more money to maintain stability, add more entertainment options to kill time, and let the people live in peace and happiness.

This is the optimal solution computed by the central calculation hub.

So the Heart of Terra supports the development of many entertainment industries, and the horse girl races are one of them. With sufficient fairness and justice, Aomo does not stop Morrison from researching this—he won't say that before he bet on Zhou Te and won quite a bit, so he deliberately stopped by the entrance of Toreisen Academy once, treating the other to a honey special drink.

This is also the only time so far that he has taken the initiative to approach a horse girl.

To be frank, horse girls are probably the lowest‑threshold celebrity idols to visit.

And unlike being both a sports star and a singer‑dancer with high commercial value—just go to the Toreisen Academy gate and you might run into the target you're looking for.

Although horse racing is often associated with gambling, the racecourses and breeding colleges related to horse girls are not dens of vice and debauchery.

In fact, many people, including Aomo himself,

have had the experience of being taken by parents or elders to the racecourse for play in childhood, which is not much different from going to an amusement park or an aquarium.

The racecourse and the horse girl academy have always strived to create a family‑friendly atmosphere for all ages, even covering a large part of racing in international event lineups.

As a result, people have seen horse girls since childhood, and even going to school to present flowers has become a norm.

As for safety, the only thing that needs to be said is this: horse girls' strength, reaction, and speed are usually several times that of humans, and those who race are all at the level of professional athletes.

Thus, even when applying for a trainer position, they emphasize physical fitness; otherwise a single stumble could send you to the grave.

Under technological and medical advances, these three goddesses‑crafted horse girls can surpass the performance of their original hometown versions.

In basic talent they can match the physical‑type fantasy races of demons, dragonfolk, dwarves, and the like.

These horse girls could truly consider entering fighting tournaments or taking up armed work, and it seems they already have—Aomo previously heard Morrison mention that a mercenary squad had recruited a horse girl newcomer.

In the eastern district, a pharmaceutical company that has emerged in recent years once fielded an armored horse girl, even topping the online hot‑search list for a time.

At this point, who attacks whom is truly uncertain.

However, this has nothing to do with the match on the screen now. Aomo watches the screen where a brown‑haired little girl in a military‑style uniform has already burst forth with visible wind, and he indeed feels what Morrison called the "yang realm."

Although it is not Super Dream, and although he is only watching a video, he can still sense from the live cheers and the commentator's rapid words the immersion and tension of the competition, as well as the breath‑holding anticipation.

This is the innate longing that living beings feel toward "movement" and "the limit."

Chasing after the fastest, strongest elf sprinting across the grassland, it draws the gaze of everyone present at the scene and everyone watching the recording.

They are already pleasing to the eye, and the pursuit of the fastest, strongest, highest is also the aspiration of countless people; this convergence can also capture Aomo's heart—until a voice exclaims, "Holy shit, this monster!" pulls him back to reality.

With a blank expression he shouts at his own bedroom: "I'll look back later, first go make dinner." Without waiting for a reply, he turns, picks up the assorted bags on the table, and walks toward the kitchen.

After all, the Super Dream experience is similar to deep‑immersion games—you have to give a person or a machine a slap to wake them up.