Zhongli, Vampire Alternative Universe (warning: this is mainly expositional bc ive had fun playing around w the idea of how zhongli would be if he was a vampire so idk where this’ll go! there is some childe/zhongli but not much!! anyways happy birthday zhongli i love you :)
Zhongli does not make a good vampire.
Immortality is meant to make you smart.
But what people forget is that you don’t live that long because of wits. Immortality does not mean you are capable; it means that you were foolish enough to get bitten and didn’t think much of it later.
He wasn’t clever when he was held by Guizhong, who smiled sweetly at him as she looked at him, her hair brushing against his skin and cold hands curling the ends of his hair. And certainly not sharp when he failed to notice that her heart wasn’t beating and she seemed to look more at his neck— ”You have a very fine neck,” she informed him when he asked, and he nodded, assuming that it was one of those things sculptors just happened to notice—than his eyes for the majority of the night.
Whether it was out of guilt or disinterest, he doesn’t know. Zhongli would like to think that it was out of guilt, because prior to the night, they were friends. And after she bit his neck, she held him in her arms, whispering story after story as he stuck by fever.
The pain was unimaginable. First—there was shock. And then minutes later, while he wondered why the room smelled more like sweat and blood than incense, he realized that he was still held down.
This must be what quarry feels like, he thought then. But now he knows otherwise; prey would never be held so gently and lay there limply if they could help it. He, while being drained every bit of life, was a willing, sitting duck.
That was before the pain, of course. When she finally let go of him to wash her face—he recalls this clearly: her wiping her face, then licking the blood off her hands with the relish of a child on her birthday, before leaving to the bathroom—he laid there paralyzed. It was, he’s discovered, a bit like being drunk.
Only that the alcohol left his insides in unimaginable pain for days on end. He stumbled when he tried to stand; babbled as he struggled to speak. Even now he only remembers brief flashes of it, when he tore the skin on his arm with his newly grown canines, or hours of rejecting food that he could not quite stomach.
In reality, he was a child—a baby, really, if you were being blunt about it. The weeks that followed were horrendous and perhaps it’s a blessing that he spent the majority of them inhibited, the metamorphosis shedding every part of him that he was comfortable with. But as the days went on, the pain gave way to numbness and numbness gave away to strength.
And when he finally regained enough consciousness to form a coherent sentence, he asked Guizhong why she did it. She, with the certainty of somebody that’s lived for longer than he had, answered, “Well, you’ve always been interested in how the world would change after you were gone. Isn’t this now your chance to witness it?”
Fanaticism with history and predictions could only get you so far. To witness it—wasn’t that just a dream? And because he assumed that rocks were eternal and could not erode back then, he nodded in agreement.
It was a mistake.
Six hundred years ago, Zhongli underestimated the length of his lifetime. One day he’d be talking to somebody about their newborn and it would only be a blink later where their newborn was six feet under, hailed for having a long and blessed life. (What made a blessed life? It couldn’t have been the years –he concluded that every year he was more cursed than before.) Relationships were scarce because he forgot that not everybody experienced time the same way he did.
Days, contrary to his belief, were not fleeting seconds but rather twenty-four hours long. They composed of both the night and day, waking and sleeping hours instead of mindless walks that ended with him apologizing profusely before his fangs were embedded deep into somebody’s throat.
Somebody suggested for him to just do it in an alley and leave them there to be found at morning. But that was too disrespectful—uncouth even. He preferred to invite them into his home, graciously taking their coat and ushering them inside to a table filled with food. Venti always commented on how polite he was to the very end, taking extra care to cook food that he knew they liked—“Last meal before execution, huh?” he’d comment. “Very romantic.”—and making them comfortable until the very end.
That’s not how it started of course.
He tried starving himself at first—much to Osial’s amusement. On a night out, where Zhongli was more attuned to the heat and beating hearts of the people around him than the delicacies laid out, Osial took it a step further by passing him a cup with a thick, maroon liquid that sloshed around in it.
It smelled finer than the silk flowers that littered the gardens, and when he took the cup, he felt one step closer to the damnation Guizhong always spoke of. The worst part was that it didn’t churn his stomach—instinctually, he felt more delighted than he ever felt, a smile cracking his worn face as he inspected the goblet. Only when did he take note of Osial’s smug expression, the glint in his eyes that reminded him of an elusive professor, and the way he watched him carefully the way a parent would watch a child take its first steps, did he hesitate.
It wasn’t benign; it was as if he expected him to trip and fall over after attempting to take his first steps, taking pleasure in both the failure and success. Because both would end with Zhongli crossing the line one way or another, wouldn’t it? And there was nothing more enjoyable than sadism to somebody that’s seen it all already.
Right now he is fighting a losing battle. But he would rather starve than lose it here, so he hands the cup back to him, feeling a little more of his willpower crack.
Animal blood, by all accounts, is disgusting. It’s oily and sometimes he’d get sick, ending the night more ravenous than ever as if his skin were tightening around itself. You couldn’t just drink it—especially if you didn’t know where the animal has been. First you had to kill it neatly—a quick breaking of the neck would suffice, as strangulations were often drawn out—and then you had to clean it.
There was something almost humane in the process. Countless butchers have done it before, so he felt comfortable doing it himself.
It was only when he sunk his teeth into the carcass that he felt more like a vulture than anything else. The blood only staved off his hunger for short periods, so it was more of a painkiller than a sufficient meal.
And Osial found the whole thing to be hilarious.
“How unfortunate. If only Guizhong didn’t choose somebody that insisted on drinking animal blood, then it’d be more enjoyable. You know—if you open your mouth a little wider, you’ll look a bit more like the starving beast you are.” Then he dipped a finger in the cup and licked it as if it were chocolate, sweet and rich.
“Yes… Perhaps I should move onto better things. Do you think vampire blood is like wine? Or would age spoil its taste? I imagine that to a starving beast, there would be no difference—no matter how rotten your blood is, it’s still blood after all.”
Osial laughed and spit the blood out. “Well, you’re not wrong. This animal blood may be disgusting, but to you, what’s the difference?”
He wore his cruelty like a well-fitting suit, the creases shaped like ill-natured grins. Zhongli wondered if that will be him hundreds of years from now, but maybe Osial was always this unpleasant. Guizhong spoke of him the way somebody would talk about their ill-tempered cousin—sure, he’s awful to be around but he’s been a part of the family for so long already.
At the very least, he can provide a good meal. The question will always be for who, and his appetite is insatiable concerning all matters. Some vampires preferred a more barbaric approach of finding somebody, killing them, and then throwing the body away. Others—like Osial—treated it more like a game, drawing it out.
Sometimes he’d target entire families and call it a “feast” inviting others to join him. They were gruesome affairs that ended with many drunk on blood for weeks at a time, and even though he never went to them, he always heard about them.
Directly from Osial of course. Who seems intent on highlighting every small detail, every bloody death or desperate guest that was less than willing in the end but, Osial would say with delight, weren’t they all? As a matter of fact—and here was when he’d bring Guizhong into it, dragging her out of her room with her blueprints and models—Zhongli was very willing, wasn’t he?
“Up until he realized that he had to drink blood,” he’d say, as if he finally reached the punchline for a joke—then Osial would throw his head back with laughter.
And it’s not as if he hadn’t before. Sometimes, if he hurt himself, he would’ve licked the blood. But that tasted metallic—it was nothing like the delicacies that other vampires would set out, naming the meals by age, defining trait (sexual activity, lifestyle, etc.), and gender.
It took him fifty years for his willpower to break down. And he did it in front of Barbatos, who simply watched as he drank, not speaking of the way Zhongli drunkenly rambled for hours on end nor the way blood trickled down his neck and stained his clothing.
The deaths after that were easier. It was almost disappointing how he managed to replicate what Guizhong did with such ease. When he set the serviette over their chest before sinking his teeth into their jugular, he felt just like her.
Only when did he clean them up before burying them did he truly feel at rest. At the time it felt like appropriate compensation—a substitute for the promise he failed to keep for himself. The whole ordeal of washing the blood out of their matted hair and drying it out as he laid them down alleviated the sense of unease.
Guizhong would often watch him while he did it, pointing out certain anatomical features as she did. Her hands would trace over their veins, pressing down on the blue as she spoke. Osial joined them once, but he was so perturbed by the attention Zhongli dedicated to the process that he left immediately.
That was centuries ago.
He, sometime down the line, traded in these rituals for slaughter and abandoned that for mimicking the human lifestyle.
Barbatos would say that it’s been badly done, of course.
“You make the worst human,” he once said, as he watched Zhongli struggle to stomach garlic bread that he offered him.
Which could be why he’s now cornered by a vampire hunter.
The Wangsheng Funeral Parlor is often frequented by vampires all around Teyvat—there are rumors of blood dealings with underground groups but the Milileth has never investigated it—and Zhongli, with no danger signals, happens to be one of them.
It doesn’t help that he works there too. The irony that all these years later he never quite rid himself of dealing with dead bodies isn’t lost on him.
And he did hear about the Fatui, because word about people hunting vampires travels fast in a country as busy as Liyue.
“Sir,” the vampire hunter informs him kindly, “you do know that this is a hub for vampires, right?”
The voice isn’t what shocks Zhongli. Neither is the maroon mask that’s hanging by the side of his head—one told to be notorious among only the most vicious of hunters—or the thin outlines of weapons in his clothes.
It’s his eyes. They’re a bright blue, usually associated with the sea on bright days, but they’re more akin to the vampires that Zhongli has seen before with the wild glint in his eyes. It’s jarring with the smile that he adopts as he asks, and he imagines opening his mouth to a pair of fangs.
He knows that he won’t find them though. If the rumors he hears are any indications, the Fatui are above recruiting any vampires that’ll threaten their operation.
“Ah. Yes. I do. I’m the consultant here, you see,” he explains politely.
And shouldn’t that be an indication that he’s a vampire? Hu Tao is notorious for her strange tastes. And he must know of the deals she makes with underground groups, the money and blood that’s traded between them.
“Oh!” the hunter’s expression brightens as he clasps his hands together. “I heard about you! I got to say—when they told me that the consultant was knowledgeable on all things Rex Lapis, I was expecting an old man.”
He doesn’t wait to explain who Rex Lapis is. This, of course, is a given seeing that Rex Lapis has become a household name, infamous for his butchery of both vampires and humans alike. But a hundred years later, Zhongli hoped, people would forget about him—or maybe get rid of the fanaticism in their voices when they spoke about him.
It’s quite discomforting, really.
“Well, I am old.”
He laughs, “Yeah, yeah. You hardly look older than me. Call me Childe—I was hoping that you could, ah, answer a few questions I have on Rex Lapis. The 77th Master said that you’d be available and more than willing. She.. actually, here you go!”
Zhongli takes the paper he offers him, which says If you ask him anything, he’d be more than willing to spend the rest of the day answering it! in her rough cursive that he’s grown to dislike. Of course—the Wangsheng Funeral Parlor is not beneath fraternizing with vampires or the Fatui.
But he prefers this much more than the vampires that stare at him as they struggle to place him in their ancient hierarchy. And this does work in his favor, he thinks. A vampire hunter wants to know more about him, Rex Lapis—wouldn’t this aid him in finally meeting his end?
So he politely smiles and gives him back the note, not missing how warm Childe’s skin is in comparison to his own. It’s been years since he’s touched a human without the intention of killing them, hasn’t it?
More than suitable then.
“Of course. What would you like to know?”