The Eternal Custodian

The last immortal uses his wealth to benefit mankind

In the shadowed annals of history, where myths blur into whispers, there lived a vampire named Eadric, the oldest and wealthiest being to ever walk the Earth. Born in the cradle of Mesopotamia, Eadric had seen empires rise and fall, witnessed the dance of stars, and survived two cataclysmic asteroid impacts that plunged humanity back to the Stone Age. Each reset had scarred him, not in body but in purpose, forging an unyielding resolve: to protect humanity, the fragile flame he both cherished and fed upon.


Eadric was no ordinary vampire. He did not hunt in the night, nor did he revel in the terror of his kind. Long ago, he swore an oath to sustain himself solely on harvested blood—sourced ethically from willing donors or synthesized in vast underground bioreactors. This choice was not born of morality alone but of pragmatism: creating another vampire risked spawning a rival, a threat to his singular vision. For Eadric had spent millennia purging the world of monsters—werewolves, ghouls, and, most ruthlessly, other vampires. He hunted them with a cold precision, ensuring no other immortal could challenge his dominion or disrupt his plans. By the 21st century, he was the last of his kind, a solitary guardian of a species he believed too precious to perish.


His wealth was staggering, amassed over centuries through cunning investments, clandestine trade, and the quiet manipulation of global markets. By 2025, Eadric’s fortune dwarfed the GDP of nations, held in untraceable accounts and shell corporations spanning the globe. Yet, he cared little for opulence. His riches were a tool, funneled into two grand obsessions: ensuring humanity’s survival on Earth and securing its future among the stars.


On Earth, Eadric poured billions into subterranean agriculture. He funded research into hydroponic megafarms and bioengineered crops that thrived without sunlight, housed in fortified bunkers deep beneath the planet’s crust. These were not mere farms but self-sustaining ecosystems, designed to withstand the apocalyptic impacts he had twice endured. The first asteroid, 12,000 years ago, had buried the nascent cities of the Fertile Crescent in ash. The second, 4,000 years later, had shattered a burgeoning civilization in the Indus Valley. Eadric would not let a third reset humanity’s progress. His underground facilities stored seeds, genetic data, and enough food to sustain millions through any catastrophe. He called it the Ark Network, a bulwark against extinction.


But Eadric’s gaze extended beyond Earth. He had seen the fragility of a single planet, a lone cradle vulnerable to cosmic whims. For centuries, he had studied the stars, first through primitive lenses, then through telescopes he commissioned in secret. By the 21st century, he was the silent benefactor of interstellar propulsion research. His companies—fronts like Helios Dynamics and Stellarion—developed technologies to traverse the void: fusion drives, cryosleep pods, and AI-guided colony ships. His goal was audacious: to seed humanity on a distant world, a second home orbiting a star in the Alpha Centauri system. There, humanity could flourish, free from the threats that haunted their cradle.


Eadric’s plan was meticulous. He selected candidates—scientists, engineers, farmers, and dreamers—through anonymous foundations, training them in secret facilities. They would be the pioneers, carrying his curated seed banks and knowledge archives to a new world. He would not join them; his curse bound him to Earth, to the blood that sustained him. But he would watch from afar, his legacy etched in humanity’s survival.


He saw himself as humanity’s protector, a shepherd guiding a flock too prone to self-destruction. The monsters he had slain—vampires who fed recklessly, werewolves who reveled in chaos—had threatened the delicate balance he maintained. Each kill had been a step toward his vision: a world where humanity could thrive, unmarred by supernatural predation or cosmic disaster. His solitude was his strength, his wealth his shield, his immortality his burden.


In a hidden estate beneath the Alps, Eadric stood before a holographic star map, the Alpha Centauri system glowing softly. Reports scrolled across his desk: the Ark Network’s latest harvest yields, the fusion drive’s test results, the profiles of the first colonists. He sipped a vial of crimson liquid, its sterile tang a reminder of his restraint. Outside, the world churned with wars and crises, unaware of the ancient being who had steered its course for millennia.


Eadric’s eyes, ageless and sharp, lingered on the stars. “Twice you nearly ended,” he murmured, addressing humanity as if it could hear him. “This time, I will not let you fall.” The first colony ship, Elysium, was nearly ready. In a decade, it would launch, carrying humanity’s seeds to a new dawn. And Eadric, the eternal custodian, would remain—watching, protecting, alone.