Kiss of the vampire
" The Girl with the Sharp sword"
Mission 31: Clutches of Fate!
The dust hadn't even settled. The earth was still quaking from the impact. Chunks of molten stone floated midair before crashing down like broken meteorites.
Ethan dropped to one knee, panting, spearless for the first time.
Mizuno shielded his eyes. "Did… did he get him?"
Cymac squinted through the smoke, blades humming in his grip. "No way he survived that."
A gust of wind cleared the smoke.
Someone stood in the center of the scorched crater—shirt torn, skin smoking, blood dripping from his mouth.
But his eyes…
Still gleamed with that same mocking smile.
Appolo—charred, bleeding, yet upright—laughed softly. "That... actually hurt."
Ethan's chest rose and fell heavily. "Impossible…"
Appolo raised his burned arm. Bone was visible beneath patches of flesh, but his grip tightened, muscles regrowing in real time.
"I haven't had to regenerate like this in years," he muttered, licking the blood from his lips. "You... might actually be worthy of killing."
Ethan's eyes narrowed. "Then why aren't you dead?"
Appolo grinned wide—teeth red with blood.
"Because…"
He raised both hands—and the ground behind him cracked open.
Black chains slithered from the abyss like serpents, dragging with them a hulking, horned demon-like beast, stitched together like a nightmare. Its chest bore a crude, stitched sigil—a hybrid of vampire and demon marks.
Cymac took a step back. "That's not just magic… that's necromantic fusion. Someone's been splicing monsters."
Appolo spoke slowly, voice almost reverent.
"Behold... 'Bloodspawn Number Seven.' A gift from our new King."
Ethan's eyes went wide.
"You work for Lancer?"
Appolo chuckled. "I bleed for him."
The Bloodspawn roared, its cry so deep it rattled the marrow in their bones. A second pair of arms burst from its back, and flames erupted from its mouth like a furnace engine coming alive.
"Hunter Squad," Ethan said, standing again, summoning the broken half of his spear back to his hand, "stay in formation."
Cymac growled. "We'll back you up."
"No," Ethan muttered.
"This time... I lead the charge."
And with that—
He leapt straight at the beast, the jagged spear glowing once more.
As the Bloodspawn raised all four arms to strike—
Black lightning suddenly split the sky.
Everyone froze.
Even Appolo looked up.
Something—or someone—was falling fast from above.
A figure cloaked in shadow, trailing silver mist and sparks of unnatural lightning, crashed down between them all.
When the dust cleared...
A new voice echoed calmly through the battlefield:
"Who ordered the clean-up crew?"
The knight's headless body collapsed with a dull thud, its black blood spreading like ink across the ruined ground. Deyviel's blade was still humming from the strike when the air shifted—heavy, suffocating, and colder than the Ice Queen's frost.
A slow clap echoed through the battlefield.
From the shadows, a tall figure emerged, his crimson cloak dragging like liquid night, his eyes glowing with a predatory gleam. His mere presence warped the air, as though the world itself bent under his will.
Lancer. The Vampire King.
Deyviel's stomach dropped. No… not here. Not now.
The vampire king's lips curled into a mocking grin as he stepped over the fallen knight, not even sparing his servant a glance. "Pathetic. Can't even slow down a boy."
Deyviel tightened his grip on the blade, sweat mixing with the blood already on his hands. "Fuck… why is he here?! He wasn't supposed to be here!" His mind screamed as his pulse roared in his ears.
Lancer didn't waste time. With a flicker too fast for the eye, his arm lashed out, claws gleaming like curved blades—aimed straight for Ethan's exposed neck.
"ETHAN!"
Deyviel's body moved before thought caught up. In one heartbeat he vanished from his spot, reappearing between Lancer and Ethan, blade flashing like lightning as it caught the strike. Sparks exploded on impact, the force sending a shockwave that rattled the broken ground beneath them.
"Oh…" Lancer chuckled, pushing harder against Deyviel's block. His golden eyes narrowed with interest, lips stretching into a sharp grin. "Not bad, kid."
grin widened, his body blurring out of sight.
Deyviel's eyes darted around—too late.
SHUKK!
The Vampire King reappeared right in front of him, his pale hand already phasing through Deyviel's chest. Fingers gripped his heart, cold and merciless.
Blood bubbled from Deyviel's lips. His blade slipped from his hand. His knees buckled.
"Tch… what a pity," Lancer whispered close to his ear, his voice calm and cruel. "Sorry, kid. Can't have you continue this loo—"
Everything shattered.
The world went black, then—glitched. Colors fractured into shards, sounds distorted, reality itself rewound and collapsed.
SHA-BAM!
Deyviel's eyes snapped open. He was standing in the Hunter HQ's war room, the sterile lights buzzing above. Around him, Ethan, Denver, Christine, Mizuno, and several others were gathered at a long table, poring over documents and a digital map.
"…So the Mindanao raid is our top priority," Ethan was saying. "Too many missing civilians. And now there are sightings—figures in hooded cloaks, red eyes flashing in the dark. If they're organized, it's worse than we thought."
Deyviel staggered back a step, his breath caught in his throat. What the hell…? A second ago, he was in front of Elisia's house, fighting for his life. Now—this?
His vision blurred. Flashes tore through his mind like lightning.
—Cymac lying lifeless, his chest blown apart.
—Ghellee and Elisia, bound and dragged away into the shadows.
—Alex, his face twisted in anger and grief. "You failed us, Deyviel. If you can't protect them, I will. Even if it means joining the Evangelist!"
The memories slammed into him all at once, foreign yet familiar, like they belonged to a life he hadn't lived—but had already lost.
Deyviel's knees hit the floor. He clutched his head with both hands.
"F-Fuck! No!" he gasped, his voice hoarse, eyes burning with pain.
"Deyviel!" Denver rushed over, grabbing his shoulder. "Bro, what's wrong?!"
Christine crouched beside him, worry etched across her face. "You don't look well. If you're sick or too exhausted, maybe sit this one out. We can handle the raid."
Ethan stood back, his sharp eyes narrowing, analyzing him but saying nothing.
Deyviel gritted his teeth, forcing himself up to his feet, refusing to look weak. His hand trembled, but he steadied it against the table, breathing hard.
"I'm good," he said firmly, even if his body screamed otherwise. "Don't worry—it's just a headache."
He looked straight at Christine, eyes blazing with grim determination.
"I'll keep everyone here safe. No matter what."
As the clash died down and the battlefield grew quiet, Deyviel staggered slightly, catching his breath. Sweat dripped from his forehead, mixing with the faint traces of blood on his cheek. But then, Maya's eyes widened in alarm.
"Deyviel… your arm—" she gasped, pointing.
Deyviel frowned, confused, and looked down. Etched into the skin of his right forearm was a glowing red tattoo he had never seen before. It pulsed faintly, as though it had its own heartbeat, its glow deepening whenever his own pulse quickened.
The mark wasn't like ordinary ink. It looked alive.
At its center was a jagged circular emblem, broken and incomplete, as if a ring had been shattered but forced together again. Lines resembling veins stretched outward like creeping cracks in glass, curling into sharp, intricate spirals that wrapped around his forearm and climbed toward his shoulder. Within the broken circle was a design like an open, grasping hand—its skeletal fingers stretching outward as though clutching for something unseen. Around the edges, faint etchings of runes twisted and bent like they were being devoured, their meaning impossible to read.
It wasn't random. It wasn't a tattoo. It was a brand.
"I… I don't remember ever getting this," Deyviel muttered, his brows knitting tightly. His voice carried a rare unease, something even Maya noticed immediately. "If I had, I would remember. I swear it."
No one present knew the truth of the mark. Not Maya, not Ben, not even Deyviel himself. But this was no ordinary curse or scar.
It was the Brand of Greed, one of the Seven Sin Series—a demonic power said to be lost to time, whispered in the oldest forbidden scriptures. Unlike the wrath he carried unknowingly, this mark sought not destruction, but possession. Its very nature was hunger—hunger for power, hunger for dominion, hunger for everything that was never meant to be his.
And though silent now, the brand seemed to watch.
A faint shiver ran down Deyviel's spine, and he unconsciously clenched his hand. For a split second, he swore he felt something tugging at his chest, like invisible chains tightening around him. But when he blinked, the sensation was gone.
Still, the brand pulsed—waiting.
Deyviel's body trembled, his hand still wrapped tight around the hilt of Yamato. His chest rose and fell in ragged breaths as the frozen palace cracked and melted around him, shards of blood-ice collapsing like dying stars. Maya and the others were frozen in awe—no one dared to speak, not when the impossible had just unfolded before their eyes.
And yet… someone was watching.
From a ruined balcony above the battlefield, a lone figure stood cloaked in shadow, his crimson eyes gleaming faintly beneath the hood. His gaze locked onto Deyviel, sharp and unblinking, as if weighing every ounce of the boy's existence.
"...Tch." He clicked his tongue, jaw tightening. "Shit. They already noticed him."
The man's form blurred. A single shift of air, and he was gone—vanishing into the folds of night as if he had never been there at all.
But the weight of his presence lingered. Deyviel felt a shiver crawl up his spine, Yamato humming in his grip like it had sensed the man as well. Whoever that was… they hadn't just been watching.
They were waiting.
The room buzzed with low chatter as weapons were checked, magazines stacked, and blades sharpened. The scent of oil and steel hung heavy in the air, mixing with the muted hum of the overhead lamps.
Then the door slid open with a metallic hiss.
Mizuno stepped inside, his arms stacked with folded uniforms. The others paused what they were doing, their eyes catching the distinct black fabric lined with crimson and gold. He laid them across the long table, one by one, with a faint smile tugging at his lips.
"Suit up," Mizuno said, voice calm but firm. "From this day forward, you're officially members of the Black Order."
The uniforms gleamed under the light. Jet-black coats stitched from reinforced material, tailored to fit for combat but sharp enough to wear with pride. A bold hunter's emblem—twin wings enclosing a sword, surrounded by a red ring—was etched over the left breast. Gold lining ran along the cuffs and shoulders, meeting with streaks of crimson at the sides, creating an impression of authority and power. Each coat bore a high collar and a utility belt, designed both for survival and for statement: they were hunters now, no mistaking it.
Denver slipped his on first and struck a pose in the mirror, laughing.
"Hahaha—it looks cool on me! Man, I'm loving it!" He twirled once, like showing off a new outfit at a fashion show.
But then he stopped, mid-laugh, brow furrowing as something tugged at him. Mizuno raised a brow, folding his arms.
"What's wrong? Did you want to change the size?"
Denver shook his head slowly. "No, I just…" he trailed off, staring at his sleeve as though searching for an answer written in the threads. "It's like… we've worn this uniform before. Or something similar."
His gaze shifted to Deyviel.
Deyviel hadn't put his coat on. He just stood there, staring at it with a blank, almost haunted expression. His hand hovered above the emblem like it carried a weight no one else could feel. His skin had paled, his lips tight.
"Hey, bruh, you okay? You look pale," Denver asked cautiously.
Deyviel blinked and forced his eyes away. "Nah. I'm fine. I just remembered something." His voice was flat, like he was holding back something he couldn't say.
He picked up the uniform without putting it on, shoved it into his bag, and slung it over his shoulder.
"I'll be waiting at the hunters' jet."
And with that, he walked out.
The door slid shut behind him, leaving Mizuno and Denver exchanging puzzled looks.
"...Weird," Denver muttered.
Mizuno exhaled, shaking his head. "We've all got our burdens. Let him carry his for now."
The two said nothing more, each silently adjusting their own coats as the weight of their new roles settled in.
The hangar echoed with the rumble of engines as the hunters filed into the massive carrier jet. Steel boots against steel floors, the faint vibration of machinery, the scent of fuel and sharpened steel—it was the weight of war in the air.
Ethan stood at the front, arms folded, eyes scanning each of them with a mix of pride and quiet worry. Beside him were the other captains, faces hardened by years of blood and battle. Among them was a man who introduced himself as Bryan Cooper.
Deyviel's eyes narrowed. His jaw clenched. Bryan Cooper…?
In the last loop, it wasn't Bryan. It was John who filled that seat. Why the hell did that change?
He clicked his tongue quietly and lowered his gaze, masking the storm inside.
The briefing was simple but heavy—intel on Mindanao, the missing people, the strange red-eyed figures. A raid that was meant to be quick reconnaissance had the weight of something far darker.
As they strapped in, Denver chatted nervously to break the tension, but Deyviel's eyes stayed distant. He glanced toward Christine, who sat across from him, a warm, steady presence amidst the tension. She had always acted as the big sister of their ragtag family, balancing Ethan's strict "older brother" role. She smiled reassuringly at Denver, then at him.
Deyviel looked down, his fists clenching.
Not this time.
This loop, Christine won't die. I swear it.
The engines roared to life, the carrier lifting into the dark night sky.
---
POV Shift
A vast chamber, dimly lit by torches embedded in the stone walls. At the center sat a man on a throne carved of blackened bone, his fingers drumming idly against the armrest as another man stood before him, reporting in hushed tones.
The throne-bound man scoffed, his voice sharp.
"Tch, what a stupid brat! Doesn't he realize what he is? Doesn't he have any idea that he can—"
He froze mid-sentence.
The massive chamber doors creaked open, and a chilling silence fell. A man stepped in, his footsteps steady, deliberate. His golden eyes gleamed with a predatory intensity that silenced even the torches, as though the fire bent away from him.
"We need to talk," he said, voice low, dangerous.
The throne man shifted uneasily, his composure cracking as those golden eyes pinned him in place.
Thunder split the sky outside, the flash illuminating his face.
It was... B....!
His expression was grim. Deadly serious.
And for the first time, even the one on the throne looked… unsettled.
To be continued...