Kiss of the vampire
"The Girl with the Sharp sword"
Mission 35: Bleeding in
The cavern shook with a low groan as the pulsating cocoon tore apart—not into flesh, but into emptiness.
The walls split, stone folding back like rotten wood, and in its place appeared something far more terrifying.
A massive gate towered before them, jagged and black as obsidian, carved with symbols that burned crimson. The air around it warped, hot and freezing at once, every breath scraping their lungs. Shadows writhed along the surface of the gate, screaming faces pressing against it from within. The sound was maddening—like thousands of souls clawing against steel.
Denver's stomach twisted violently. His instincts screamed at him to run, yet his grip only tightened on his blade. "What the hell… is this?"
Deyviel's eyes widened. His body locked in place as he stared at the monolith before them. His crimson gaze reflected the hellish glow of the carvings. "…A gate. No… not just a gate." His voice cracked in rare disbelief. "The Hell Gate. It's already open."
Denver didn't fully understand, but he didn't need to. His entire body was trembling, not from fear but from his instincts screaming that leaving this thing open was a mistake. A very, very bad mistake.
"Then we shut it!" Denver roared, muscles tensing. He shifted into a sprint, blade raised, ready to carve through whatever cursed lock held the monstrosity open.
But before he could take more than a step—
"Ahhh!"
Deyviel collapsed to his knees, clutching his skull with both hands. His sword clattered against the stone, the sound sharp and hollow in the suffocating cavern.
Denver spun back, panic flashing in his eyes. "Deyviel!"
The boy's breath came ragged, his entire body shuddering as if torn apart from the inside. His crimson eyes flickered wildly, his aura spiking and collapsing in violent waves.
Memories—fragments of battles, deaths, betrayals, choices—rushed through him all at once. Faces of comrades who had lived, died, or never even existed in this timeline. Armies burning. The Outer Gods breaking through. Catherine's cold eyes. Maya's scream. Ben's hand reaching out—again and again.
Different timelines. Different endings. All bleeding into one.
His teeth ground together, blood running from his nose as he forced the words through his throat.
"Ahh… damn it! What is it this time!?" His voice cracked, echoing in the cavern.
The flood of memories refused to stop.
A thousand versions of himself dying.
A thousand versions of himself losing.
And the rare, cursed ones—where he won, but the cost was worse than death.
Finally, the storm ebbed. Deyviel's breath came heavy, his eyes wide, haunted, his palms stained with his own blood.
"…Fuck." He whispered, the word dripping with a weight Denver had never heard from him before. Slowly, he lifted his head, crimson gaze locked on the gate. "This timeline is fucked. All those timelines… are bleeding into this one."
The air shifted.
A low laugh slithered through the cavern, at first soft, then louder, growing into a booming voice that shook the stone around them. The shadows near the gate stretched, coiling into a figure cloaked in black.
"Yeah…"
The voice was mocking, calm, and terrifyingly familiar.
"…You're absolutely right, brat."
Denver froze, raising his blade defensively as the figure stepped forward, pale skin catching the crimson glow of the Hell Gate. His eyes gleamed like sharpened rubies, his grin wide, cruel, and triumphant.
Lancer.
The progenitor. The king of monsters. The one they had no hope of facing here.
Deyviel's breath caught, his body stiffening as he met that gaze.
Lancer spread his arms casually, as if welcoming them into his throne room. "And thanks to you… I'm ten steps ahead. Every move, every choice—you've been dancing in my palm."
His grin widened, eyes glowing brighter, voice dripping with mockery.
"You can't do anything to stop me now. This… is checkmate."
The cavern quaked as his laughter erupted, shaking the Hell Gate itself, the echoes slamming against their skulls like hammers.
"Hahahahahaha! I already won this war, kid!"
Deyviel's crimson eyes narrowed, his fists trembling against the stone, while Denver stood frozen between rage and despair. The gate pulsed once more behind Lancer, its light growing, as if the abyss itself had been waiting for this very moment.
The cavern pulsed with a crimson glow as the Hell Gate throbbed like a living heart behind Lancer.
In his hands—or rather, around them—flared burning gauntlets and greaves, molten chains coiling around his arms and legs before locking into solid black-and-red steel. The air shimmered with heat as the weapon came fully alive.
"Ifrit," Lancer said smoothly, flexing his fingers. Fire erupted in sharp bursts across his knuckles. "A gift from the depths. The first of nine. Beautiful, isn't it?"
Deyviel staggered to his feet, wiping the blood from his lips. His crimson eyes locked onto the burning gauntlets. His grip tightened around the Red Queen.
Denver positioned himself at his side, dual blades drawn, flames licking their edges.
"You talk too much," Denver spat. His body flared with fire, his aura burning hot, filling the chamber with roaring heat to match Lancer's.
Lancer only chuckled. "Good. Show me the fire of your generation. I want to see how long you can dance before I break you."
And then—he vanished.
A streak of fire cut across the chamber, and suddenly Denver was lifted off his feet, a blazing fist buried in his stomach. He coughed blood, crashing into the stone wall, shattering it like brittle glass.
"Denver!" Deyviel roared, swinging the Red Queen down in a fiery arc.
Lancer caught it. Barehanded. Ifrit's gauntlet burned against the greatsword's edge, sparks screeching as steel met demon-forged flame. His grin widened as he twisted, yanking the blade aside and driving a blazing kick into Deyviel's chest.
The boy flew backward, slamming into the cavern floor, cracks spiderwebbing out from the impact. His lungs rattled, blood flecking his teeth as he forced himself up again.
But Lancer didn't relent. He was already there.
"Move, brat!" Denver's voice echoed as he reappeared, twin blades carving down in a cross-slash wreathed in fire.
Lancer weaved between the strikes like smoke, his movements effortless. One hand blocked Denver's right blade, Ifrit's knuckles glowing brighter, while his knee came up in a brutal arc, smashing into Denver's ribs. Bone cracked.
Denver roared in pain but didn't fall—he twisted, forcing his left blade upward. The steel grazed Lancer's cheek, drawing a shallow cut. For the briefest moment, Denver's eyes lit up with grim satisfaction.
Lancer only laughed. "Not bad."
His free hand blazed, then swung down. A fiery hammer-fist slammed into Denver's back, driving him into the ground.
Deyviel surged in, his Red Queen igniting as his aura flared, mimicking the stance Ben once taught him. He slashed down with a cleaving overhead strike, his crimson eyes blazing.
For a moment, the clash of steel and fire created a whirlwind of sparks—like the two were locked in a choreographed dance, one strike answering the other. Deyviel's sword whirled and swept, Denver's twin blades cutting upward in tandem. They flowed together, attacking from both sides, their rhythm perfect.
But Lancer was faster. Stronger.
Every move they made, he was already three steps ahead.
A twist of his wrist, a tilt of his head, a single step—Ifrit's burning limbs crushed their rhythm.
Deyviel lunged with a thrust—Lancer deflected with a flick, his fist grazing Deyviel's jaw with a blazing hook, sending sparks and blood flying. Denver leapt in with a spinning slash, his flames roaring—but Lancer slid beneath him, his kick catching Denver mid-air, hurling him across the cavern like a rag doll.
The two regrouped, battered, yet refusing to back down. They rushed him again, fury burning brighter than reason.
And Lancer indulged them.
He danced with them, weaving through their desperate flurry of strikes. Ifrit's gauntlets blazed like miniature suns, every punch a cannon blast, every kick an eruption of flame. His laughter echoed with every clash.
"You've got spirit, I'll give you that!" he taunted, blocking Deyviel's slash with one arm and kicking Denver into a pillar with the other. The stone cracked apart like sand under the impact.
Deyviel roared, ki bursting violently from his body, forcing his sword into an overhead spin. He poured everything into the strike, his crimson aura spiraling upward like a tornado of rage.
Lancer caught it with a single flaming hand. The Red Queen screeched as Ifrit's gauntlets held it at bay, sparks exploding violently between them. Deyviel's eyes widened, teeth gritting as he pushed harder.
But Lancer only leaned closer, his grin cruel.
"You've got his eyes," he whispered, voice dripping with venom. "But you're still just a child."
Then—BOOM.
Lancer's knee exploded upward into Deyviel's gut. The boy choked on blood, his grip faltering. A moment later, Lancer spun, his flaming heel smashing across Deyviel's jaw, launching him through the air like a broken doll.
Denver staggered back to his feet, blood dripping from his mouth, ribs shattered but his fire still burning. He charged again with a defiant roar.
Lancer didn't even face him. He simply extended his arm backward, Ifrit blazing, and caught Denver's blade mid-swing.
"Enough," he said.
The gauntlet ignited in a violent burst, flames consuming Denver's sword and racing up his arm. Denver screamed as the fire seared through his aura, his weapon melting in Lancer's grip.
With a flick, Lancer hurled him aside.
Both warriors lay broken on the cavern floor, struggling to rise, their breaths ragged, their bodies scorched and bloodied.
Lancer stood tall above them, fire licking across his fists, his grin cruel and victorious. The Hell Gate pulsed behind him, growing brighter, feeding on his triumph.
"You fought well," he said mockingly. "But this dance is over. And as I told you, boy…" His crimson eyes burned into Deyviel's, his grin widening.
"…I already won."
The heat pressed down like a living thing. Every breath burned as though their lungs were lined with glass. The cavern's air shimmered, distorted by the sheer fury radiating from Ifrit. The Hell Gate behind Lancer pulsed harder, like it was drinking in the fight—feeding on despair.
Denver forced himself to roll onto his knees, coughing blood into the stone. His arms trembled violently, skin blistered where the fire had kissed him. His left blade was half-melted, jagged like broken glass. He gritted his teeth, forcing the words out through the blood.
"…I'm not… done yet."
His flames flickered to life again, weak but still burning, a stubborn ember that refused to die.
Deyviel staggered upright beside him, the Red Queen dragging along the ground, leaving a thin scar across the stone floor. His crimson eyes locked on Lancer, hate and defiance boiling even as his body threatened to collapse beneath him.
Lancer tilted his head, almost curious. His grin never faltered. "Still standing? Hm. Maybe I underestimated the fire in you after all." He cracked his knuckles, the Ifrit gauntlets glowing brighter. "Good. That just means I get to enjoy breaking you a little longer."
He vanished again.
Deyviel's instincts screamed—he raised the Red Queen just in time to block. Ifrit crashed against the blade with an earth-shattering crack, sparks exploding in a storm of red and gold. The force drove him back three steps before Lancer's knee caught him in the gut. The impact stole the air from his lungs; he nearly folded in half before Lancer slammed an elbow down on the back of his neck, planting him into the stone.
"Deyviel!" Denver roared, forcing his battered legs into motion. He spun his dual blades forward in a fiery whirlwind, pouring the last of his strength into a desperate gambit.
Lancer slid into it with predatory ease. He ducked one strike, caught the other, and twisted—Denver's wrist snapped with a sickening crack. His scream echoed, cut short by a blazing uppercut that sent him spiraling into the air.
Lancer met him mid-fall, slamming a heel kick into his chest. Denver hit the cavern floor so hard it shook, the stone beneath him spiderwebbing out in jagged cracks.
Deyviel's aura flared again—wild, unstable. He rose with a roar, his sword carving a massive arc of crimson ki that ripped through the cavern like a tidal wave. The blast slammed into Lancer, engulfing him in a storm of fire and energy.
For one breathless moment, Denver thought—maybe.
But when the smoke cleared, Lancer was still standing. Untouched. The gauntlets blazed even brighter, having devoured the attack like fuel. His grin widened.
"That all?" he asked, almost disappointed.
Deyviel froze, sweat and blood mixing down his face. His hands shook, not from fear, but from fury—at Lancer, at the gate, at himself. He remembered the timelines, the failures, the weight of infinite mistakes pressing down on him. His crimson eyes blazed hotter.
"No…" he rasped, dragging Red Queen into a stance. "Not until I—"
Lancer moved faster than thought. One instant, he was yards away; the next, his burning hand was around Deyviel's throat, lifting him off the ground like he weighed nothing.
"You don't understand, boy," Lancer said, voice low, almost intimate. His grip tightened, fire searing Deyviel's skin. "This isn't your story to win. This isn't your time. You're just… a stepping stone."
He hurled Deyviel across the cavern. The boy's body crashed into the stone wall with a deafening boom, half-burying him in rubble. Blood ran down his forehead, his breath shallow, his aura flickering like a dying flame.
Denver tried to rise again. Tried to call his flames back one more time. But his body gave out, dropping him to his knees. His vision blurred.
Lancer walked toward them, casual, predatory, every step echoing with finality.
"You fought well," he repeated, almost mockingly. "But this dance ends here. And the world—" he spread his arms, the Hell Gate's light flaring brighter behind him, shadows writhing like beasts clawing to be free—
"—belongs to me."
The cavern groaned as the Gate pulsed harder, its runes flaring, its surface bulging with the shapes of things trying to claw their way out. The heat turned suffocating, the stench of burning iron and blood choking the air.
Deyviel's vision swam, his mind flickering between this moment and the countless others he had seen in the bleeding timelines. A thousand deaths. A thousand defeats. All converging here.
And through the haze, he could still hear Lancer's laughter, cruel and victorious, filling the cavern.
Deyviel's knees buckled under the crushing weight of Lancer's presence. His sword slipped from numb fingers as his lungs burned, fighting for air. His vision wavered, the battlefield swimming before him.
Then his eyes rolled back.
Everything flickered into black.
Like a puppet with its strings cut, his body slumped—only to rise again, movements jagged and unnatural, as if pulled up by invisible strings. His head tilted slowly, lips peeling into a grin that wasn't his own.
What stepped forward was not Deyviel.
The air turned heavy, rancid, thick as tar. The very shadows bled outward, curling across the ground like living tendrils. Even the unconscious bodies of his allies twitched, recoiling instinctively from the aura now pouring out of him. The battlefield groaned under the pressure, as though reality itself strained.
Lancer froze.
He had fought wars across centuries. He had watched nations burn, watched heroes fall, crushed rebellions in fire and blood. Nothing had ever made him pause. Nothing—until now.
The boy was gone. What stood before him was something else, something far older. The movements weren't human. The grin too wide. The aura—he knew it.
That aura… I've felt it before. In another life. Another timeline.
The memory rose unbidden, and for the first time in decades, bile touched his throat. This wasn't just a brat awakening power. No—this was the stench of the Outer Gods. The avatar of destruction itself.
Then the voice came.
Not aloud. Not with lips. It slid into his skull, sharp and venomous, coiling through his mind like barbed wire. Smooth, mocking, aristocratic in its refinement.
"Go, you scared cat. Run. It won't matter even if you escape."
Lancer's hand tightened on his sword hilt until the leather creaked. His breath hitched, his gaze locked on the boy's warped smile.
"I know where to find you. And when I do, I'll make your death as miserable as possible… so you can savor the ultimate fear, the deepest pain, and suffering beyond end."
Then came the laughter.
Not human. Not beast. Something fractured, jagged—echoing in layers, like a hundred voices shrieking in unison. It crawled beneath his skin, rotting into his bones until his body screamed at him to flee.
The boy's lips stretched wider, splitting into a grin so grotesque, so unnatural, that even Lancer—Lancer, who feared nothing—felt his stomach lurch.
"Even this boy won't know… that I'm already here."
Lancer turned, cloak snapping in the wind. He didn't retreat with strategy. He fled.
Because for the first time in his long, bloody life, he had been reminded of what it felt like to be prey.
And as he vanished into the shadows, the thought clawed at him with merciless certainty:
If this is the boy's future… then even victory will taste like ash.
To be continued..