Kiss of the vampire
"The Girl with the Sharp sword"
Mission 36 : Sin Series Bearer
Deyviel stood in silence, breath ragged, as his eyes snapped open. The copper scent of blood hung thick in the air, metallic and suffocating. His boots were already soaked in it—bodies sprawled all around him. The once-rowdy chamber of the senators had become a slaughterhouse.
Ethan and Mizuno lay crumpled against a cracked pillar, both alive but barely—breathing shallow, their bodies broken, blood running down their skin like rivers painting them red. Denver was nowhere to be seen at first, until Deyviel's gaze shifted downward—collapsed halfway beneath the torn floorboards, unconscious but breathing.
Everywhere else… silence.
The senator's men were nothing but mangled heaps of flesh and armor, limbs scattered as if they had been torn apart by an invisible storm.
And in the middle of it all… Senator Aldrine.
Deyviel's brows furrowed, confusion breaking through the haze. Just moments ago—he was certain of it—Lancer's hands were crushing his throat, his vision fading as Ifrit's flame seared the world black. Yet now, Lancer was gone. The flames gone. And all that remained was this wreckage.
He staggered forward, each step heavy, and knelt beside the broken senator. Aldrine's chest rose shallowly, a faint flicker of life clinging stubbornly to him. His once-commanding aura was reduced to frailty, the prideful weight of his Authority leaking away like air from a punctured lung.
"...What the hell happened…?" Deyviel muttered, pressing two fingers to Aldrine's neck. A pulse—weak, irregular, fading.
Aldrine's eyes fluttered open, crimson glow long extinguished, leaving only the gaze of a dying man. His lips trembled as blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.
"You… you're supposed… to be on our side…" he whispered, each word strained, ragged, as though spoken from the very bottom of his lungs. "…Not theirs. We're both… sins used…"
Deyviel stiffened, confusion gnawing deeper. "What the hell are you talking about?"
Aldrine coughed, blood bubbling up, painting his chin. His eyes burned with a strange recognition, as though he saw something in Deyviel no one else could. A truth buried too deep for Deyviel himself to grasp.
And then—silence. His head slumped sideways, the faint spark of life extinguished.
Deyviel froze in place, his hands still hovering near the man's throat, staring at the body as the senator's last words echoed over and over in his head.
Sins used… supposed to be on our side…
His jaw clenched, confusion twisting with dread. Whatever this was—it was bigger than the battlefield, bigger than the mission. And the fact that Lancer was gone, leaving only corpses and riddles behind, made it worse.
The silence was broken by the thunder of boots. Heavy steps, organized, disciplined. The metallic rhythm echoed through the ruined hall as armored figures pushed their way inside, weapons raised, eyes scanning the carnage.
The Quick Response Team.
Their helmets gleamed under the broken light fixtures, tactical masks hiding their faces. The blood-soaked air didn't even faze them—they were trained for this. But even they paused when they saw the massacre.
One of them barked out, "Secure the survivors!" Another pair rushed to Ethan and Mizuno, hauling them onto stretchers, while two more dragged Denver's limp body out from beneath the debris.
The leader, a broad man with a scar cut down the length of his mask, stopped in front of Deyviel. "What the hell happened here?" His voice was stern, demanding.
Deyviel's lips tightened. He glanced back at Aldrine's corpse, then at the blood painting the floor. His mind replayed the last few moments—Lancer's hand crushing his throat, the flames of Ifrit, the sudden blackness. And then… nothing.
"I…" He hesitated, the weight of uncertainty pressing against his ribs. "I don't know."
The leader stepped closer. "Don't lie to me. You're the only one standing. What happened?"
Deyviel exhaled sharply, frustration edging into his tone. "I'm telling you, I blacked out. One moment Lancer had me pinned… the next, I woke up here. Everyone was already down, and the senator…" He looked down at Aldrine's pale, lifeless face. "…the senator was like this."
The Q.R.T. commander narrowed his eyes, unconvinced, but Deyviel's raw exhaustion made it clear he wasn't hiding anything. At least, not intentionally.
After a long pause, Deyviel added quietly, "But before he died, he said something."
That got their attention. Several helmets turned toward him, silent, waiting.
"He told me… I wasn't supposed to be on 'their side.' That we're both… sins used." Deyviel's voice cracked faintly as he repeated it, the words still tasting foreign on his tongue. "I don't even know what the hell he meant."
The commander's jaw shifted behind the mask, his silence heavy. The Q.R.T. continued their work, hauling bodies, tending wounds, sweeping the bloodstained room. Yet the weight of those words clung to Deyviel, more suffocating than the blood-stench itself.
"Sins used…" one of the soldiers muttered under his breath, like the phrase was familiar, taboo.
Deyviel's fists clenched. He didn't understand what Aldrine had meant. But deep down, he knew one thing—this was no dying delirium. The senator had spoken with clarity, with intent.
And it was only the beginning of something far worse.
The Hunter's HQ buzzed faintly with activity. Medical stretchers rattled past, the groans of the injured echoing down the corridors as Ethan, Mizuno, and Denver were rushed to the infirmary. The sharp scent of antiseptic clashed with the iron stench of dried blood that still clung to Deyviel's clothes.
He found himself in the cafeteria, half-empty at this late hour, fluorescent lights flickering. A cup of coffee steamed between his hands, but it wasn't comforting. He stared into the black liquid as though it might hold answers.
What happened back there…? His mind was blank after Lancer's hand on his throat. One moment he was choking, the next he was standing in a sea of corpses with blood coating his boots. No memory, no explanation.
He rubbed his temples, frustration bubbling. "Damn it… why was I the only one standing?"
A shadow fell over him.
"Hey, kid. We need to talk."
Deyviel looked up sharply. Ben Rayleigh stood there, arms crossed, jaw tight. His usual calm, easygoing demeanor was gone—replaced with an edge of fury simmering just beneath his skin. His glare could cut steel.
Deyviel swallowed, slowly standing with his cup. "…Alright."
Ben didn't wait. He gestured with a sharp jerk of his head, leading the way down the empty hall. The silence between them was suffocating, every step heavier than the last. Deyviel trailed behind, clutching his coffee like it was the only stable thing left in his world.
They stopped in a quiet corridor, away from the eyes and ears of others.
Before Deyviel could open his mouth, Ben's fist connected with his cheek.
The world tilted, coffee spilling across the floor as Deyviel staggered back, nearly falling. His face throbbed, anger flaring in his chest. "What the hell was that for?!"
Ben grabbed him by the collar, snarling in his face. "What did you do?!"
"Did what?! You're not making sense!" Deyviel shoved his hand off, glaring. "You just sucker punched me and—"
"We're screwed because of you!" Ben roared, his voice cracking with a fury that sounded more like desperation. "Damn it, I should've stopped you the first time. I should've killed you then and there. But no—I gave you a chance. I thought maybe, just maybe, you could pull something off. And here we are—standing in the worst possible scenario!"
Deyviel froze. His pulse raced, his anger dimming into cold unease. "…Scenario? Worst? What the hell are you talking about, Captain Ben?"
Ben's breathing was ragged, his glare like fire boring into Deyviel. Then he said it.
"All the timelines are bleeding in."
The words slammed into Deyviel like a physical blow.
Ben continued, voice grim, absolute: "Our enemies are regaining their past timeline memories. Every failure, every reset—it's all catching up to us. They're starting to remember everything, kid. And it's because of you."
Deyviel's eyes widened, his breath hitching. His throat tightened as the weight of those words sank in. His nightmares. His visions. The echoes of deaths that weren't supposed to be remembered.
"No…" His voice was small, breaking. "No, that… that can't…"
Ben stepped closer, jabbing a finger against Deyviel's chest. "You need to stop looping, kid. Stop before you tear the fabric apart even worse than it already is."
Deyviel's hands trembled. His mind was a storm. "Looping…? What power are you even talking about?!"
Ben's jaw clenched, eyes narrowing as though he couldn't believe the question. Then, through gritted teeth, he spat:
"The time-looping you've been using, dumbass."
The words hung heavy, suffocating.
Deyviel's blood ran cold. His world tilted, everything inside him screaming in denial—but deep down, in the hollow of his gut, he knew. Every death he remembered. Every reset. Every déjà vu.
It wasn't coincidence. It was real.
And Ben knew.
Deyviel's head was spinning, his chest tight as he glared back at Ben.
"You're saying… this looping thing is my ability?"
Ben's expression hardened. "No."
That one word struck sharper than any blade.
Ben crossed his arms, eyes like steel. "That ability isn't yours, kid. It's mine."
Deyviel blinked, stunned. "What…? That—what do you mean it's yours? I'm the one who keeps waking up after dying. I'm the one living through the same hell over and over again!"
Ben stepped forward, his presence suffocating, like a storm pressing down on Deyviel's shoulders. "Exactly. Because somehow… you tapped into it. You're borrowing something that doesn't belong to you."
Deyviel's voice cracked, disbelief pouring out. "Then what about me?! What's mine?!"
Ben shook his head slowly, grim. "Nothing. Not yet. Your ability hasn't manifested. Or maybe… you don't have one at all."
Silence. The cafeteria clock ticked faintly in the distance, its sound like a drumbeat of doom.
Deyviel felt like the floor dropped beneath him. No ability. No anchor. No explanation. Just… empty.
Ben exhaled sharply, frustration twisting his features. "We need to confirm it. Fast. Because the enemies—" he jabbed a finger to the floor as if the weight of unseen threats lurked beneath them, "—are catching up. And when they do, this little mess of yours? Will be the least of our worries."
"The enemies…" Deyviel muttered, eyes narrowing. "The hell are you talking about? Outer gods? Apostles? Sin series users? You keep throwing names like I'm supposed to know what they mean."
Ben pinched the bridge of his nose, groaning. Not because of the question—no, because after dozens of loops, this brat still hadn't pieced together even fragments of the bigger picture. And now, their clock was ticking faster than ever.
"Damn it," Ben hissed under his breath. "All those loops, and you didn't see it. You didn't notice a damn thing. And now we're out of time." His jaw clenched, his patience fraying. He clicked his tongue, fists tightening.
But still, he spoke.
"Fine. Listen close, because I'm not repeating myself."
He raised one hand, fingers curling slightly as if enumerating them weighed on him.
"First—The Sin Series Users."
Deyviel felt something faintly burn along his forearm, though he didn't dare look yet.
"There are seven demonic series skills. Each tied to what you'd call the 'Seven Deadly Sins.'" Ben's voice was low, grave, like every syllable was a warning.
"Greed." He spat the word like venom. "The one marked by Greed consumes endlessly—not for food, but for power, possessions, people. Their hunger for ownership can strip others of strength itself, draining life and skill to make it theirs."
As Ben said the word, Greed, Deyviel's forearm tattoo flickered with a dim, eerie glow. He didn't notice—but Ben did. His eyes narrowed, though he didn't call it out. Not yet.
"Gluttony." Ben's lip curled. "The glutton doesn't just devour—they evolve. Every bite, every kill, every indulgence strengthens them. And worse? They gain resonance. The more sins awaken, the stronger Gluttony becomes—feeding off the others like a parasite."
Deyviel's skin prickled, the explanation sending a chill down his spine.
"Envy." Ben's tone sharpened. "The thief of destiny. The envious one copies, mimics, steals traits and abilities, twisting them as their own. Standing against them is like fighting yourself in a warped mirror."
He didn't give Deyviel time to process.
"Sloth." His voice turned low, bitter. "The sin of Laziness. Don't be fooled by the name—it's not harmless. The slothful one bends effort and cause itself. They drain others' will to act, make armies collapse without lifting a finger. Even time itself… slows around them. They turn stagnation into a weapon."
Deyviel's breath quickened, images flashing unbidden through his mind—of screams, corpses, oceans of blood.
"Lust." Ben's voice turned bitter. "Not just about flesh. It's control—domination of desire itself. With a word, a glance, they can twist the will of others, turning friends into puppets."
"Pride." Ben's expression darkened further. "Belief made weapon. The proud one sees themselves above all, bending reality to prove their superiority. Their arrogance fuels their strength—unchecked, unyielding. The longer you fight them, the more impossible they become to defeat."
Deyviel remembered Senator Aldrin's glowing mark… and felt bile rise in his throat.
"And last… Wrath." Ben's eyes hardened. "Pure, endless rage. Pain becomes fuel. Injury makes them stronger. Wrath burns until nothing's left but ash."
Ben lowered his hand, disgust written all over his face. "The people marked by these sins are called Apostles. Or, as they like to call themselves…" he sneered, the word heavy with loathing, "Envoys of the Gods."
Deyviel blinked, stunned. "…Envoys of who?"
Ben's gaze locked onto him, sharp and merciless. "The Outer Gods."
He leaned closer, his voice dropping, each word carved in stone. "Nine Outer Gods, kid. Each one manipulating these Apostles like pawns, whispering promises of mercy, salvation, power. But it's all a lie. They're pulling strings, and the Apostles… they dance."
Deyviel's throat was dry. "…Why? Why would these… Outer Gods want to invade Earth? Why us?"
Ben's stare hardened to iron.
"Because they want Earth's Divine Series. The Angelic Series." His tone was absolute, each word like a verdict.
"And with them… they'll stop being gods in whispers, shadows, and lies. They'll become True Gods of the multiverse."
The words hung in the air like a noose.
Deyviel's coffee mug, still clutched in his trembling hand, felt suddenly heavy, like stone. He swallowed, throat bone-dry, eyes fixed on Ben but not seeing him—because his mind was already racing through the images that had been bleeding into his dreams for weeks. The screams. The fire. The endless loop of loss.
"…Divine Series…?" His voice was barely above a whisper.
Ben exhaled through his nose, sharp and heavy, pacing like a caged wolf. "Yeah. Divine. Angelic. Call it what you want. Seven abilities forged to counterbalance the Sins. Rare. Terrifying. The kind of power that doesn't just shift a battlefield—it rewrites the goddamn rules."
He stopped, glaring down at Deyviel. "And if the Outer Gods get their claws on all seven? Then Earth won't just be invaded—it'll be erased. Replaced. The whole multiverse folds to them, and we're done. Every timeline, every chance, gone."
Deyviel's chest tightened. "Seven… Divine powers to counter the Seven Sins?"
Ben nodded once, grim. "Exactly. Light and dark. Angelic and Demonic. Balance—or what used to be balance. But here's the kicker, kid…" He jabbed a finger against Deyviel's chest, hard enough to shove him back into the cafeteria chair. "…we don't know where all seven are. Hell, we barely know where two of them are. And with the timelines bleeding together, the Outer Gods are learning faster than we are."
Deyviel's mouth opened, closed, opened again. His thoughts spun like a storm. "And… you're saying this looping power isn't mine. That it's yours."
"Exactly." Ben's gaze was iron. "My ability. Not yours."
"Then why the hell am I using it?!" Deyviel snapped, slamming the mug onto the table hard enough to crack it. Coffee splashed across his knuckles, burning, but he didn't care.
Ben leaned in close, shadows hardening the lines of his scarred face. "That's the question that keeps me up at night. I don't know if it's because of the bleeding timelines, or because something inside you lets you resonate with my power. But one thing's clear—" His tone dropped into a growl. "—you're tampering with forces you don't understand, and it's screwing us all."
Deyviel's pulse hammered in his ears. His body felt both ice-cold and boiling hot. "So… then what am I? What's mine?!"
Ben straightened, his silence heavier than any answer. His jaw flexed, his fists clenched, and for a long moment, he just looked at Deyviel like a man staring at a puzzle that could explode at any second.
Finally, he muttered, "That's what scares me, kid. You might not have anything. Or…" His eyes narrowed, calculating. "…what's yours hasn't awakened yet. Which means right now, you're dead weight—or worse. A liability."
The words hit harder than any punch. Deyviel's heart sank like lead. He gritted his teeth, fists trembling. No ability. Nothing. Just a mistake living in someone else's shadow.
But before he could speak, Ben turned, his hand dragging down his face in visible frustration. "Damn it… every second we waste, they get closer. Apostles regaining memories from old loops, Outer Gods whispering louder, and you—" he jabbed toward Deyviel without looking back, "—playing with powers you don't even own."
He slammed his fist against the cafeteria wall, the sound echoing like a gunshot. "We're running out of time."
Deyviel forced his voice through the lump in his throat. "…What's the name of it? Your power."
Ben stopped cold. His back was to Deyviel, shoulders tense.
"…Chrono Reversion." He said the words like a sentence, low and heavy. "At its base stage, it's simple—reset the board a few turns back, give the player another shot. But at higher stages…" His voice dropped into something darker. "…you don't even want to know what it can do."
Deyviel's eyes widened, his chest tightening again as he whispered the name to himself. Chrono Reversion.
Ben finally turned back to him, eyes like iron daggers. "But here's the problem, kid—you've been using it like a hammer on glass. Crude. Messy. And now the cracks are spreading."
"…The bleeding timelines."
Ben nodded once. "Exactly. You keep borrowing my ability without control, and every loop you drag into this one? It drags their memories too. Apostles. Outer Gods. All of them catching up, step by step. And soon…" He leaned close, his voice a whisper like a blade against the throat. "…they'll know everything you know."
The color drained from Deyviel's face.
For a long moment, silence reigned. Only the faint tick of the cafeteria clock filled the air.
Finally, Deyviel forced himself to speak, his voice hoarse. "…Then tell me. What do I do?"
Ben studied him, eyes narrowing, his expression unreadable. Then he finally sighed through clenched teeth, muttering under his breath.
"…First, we figure out what the hell you are. Because if you don't awaken soon, kid…" His gaze sharpened, cold and merciless. "…you'll either get us all killed, or worse—you'll hand the Outer Gods exactly what they want."
Deyviel's voice cracked as he slammed his fist against the cafeteria table, the untouched coffee trembling in its cup.
"Then why the hell are we even fighting for the gates?!" he snapped. "Why are people dying for them? Why did they take Ghellee and Elisia?!"
His chest burned as he remembered their faces—their screams fading into nothing.
Ben's gaze dropped, his jaw tightening. For a moment, Deyviel thought he wouldn't answer. But then, slowly, the captain exhaled.
"…Because it's all a distraction."
Deyviel froze.
Ben continued, his tone colder than steel. "Yes, the Guardians of the Hell Gates carry primordial weapons. Yes, their power matters. But not yet. That's not what the enemy's after right now. They want us chasing shadows, splitting our forces, bleeding ourselves dry. They want us desperate."
Deyviel's knuckles turned white. "…Then what do they really want?"
Ben's eyes lifted, and for the first time, Deyviel swore he saw something like fear flicker there.
"The Divine Series."
The words hit like a hammer.
Ben stepped closer, his voice heavy. "Long ago, when the first Fallen Angel descended, cast down by our one true God, he scattered fragments of heaven's final weapons—the Angelic Series. Each fragment found a host, attaching itself to the right person across timelines. They're the only things that can kill an Outer God. That's what they're after. Not the gates. Not the weapons. The Series."
Deyviel's breath caught, his thoughts spinning. "And the Guardians? Why turn on us? Weren't they supposed to protect humanity?"
Ben's expression hardened into something grim, almost hollow. "…They did. Once. But the Gates aren't just locks, kid—they're bridges. Behind each one festers a dimension where the Outer Gods were sealed away. That poison leaked into the Guardians. Corrupted them. Twisted protectors into executioners."
The cafeteria suddenly felt too small, too suffocating.
Ben's voice dropped lower, heavy with finality. "And now the seals are weakening. The timelines are bleeding into each other. That's why our enemies are regaining their past memories. Every loop, every fracture, pulls us closer to collapse."
Deyviel felt sick. His stomach churned as the weight of it all bore down on him. "So… what you're saying is…"
Ben cut him off, his tone sharp as a blade. "What I'm saying is—we're already out of time. And you…" His eyes narrowed, piercing straight into Deyviel's soul.
"…are making it worse."
Deyviel flinched. "What the hell do you mean by that?!"
Ben's fist slammed against the wall, making the room shake. He leaned in close, his voice a growl.
"Because you're a Sin Series user too."
The world seemed to tilt. Deyviel's pulse thundered in his ears as the faint burn on his forearm ignited into a searing, undeniable glow—letters, symbols, etching themselves like fire beneath his skin.
The mark of Greed.
Ben's final words came like a death sentence:
"And that makes you their greatest weapon… or our biggest damn mistake."
To be continued.