Kiss of the vampire
" The Girl with the Sharp sword"
Mission 37 : Doubts
The infirmary was quiet except for the soft beeping of the mana monitors and the faint hum of the crystal lights overhead. Deyviel sat slouched in the chair beside Denver's bed, hands clasped so tight his knuckles whitened. His gaze stayed locked on the floor tiles, unmoving.
"...Tch, damn it," he muttered under his breath. Ben's words wouldn't leave him. Stay low. Don't awaken it. I'll keep you close so you don't screw things up again.
His jaw clenched. Branded. Sin-bearer. Enemy.
"No," he whispered, shaking his head. "No, I won't let that decide who I am. If this damn mark's mine, then I'll twist it. I'll use it to protect them. I won't give in."
His voice was little more than a growl. "I won't."
The sound of shifting sheets snapped him back. Denver groaned, blinking awake, his face pale but his eyes alert.
"Hey, you good?" Deyviel asked quickly, leaning forward. Relief softened his tone for the first time in days.
Denver rubbed his temple. "...Hey, man. Where am I? Where's everyone?"
"We're back at HQ. Infirmary. The others are stable. Ethan and Mizuno… they're in rough shape, but they'll make it. Took heavy damage, but they're fighters." Deyviel forced a small smile. "How you feeling, brother?"
Denver exhaled, wincing as he shifted. "I'll live. But…" His eyes sharpened suddenly, fixing on Deyviel with a seriousness that made the air between them heavier. "Let me ask you something. How did you do that?"
Deyviel blinked, caught off guard. "Do what?"
"Don't play dumb." Denver's voice was low, insistent. "Beating Lancer. He had you by the throat—he was crushing you. I saw it. Then suddenly…"
The memory slammed back into Denver's mind, unbidden.
Even half-conscious, even with his vision swimming, he had seen it.
Deyviel, dangling from Lancer's iron grip, eyes dull with fading strength.
Then—something shifted. Something inhuman.
He remembered the sound. A crackle, like reality itself breaking, followed by the guttural snarl from Deyviel's lips. Then, with impossible strength, he wrenched free and drove his fist into Lancer's chest.
The proud progenitor staggered. Staggered.
Deyviel's movements after that weren't just fast—they were merciless. A blur of fists and kicks, each blow landing with a sickening crunch. Lancer's primordial weapons—Ifrit burning crimson, a second blade shrieking with void energy—meant nothing. Every strike Deyviel delivered tore through them, as though the weapons were nothing more than cheap glass.
And worse—Denver remembered Deyviel's voice.
Not the one he knew.
A colder one. Sharper. British, almost mocking.
"You don't know who you're messing with, filth."
Then came the onslaught. Punches that bypassed regeneration, kicks that shattered Lancer's defenses, every impact wringing screams from the ancient vampire until even Lancer himself cried out, begging him to stop.
And then—Deyviel laughed. Low. Hollow. Cruel.
He let go. Just like that. Turned his back as though the entire beatdown had been nothing more than swatting at a pest. Denver had seen Lancer, broken and bloodied, glare up in horror before his own consciousness gave way.
The vision bled away, leaving Denver staring at his friend in the present. His voice was tight, almost trembling.
"That. That's what I mean. You beat him like he was nothing. Like you switched into something else. What the hell was that, Deyviel? What are you?"
Deyviel froze. His lips parted, but no words came out. Not denial, not explanation.
Because the truth was—he didn't know.
He hadn't seen what Denver saw. He hadn't remembered the voice, the brutality, the way Lancer screamed. To him, it was just blackness. One moment choking. The next—standing among corpses.
And so, for the first time, Deyviel could only stare back at his brother-in-arms, as lost and terrified as Denver was.
Deyviel's throat was dry. His palms trembled slightly, hidden against his knees. Denver's question hung in the air like a blade at his neck.
"What the hell was that, Deyviel? What are you?"
For a long moment, he couldn't speak. His mind raced back to the blackouts, the corpses, the Senator's dying words, Ben's accusations. Not yours. Mine. You have nothing.
He swallowed hard, forcing sound through a tightening chest.
"I… I don't know." His voice cracked, raw and unsteady. "I swear, Denver. I don't know what you saw. I don't remember any of it."
Denver's eyes narrowed, doubt flickering in them, but he said nothing. The silence that followed was louder than any accusation.
Inside, Deyviel's thoughts clawed at him, vicious and relentless.
What if it wasn't me? What if that voice, that monster, isn't something I can control?
The laughing… the way Lancer begged. That wasn't me. That can't be me.
But if it isn't… then who the hell is inside me?
He gritted his teeth, pressing a hand over his chest as if to still the frantic beating of his heart. The mark on his forearm pulsed faintly, hidden beneath his sleeve, a reminder that Ben's warning wasn't just paranoia.
Denver leaned forward despite his injuries, his gaze heavy. "You're hiding something, brother. I saw it with my own eyes. You—"
The door clicked open.
Both their heads snapped toward the sound.
A familiar figure stepped into the infirmary, her long black hair tied loosely behind her, her violet eyes sharp even in the dim glow. Maya.
Her gaze darted between them, catching the tension in the air, but she didn't comment. Instead, her voice was firm, businesslike.
"Deyviel. The generals and Captain Ben are waiting. Meeting room. Now."
Deyviel blinked, caught between relief and dread. He rose slowly, grabbing the untouched coffee cup from the small table by Denver's bed as though the mundane action might steady him.
Denver's eyes never left him, suspicion lingering, unspoken questions burning. But the conversation was over—for now.
As Deyviel followed Maya out, her footsteps echoing down the hall beside his, his thoughts churned.
I told him the truth… I don't know. But does he believe me? Do I even believe myself?
The faint phantom of laughter—his own, yet not his—echoed in the back of his skull.
And no answer came.
Denver leaned back against the pillows, his breathing steady but his mind far from calm. His body still ached from the fight underground, but the ache wasn't what gnawed at him.
It was the image burned into his memory.
Deyviel—bloody, furious, yet… different. The way he had moved, the way his fists had torn through Lancer as if the vampire progenitor's primordial weapons meant nothing. Every strike looked like it carried something beyond raw strength—like the world itself bent to make sure they landed.
And that voice.
That wasn't the Deyviel he knew.
"You don't know who you're messing with, filth…" The words echoed in his skull, foreign yet carried on Deyviel's lips. The cadence, even the accent, wasn't his.
Denver clenched his fists under the blanket, jaw tight.
He says he doesn't remember. But I saw it. I was there.
Images flashed again—Lancer's scream, the sound of bones cracking under relentless blows, the manic laughter that followed.
"That wasn't just strength," Denver muttered under his breath, staring up at the sterile ceiling. "That was something else. Something that doesn't belong here…"
For the first time since he joined the Hunters, fear crept up his spine—not of the vampires, not of the hell gates. But of his own teammate.
Who the hell are you, Deyviel?
The door shut behind them, leaving Denver alone with his thoughts. He exhaled slowly, forcing his eyes closed, but even in the dark, he saw it again—his friend turning into something unrecognizable.
Cut to Deyviel.
The corridor felt longer than usual as he followed Maya toward the meeting room. The hum of fluorescent lights overhead filled the silence, the quiet far heavier than any battlefield roar.
When they reached the reinforced doors, two guards stood at attention. One gave a curt nod before pulling the door open.
Inside, the atmosphere was suffocating. A long steel table stretched across the room, lined with grim-faced generals. Maps, dossiers, and half-burnt cigars cluttered the surface. At the far end, Ben Rayleigh leaned against the wall with arms crossed, his sharp eyes locked onto Deyviel the moment he entered.
Maya stepped aside, giving him a subtle nudge forward.
Deyviel straightened his posture, but his chest still felt heavy from Denver's questions, from the silence that followed.
Ben's voice broke the air, low and edged with restrained fury.
"Sit down, kid. We've got a lot to talk about."
Deyviel pulled the chair back and sat, feeling every pair of eyes drilling into him. His fingers tightened around the coffee cup until he realized his knuckles had gone white.
The weight of judgment pressed in from every corner of the room. And for the first time, he wondered if the danger wasn't just outside these walls—but seated right here, inside himself.
The meeting room carried the weight of authority. A long oak table stretched across the chamber, its polished surface reflecting the stern faces of decorated generals, each with their medals pinned like reminders of hard-won wars. Deyviel stood at the center, posture straight but eyes shifting slightly, betraying the nerves beneath his calm exterior.
General Monica leaned back, her porcelain cup steaming faintly as she sipped tea. Her eyes, sharp as blades, measured Deyviel. Beside her, General McDougal tapped his fingers against the table, studying him with a gaze that cut deeper than any blade.
"First," one of the older generals began, stroking his white beard, "commendations are in order. Driving away Lancer is no small feat, boy. That monster wields two primordial weapons, yet here you stand alive. How did you manage that?"
All eyes fell on him.
Deyviel swallowed, his throat dry. He scratched the back of his neck and forced a sheepish smile.
"I… don't know, sir. Honestly. Everything after I blacked out is just… gone."
A silence stretched—uncomfortable, heavy—before Denver's earlier words echoed in Deyviel's mind. He had pressed him with the same question, and Deyviel had answered the same way. Only now, it sounded even less convincing under the crushing weight of the generals' scrutiny.
Then McDougal leaned forward, his sharp eyes narrowing as they fixed on Deyviel's right forearm.
"…New tattoo?" he asked, voice low but probing.
Deyviel blinked, following his gaze. The faint, strange mark etched into his skin pulsed under the table's light. He rubbed it absentmindedly, forcing a laugh.
"Ah… yeah, I guess so, sir…" He dropped his gaze, voice trailing off awkwardly.
McDougal's chair creaked as he pushed himself to his feet, his boots clicking against the floor as he slowly circled toward Deyviel. His eyes were filled with recognition—an unease that made the younger soldiers shift in their seats.
But just as the tension threatened to snap, Ben Rayleigh rose from his seat. His presence was like a wall slamming down between McDougal and Deyviel. His voice carried a controlled sharpness, commanding attention.
"My agenda for calling the brat here is simple," he said, crossing his arms. "I'll have him train with me. From now on, he'll be joining my squad."
The statement froze the room.
McDougal stopped in his tracks, his head turning toward Rayleigh. His expression was unreadable, but there was a flicker of irritation.
"…Why is that, Rayleigh?" he asked carefully.
Ben's gaze didn't waver.
"Because I see potential in him. Potential we can't afford to waste. If we make him stronger, if we hone that potential, then maybe next time we won't lose one of our own. If you allow it, of course."
Monica set her cup down with a soft clink. She crossed her legs and arched a brow, voice laced with casual challenge.
"You do realize he's already part of the Black Knights, don't you? Captain Ethan won't take kindly to having his soldier pulled away."
"Yes, ma'am," Rayleigh replied evenly. "I'm aware. I already asked Captain Ethan for permission. It won't be a problem."
The generals exchanged quiet murmurs, some leaning closer, others frowning. The room brimmed with unspoken tension—Rayleigh's boldness clashing with McDougal's suspicion, Monica's probing tone pressing for cracks, and Deyviel caught in the center of it all.
The murmurs rose and fell like waves against the walls. Some of the older generals eyed Ben with approval—respecting his reputation, his unmatched record in battle. Others, like McDougal, carried suspicion sharp enough to cut through steel.
Finally, General Alvarez, a heavy-set man with a scar running down his cheek, spoke gruffly.
"Potential or not, Rayleigh, we're talking about a Rank C soldier. You're asking us to believe he survived Lancer out of raw talent, not blind luck?"
Deyviel stiffened, biting his lip. He wanted to speak up, but Rayleigh's voice came first—steady, unshaken.
"Luck doesn't scar Lancer." His eyes slid to Deyviel's forearm, then back to the table. "That brat fought him head-on and lived. That alone tells me he's worth more than numbers on a ranking sheet."
McDougal's eyes narrowed further. "Or it tells us there's something about him we don't understand yet. Something dangerous." He leaned forward, resting both palms on the table. "That mark on his arm—"
"—Is irrelevant to this discussion." Rayleigh's tone was sharp, shutting down the words before McDougal could press further. "If there's something to investigate, fine, do it. But in the meantime, I'll take responsibility for the boy. You won't find a safer place to keep him under watch than at my side."
The room fell quiet again. The generals exchanged looks, each gauging the undercurrents. Monica's lips curved into the faintest smirk, watching the unspoken clash between McDougal and Rayleigh.
At last, Monica set her cup down with a decisive clink.
"…If Captain Ethan has already approved, then I see no grounds to reject the proposal." Her voice was calm but carried weight. "Black Knights or not, Rayleigh's squad has proven results. If he believes the boy has value, let him prove it."
One by one, the other generals gave curt nods, some with reluctance, some with indifference. Only McDougal stayed silent, his jaw tight, his eyes still on the strange mark on Deyviel's arm.
Finally, the oldest of them all, General Montrose, cleared his throat.
"Very well. Rayleigh, the boy is yours to mold. But hear this: if his presence proves to be a liability… it will be your responsibility."
Rayleigh gave a short, respectful nod. "Understood."
The decision hung in the air like a gavel strike.
Deyviel shifted uneasily, unsure if he should feel relieved or even more trapped. His eyes darted briefly toward McDougal, whose gaze hadn't left him even once. There was recognition there—something the general wasn't saying out loud.
Before the silence could stretch further, Rayleigh stood, his chair scraping back.
"Come, brat. You're with me now."
Deyviel hesitated only a moment before following, casting one last glance at the table of generals. McDougal's stare lingered the longest, heavy and searching, as if he could peel away Deyviel's skin and see what truly lay beneath.
The heavy oak doors of the meeting room closed behind them, the murmurs of the generals fading into silence. Deyviel followed Ben down the hall, boots echoing against the polished floor.
"Hey, Captain Ben," Deyviel broke the silence, his voice edged with unease. "Why now? We've got more things to do. We can't just abandon them. Lancer and his vampire army are still out there."
Ben didn't slow his stride. "Now is the best time, brat. If we don't act fast, we'll lose our chance to turn the tables. Lancer isn't the endgame—our true enemies are gaining ground. So we move now."
Deyviel clenched his fists. "…Tch. Fine."
Ben stopped at the stairwell and jerked his thumb toward the hangar. "Suit up. Pack your bags. Bring only what you need. I'll wait at the chopper. You'll get your answers there."
Deyviel gave a bitter smirk. "Of course. Keep it secretive, just like always."
He turned to leave but stopped short when a familiar hand grabbed his arm. Denver, pale and still bandaged, had caught up to him. His face was tight with concern.
"You got reassigned? To Captain Rayleigh's squad?"
Deyviel scratched the back of his head, avoiding his friend's eyes. "…Yeah. Didn't really have a choice. They decided it for me, so… I'll just go with the flow for now."
Denver frowned, gripping harder. "And where are you going?"
"Don't know," Deyviel said with a shrug, though his eyes betrayed his frustration. "That freak doesn't like to talk. I'll figure it out when we get there." He placed a hand on Denver's shoulder, forcing a small grin. "While I'm away, take care of everyone, alright? You got this."
Denver's lips parted as if to argue, but before he could, a voice called out from further down the corridor.
"Denver! Hurry up!" It was Kliev, waving him over, his expression stern. "Black Knights are mobilizing—we've been ordered to Paris. Gear up, now!"
Denver froze, torn between his captain's command and his friend leaving with the infamous Rayleigh. He looked back at Deyviel, searching for something to hold on to.
Deyviel gave him a two-finger salute and turned toward his quarters. "See you around, brother. Don't get yourself killed."
As he disappeared down the hall, Denver stood rooted, a strange chill running through his chest. Something about this separation felt heavier than it should—like a crack forming in the bonds that held them together.
To be continued..